Blind Date at a Funeral by Trevor Romain

to one of the bombardiers. ‘Wat sien jy?’
    He handed my rifle to the bombardier, who lifted it and peered down the barrel, also squinting.
    â€˜Balhare, sa’majoor,’ he said, matter-of-factly.
    The sergeant major grabbed the rifle back and held the barrel up to his eye again.
    â€˜Ball hairs, Romain,’ he yelled. ‘How did these ball hairs get into your rifle?’
    â€˜I don’t know, sar’major.’
    â€˜Shake your head!’ he shouted.
    I shook my head as instructed.
    â€˜What do you hear?’ he said.
    â€˜Nothing, sar—’ I began.
    â€˜Ah ha!’ he said, interrupting. He tapped my head with his stubby forefinger. ‘You hear nothing because there is nothing in there.’
    Then he turned and stormed out of the tent.
    As one would expect, I changed a lot during my first four months away from home. Basic training is designed to change you. To break you down. To rebuild you the army way.
    During that time, I went from being a somewhat dorky, awkwardly romantic kid to a rifle-firing, obstacle-course-climbing, beer-drinking, faceshaving, gung-ho army guy.
    I must say, I was quite nervous about going home for my first pass after basics. I knew I had changed. I also knew that nothing at home had changed. My sister would still be listening to the Bay City Rollers in her room with the door closed. My mom would still call me her little boy. My dad would still give me a noogie the minute he saw me, and my granny would still be sitting in her usual chair with her arms out, ready to smother me with an overly perfumed hug.
    Back then, most of us army guys hitchhiked to get home from the various military bases in the country. We were not allowed to thumb a ride in uniform, but we were allowed to stand on the side of the road and wait for a considerate driver to pick us up and give us a ride.
    Sometimes it would take a while before someone stopped to pick you up. On the first weekend pass after basic training, I waited apprehensively as car after car passed.
    A bakkie eventually stopped and I threw my duffel bag into the back. I was about to climb up when the window opened.
    â€˜Jump in front with us,’ said one of the two old grannies sitting in the front seat. So I squeezed in and shut the door.
    â€˜Where are you going?’ asked the granny who was driving. She looked like your typical typecast movie, Ouma Rusks granny, with round, wireframed glasses and her white hair in a tight bun on top of her head.
    â€˜Johannesburg,’ I said.
    â€˜We’re not going all that way, but we’ll drop you off when we turn, okay?’
    â€˜That will be great. Thank you very much,’ I said and looked over at her.
    It was a clear day, but she gripped the wheel tightly, squinting like she was driving through a hailstorm.
    â€˜This is your first weekend pass, eh?’ she asked.
    â€˜How did you know?’ I replied, grinning.
    â€˜We could see that look on your face.’
    I laughed.
    â€˜You’re supposed to be a man now. But you still kind of feel like a kid going home, right?’ said the driving granny.
    I gave a slight nod.
    â€˜Have some of this. It will help,’ said the granny sitting next to me. She handed me a jam jar filled with clear liquid.
    â€˜What is it?’ I asked holding the jar up to the light.
    â€˜It’s medicine.’
    â€˜No, thanks. Not for me,’ I said.
    â€˜Have a sluk,’ said the driver. ‘It’s from an old secret family recipe. My family started making it during the Boer War. It’s apricot brandy from our farm.’
    I felt a little bad saying no, so I opened the jar and took a small sip. I mean – let’s face it – I was a man now and apricot brandy seemed, well, kind of manly.
    That sip almost choked me. The brandy must have been maximum proof. It burned all the way down my throat as I gasped for air.
    They both laughed. ‘We sell the stuff. Wanna buy