Just Hennie

As we grow older so our circle of family, friends, and acquaintances begins to shrink, some through death, some through loss of contact, and some through the breaking of a friendship.

Levels of grief or sadness at the passing of someone you know differ according to the depth of your relationship with that person. Some people’s passing affects us more than that of others. The older I get the keener I become aware of my mortality and someone’s death is a reminder that my day will also come. We all know we will be going on that journey, for me it’s more about the when and the how I am going to die.

I’ve never written a eulogy before and I wasn’t able to attend the funeral of a good friend recently to read this. However, the story also grew as I began writing and is now way too long to be read at a funeral service. In fact, I have had to break it into four parts. So this is more of a tribute to my friend Hendrik, Hennie to those who knew him, that I felt I wanted to write. He was not a celebrity, not famous or infamous in any way, just a regular guy who had crests and troughs in his life just as we all experience. Although neither saint nor devil, he had qualities that quietly impressed me and highlighted the lack of some of those same qualities in my makeup.

I’m also going to put in a disclaimer here at the beginning of the story rather than at the end as is usual. Just to be different. After some consideration, I also decided to leave out surnames, although the first names here are the real names of anyone mentioned.

Disclaimer: Some of the details and timelines may not be 100% accurate as there were times when we lost contact with each over the years due to our paths veering off in different directions, losing or having a cell phone stolen, going under the radar, being in different locations or even out of our home country South Africa … . Some of the incidents described are a bit hazy due to old age, poor memory recall, or maybe even a bit of Alzheimer’s. Anyone reading this article who knew Hennie and was present at the time of whatever incident I describe may have a completely different perspective of the same incident - or a better memory.

I first bumped into Hennie around 25 years ago in my local pub in the town where I spent most of my youth, Germiston. Germiston is one of a string of towns in what was then called the East Rand in Gauteng province and is still referred to as such by old schoolers like me who were born long before the ANC (African National Congress) crime syndicate became the new government of South Africa after the first democratic elections in 1994 and gave places new unpronounceable names.

At the time I had been living in what was then South West Africa, now Namibia, for the past five years or so, and had only recently returned to South Africa after a divorce. So my regular drinking hole hadn’t been regular for that long and there were a lot of new faces around.

The Clarendon Hotel was not what one would describe as a family hotel. It had strip shows on a Friday afternoon and band later at night as well as a band on Saturday nights in the ladies' pub and restaurant section, while across the foyer was the public bar with a few TV screens, pool tables, and regular fights. Flies on the wall would have many stories to tell. As happens in pubs over drinks, one night I got talking to Hennie after we ended up sitting next to each other at the crowded bar. We didn’t know each other but I had noticed him around a few times. Hennie was Afrikaans, but he spoke English as well as most people I know. If he had any claim to fame, maybe it was that he was born in Benoni, the same town as South African actress and Oscar winner Charlize Theron and only a few kilometers from Germiston. The family moved to Germiston when he was seven, so strictly speaking, he wasn’t a Germiston boy. Then again, nor was I as I was born in East London in the Eastern Cape and the family moved to Germiston when I was about 11 or 12 years old.

Hennie was easy to talk to. He listened and I always got the impression he was really listening and assimilating what you were saying if it was a serious conversation – not just waiting for a break to interject. If necessary he would ask a relevant question. Hennie was smart, and smart people are listeners. As someone who prefers a one-on-one conversation to a group conversation, I appreciated this quality of his. If it were a serious question, he would take his time and his answer would be considered, which showed he was listening and understanding. Sounds inconsequential, I know, but as a little exercise, observe and note how many people open their mouths before engaging their brains.

Over the years, there would be periods when I would quit my job as a newspaper journalist and up and out on an adventure to another country. Sell my car, bed, or TV to pay for the ticket. Mozambique and Madagascar are places that come to mind among others. Business ventures with mates that didn’t work out, but adventures nevertheless, experiences and no regrets at the end of the day. After all, you only live once. On this planet anyway. The tough part was getting a job again on my return, and on an occasion or two it was Hennie to the rescue.

As a young man, Hennie did an apprenticeship with IT giant IBM and later on joined a South African computer company that was a subsidiary of an international company, if I got that right. I’m a bit vague about what he actually did, but he was clued up on computer systems. He was a savvy businessman with an eye for a deal or side hustle, and it didn’t take him long before he became a director of the company. He worked hard and he played hard. While looking for a job in-between travel adventures I would do part-time work for Hennie at his company which helped pay for the food and the beers. Although at the end of the day he would pay for the drinks for all of us. Hennie was generous in spirit and there were times he helped others who were in a similar predicament as me and never asked for anything in return. Other mates would testify to this.

