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Koos Kombuis

Yikes! Yo-landi Vi$$er may be related to me!

2012-03-02 09:45
It was as big a shock, if not bigger than the time I read somewhere how Charlize Theron confessed to suffering from a runny tummy the last time she visited Benoni.

Yes, indeed! The girl singing with Mr Ninja in our very own internationally-acclaimed supergroup, Yo-landi Vi$$er, actually hails from the dark side of Plattekloof.

This minisicule goddess, this new fashion icon of the decadent West, this enigmatic alien-looking figurine whose deadpan face now adorns billboards across the United States, is, in real life, called Anri du Toit, and her father is a respected member of a staunch Afrikaner church.

Pardon me, but this is a bit like hearing that my cousin once removed called Pietertjie whom I haven't heard of since he'd disappeared somewhere in Porterville decades ago, is now an international superstar and has been asked to replace Freddie Mercury as front man for Queen.

Their music means nothing to me

It boggles the mind. But I suppose that's not a bad thing. For a long time I have disliked Die Antwoord because their music meant nothing to me and also because I had heard somewhere that the Ninja's tattoos were all fake and that he came from a Cape Town private school background.

Whether these ugly rumours were true or not I still don't know, but at least now it has been satisfactorily proven that Yo-landi is the real McCoy. She really grew up in the hip-hop belt! Her parents almost certainly have a facebrick house and maybe even own property in Kleinmond. She might have gone to the same nursery school as Jack Parow. This makes her much more believable as a symbol of alternative culture. This takes zef to a whole new level! (I mean that as a compliment.)

You see, my real surname is Du Toit as well, and last thing I heard I also had family somewhere in Bellville. I spent years, oh, decades, running away from my family, trying to forget about the money I owed them, blaming them for everything that went wrong in my youth from the sandcastles in the front yard being accidentally kicked over by the postman to the time our fox terrier puked all over us in the cramped space of our Mini.

For years, I looked down on my family because they were poor, because they drank Late Harvest instead of Sauvignon Blanc, because they didn't know who Ozzy Osbourne was, oh, all sorts of irrelevant things. I hated them for the time they accidentally broke the back window of our Gypsey caravan and simply stuck a cushion in the whole instead of replacing it. I hated them for exposing me to potential asbestos poisoning in our Hartenbos strandhuis years before scientists had found out about the dangers of asbestos.

For decades, I completely overlooked the obvious fact that my family were, in spite of their all-too-human flaws, basically quite well-intentioned, loving people who tried their best to feed me and who managed to send me to the best schools even if the price tag was high. Sure, they were 'n klein bietjie zef in some ways, but as we found out only recently, zef is the new sexy, so what's the issue here?

Well, what it boils down to is the inescapable fact that Yo-landi Vi$$er may actually be related to me. She might be the distant kleinniggie I'd never met. I might bump into her the next time I reluctantly take my kids to Rotango Junction (surely Die Antwoord cannot tour the world all the time? Surely Mevrou Ninja comes home for visits now and then?).  

And, should I bump into her, what will I say? "It's a small world, hey." Or: "Hoe gaan dit met jou ma?"

Whatever.




The Du Toit family during the summer of ‘'69 (guess which one is me!).

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