I remember a time when I started a new job at a newspaper in Joburg, but had no transport after selling my car for an air ticket. Hennie picked me up, along with other workers at his company, and gave me a lift every day for about two weeks on his way to work on the other side of Joburg. I then started catching a train to work which was in a time in South Africa when the rail system still worked and it was safe to use as opposed to the broken down, corrupted and looted entity it is now. I would organize a company driver to drop me off after work. A few weeks later I was able to afford a secondhand VW Beetle.

There were some memorable times with Hennie but one that stands out for me is a late-night drink-induced impulse decision to drive to neighboring Mozambique over the Easter weekend in 1993. Three of us, Hennie, Kevin, and I happened to be discussing Mozambique one night at, yes you guessed it, the Clarendon when we decided on the spur of the moment to visit another mate Johan, a former South African now a retreaded Mozambican and still living in Moz today. We went to our respective homes to pack a quick bag and then met at Hennie’s house to fill up a freezer box with booze and other essentials before heading to Moz. I do remember Hennie’s wife at the time not being too happy about this escapade, to put it mildly.

In those days once you crossed the SA/ Mozambique border the roads were pothole-riddled with not much tar remaining and Hennie had a simple theory on how to handle potholes. Fly over them instead of wasting time negotiating each one at a snail's pace! You get to your destination faster and with less damage to the car. It worked, at least the arriving there earlier part and there was no apparent damage to the underbody of the car. The three musketeers arrived in Maputo, the capital, six or seven hours later in style in Hennie’s fancy Toyota Cressida. Little did we know we would be limping home in much less style a few days later. I have spent some time in Mozambique over the years and I love the country. Although not as bad during the war, the majority of the population of this former Portuguese colony live in poverty, but despite this the people are friendly and without the arrogant culture of entitlement so prevalent in South Africa, and nor do they have a chip on their shoulders. South Africans will know what I’m talking about. Moz has its very own special vibe and Maputo buzzes at night. It is a country that I would not have a problem living in.

We met up with Johan, and after spending some time with him and planning a trip further up north with a few stops along the way, we proceeded on our journey. Two or three days and a few beaches and bars later we were on our way back to Maputo and then to SA the next morning. For those who don’t know, the civil war in Mozambique between the ruling Marxist party FRELIMO and the rebel anti-communist insurgents RENAMO that began in 1977 had just ended in 1992 after the Russians and the South Africans withdrew their support for the two groups respectively. The country was in a mess, with battered, derelict buildings, stinking sewerage flowing down the streets, and garbage and rats everywhere. It got worse the further north you traveled with not much in the way of infrastructure and commodities, besides fresh seafood straight from ocean readily available. I remember spending one night in a rundown, barely operating hotel in Vilanculos only a few yards away from the white beach and we provided our own breakfast of eggs bacon and bread that we had brought along. It was that or lobster and crabs costing next to nothing! The war had taken its toll on the infrastructure and there was a long road of rebuilding and recovery ahead for Mozambique, still ongoing today although Johan assures me the situation and the country has improved considerably.

It is no surprise then that road we were traveling on in pitch darkness through the countryside about 30km from Maputo had no lighting and hardly any traffic at that time of the night. Potholes and no white lines didn’t make it any easier. It had been a long day and we had played hard, having drinks with some South Africans we met earlier at a beach bar stop along the way. I had been driving, with Kevin in the backseat behind me and Hennie in the front passenger seat next to me. I pulled over to the side of the road and asked Hennie to take over and before getting out of the car to get in at the front passenger side I placed the beer I had been sipping on the floor of the front passenger seat where he had been sitting. Hennie got in and took over and we drove on. It must have been about 20 seconds later when I leaned forward to retrieve my beer from the floor and I heard a godawful metal-tearing, screeching sound and a loud bang as the car jerked violently to the right and came to a standstill. I froze in that position for a few seconds until everything was silent and lifted my head. Everyone was ok, and in the headlights and just to the left of me I could see a cattle transport trailer that blocked our half of the road.

Hennie had only seen it at the last moment as the car crested a slight hill and just managed to desperately turn right to try and avoid hitting it. The steel corner of the trailer had sheared open the left half of the car’s roof like a can opener and if I had not been leaning forward to pick up my beer, and if Kevin had been sitting behind the front passenger seat instead of behind the driver seat, we would have both been decapitated. Hennie’s quick reflexes also prevented us from driving head-on into the trailer at speed which could have injured or killed all three of us.

With little, if any traffic that time of the night, no police no ambulances, and possibly the arrival of former soldiers turned bandits I would not have bet on our chances of survival. Shaken and stirred, but grateful to be alive, and with no damage to the engine, we opened another beer and proceeded on our way. I can now honestly say that beer saved my life! If I had not had a beer to reach for on the floor there would have been no reason for me to lean forward at precisely that moment. It was also a novel experience traveling in a half-roof convertible afterward and we attracted a lot of stares especially once we crossed the border back into South Africa.

Hennie’s sun was shining brightly, he had met another woman after his divorce whom he married, in France I believe, and then purchased a large house in an upmarket suburb in South Africa’s capital city Pretoria. He also bought the latest model Mercedes SUV, apparently one of only three in the country at the time. My partner and I visited and overnighted a few times but we began to have less contact as a few drinks after work in Germiston was not a great option with him having to travel to Pretoria afterward. Through all this time the Hennie I knew remained the same generous, quietly-spoken, listener with a ready smile. He traveled all over the country overseeing installation and maintenance contracts. By all accounts, he was popular at work and respected by his colleagues. I remember one in particular, Peter, who sub-contracted for Hennie and who was his neighbor in Germiston, and then relocated back to the UK many years ago. He still made a few trips to SA over the years to visit Hennie and in fact visited and stayed with Hennie just a few months before he passed away. One always had the impression that although Hennie would be in conversation his mind was also occupied with business, and he would take calls from his team wherever he was and at any time.

It gets a bit hazy here with my memory of the timing of events but I think it was around that time that I went on another trip, possibly the one to Germany to work in a gästehaus in the Schwarzwald (Black Forest). Two of the things I learned there from the Gestapo-type owner was that I had absolutely no talent when it came to working with food, but I had cracked it as a dishwasher and storage freezer cleaner and packer. I also cracked it in the bedmaking and room cleaning department, thanks to my army days. That little adventure lasted only a few months. Today I make a mean potato salad and constant practice has made me a star dishwasher and a master at managing cupboard and fridge storage space.

Over the years Hennie and my paths diverged and contact became intermittent. One Sunday night he phoned me from somewhere in Alberton, another East Rand town three or four kilometers down the road, and invited me to have a few drinks with him and some mates. It was quite late, around 9pm, I remember there was a storm, I was tired and I had work the next day, so I declined. That was the last I heard from Hennie for a few years. Phone calls went unanswered, and WhatsApp messages did not get through. People phoned me for his number, and I in turn asked them if they had his latest number. I didn’t have numbers for his family so in the end I concluded the worst had happened.

I don’t remember the exact year, but it would have been around 2014/2015 when I arrived at the wake of a funeral at a club in Germiston one afternoon to find Hennie and his wife there. In my mind, I had assumed he was dead and although in my heart I wasn’t totally convinced, it was still a shock to see him. However, I wasn’t looking at the same self-assured, confident Hennie always dressed in collar and tie that I knew. This Hennie was dressed in trousers and a shirt that had seen better days, he looked haggard, uncomfortable, and uncertain and there was a quiet air of desperation about him. They were just as surprised to see me, having lost my number and there was a lot of catching up to do.

The last time I had seen Hennie previously was when my partner and I slept over at the new house they had bought in Pretoria after selling the previous one and he was no longer with the company. The new home was a large many-roomed building, built along the lines of a castle, and perfect to hire out as a one-stop center for events and accommodation. The property needed work done though to get it up and running properly and at the time that was what they were busy with. At the club, Hennie told me that a storage warehouse that contained “their retirement” had burnt down and his property therein had not been insured and they had lost everything. They couldn’t afford the payment on their home which was to be the source of their future livelihood and they were living in an old converted cottage on a plot/erf in Midrand which is halfway between Joburg and Pretoria. Instead of paying rent, Hennie was doing farm maintenance work for the owner and any other handyman jobs he could find in the area for some income. Banks and other creditors were after him and he had changed his cell phone and used it as sparingly as possible to avoid being traced. Times were tough and they had gone under the radar to survive.

It was a miserable existence made worse after his previous lifestyle but if anything Hennie was a survivor and he had a work ethic that was almost an obsession. His certifications and qualifications may have been in the computer industry, but at heart Hennie was a craftsman when it came to building, fixing things, and creating stuff. After his divorce from his first wife, he built three or four accommodation units from the ground up and with all bells and whistles (I helped him with one) at his previous house that now belonged to his ex as a source of income for her. At the home in Waterkloof in Pretoria, he had landscaped the garden, building a stunning water feature that had a little bridge over a running stream through the large garden into a pond he had built with a fountain and bird bath. He created beautiful objects with wood, fixed seemingly unfixable things, and never gave up until they were working again. He converted two containers at his father’s house into living units, one of which he lived in until his death. Hennie could be a plumber, electrician, painter, tiler, roofer, carpenter, or whatever depending on the job once he put his mind to it. He told me in one of our last conversations before he died about a small distillery he designed and built for a farmer at a game farm in the north of the country where he lived for a while after his second wife left him.

There would have been many other job undertakings that I don’t know about. Many years earlier over a few weekends, I helped Hennie and his boys at work build a stunning bar (I followed instructions) with a base made of wooden poles and a solid polished teak counter at his company where many after-work drinks were enjoyed and business deals negotiated. At that stage, I was the deputy editor of a sports magazine located just down the road from where Hennie worked and there were many nights that my car made a detour there of its own volition before heading home.

We met a few times again but then I moved down to the coast and not long afterward still unable to get a job in the “new” South Africa after being retrenched in 2013 I went to South East Asia to teach English. The contact was once again lost as I was out of the country for almost two years and I believe Hennie had gone under the radar again. I last spoke to him in May 2022 when he contacted me out of the blue after getting my number from his former neighbor Peter who was visiting him from the UK. It was a shock to hear Hennie’s voice again, to say the least, and he told me he was living at his father’s in a container he had converted into a living unit. Hennie was busy, as always, with a big job at a factory. Not once did he mention an illness and nor was there any complaining or whinging about how life was treating him. He was no quitter, he just got on with it until he was physically unable to carry on.

Hennie died in a frail care home from ascites on 26 December 2022 a few days before he would turn 64. There are many ways to get ascites, kidney failure, heart failure, cancer, and infections, but according to google, the most common cause is cirrhosis of the liver. It is an end-stage liver disease and incurable although drastic lifestyle changes can decrease complications and prolong death. According to his sister, Hennie had a tumor in the throat which was incurable, but ascites was the condition that led to multiple organ failure and ultimately his death. Not one to burden anyone with his problems, Hennie never shared this with anyone except his sister and probably his father. After seeing a picture of Hennie sent to me by his sister shortly before the end, I know I would not have recognized him if he walked past me. It reminded me of pictures of Holocaust victims and is too distressing to post.

Hennie faced the good times and the hard times, happiness and disappointment, life and finally death with equanimity. Throughout, he maintained the same outwardly calm demeanor even though he would’ve been churning inside after the disastrous blows he was dealt. Good or bad situations did not change his attitude toward his friends. I will always remember Hennie as a giver never a taker, consistent, and not given to outbursts and histrionics for attention no matter the seriousness of a situation. For Hennie, there was not going to be a fairytale ending where the good guy loses everything and has to start all over from scratch, works his way to the top again and then lives happily ever after with the woman he loves. For me, there was something very admirable, almost heroic in the way he just continued to immerse himself in work however menial wherever he could find it to survive even as his health deteriorated. Hennie mentioned to me in our last WhatsApp conversation a few months ago that his tools were the most valuable items he owned, and that his biggest problem was that they were continuously being stolen.

As I mentioned in the beginning, levels of grief when someone you know passes on differ according to the depth of your relationship with that person. I had not been in any form of contact with Hennie for a few years before he died, except for some WhatsApp conversations a few months ago, so I did not grieve or mourn in the true sense of the words when Kevin told me Hennie had passed on. But I felt and always will feel, whenever I think about it, sadness for the loss of someone that I always had a good feeling about knowing that he was still alive and around in the world - somewhere. His absence leaves a space.

Well, old friend, your tools have been laid down for the last time. As have you. It’s time to rest. You were a top man and remembering the good times will always put a little smile on my face.

NB: Excuse the poor quality of the photographs which were taken a long time ago. Recent photos are not readily available.

Writing is thirsty work and if you enjoyed this story how about visiting my page on Ko-fi at https://ko-fi.com/scabcorner49566 and buying me a cup of coffee? Also, feel free to check out my writing editing, and rewriting services available in the Commissions section. Thank you.