The Little Ghost House.
We used to go out to a small town west of Pretoria, my brother and I, when I was still selling clothes. We set out early on a Saturday morning, and sold clothes next to the road along the way. Once we got Magiliesburg, we would drive around the town and sell clothes. I made a bit of money this way, on these trips of ours.
As you arrive on the outskirts of Magaliesburg, the road winds through a valley, with krantzes on your right hand side, with the bush and the river further on down to your left. The road winds and snakes in curves around the rocky outcrops, and the car cruises along. On this stretch of road there are many resorts and holiday accommodation, situated next to the river.
As you go over a rise, you reach a bridge which leads into town itself. But you can turn right just before the bridge, on a road which leads to the nearby township. If you follow this road, but take an immediate left turn again, you will find yourself going down to the station.
There is road about a block above the station, which houses curio and antique shops, as well as a pub. I bought a little bronze Buddha in one of the shops for twenty rand. If you pass on down to the station, you go over a level crossing by the railroad tracks. Here there are a half dozen or so old small railway houses. They are beautiful old red brick houses, and are very old. Each is situated on a small plot of green grass.
The one house, close by the railway tracks, stands deserted. Its windows are long gone, but the remainder of the small building still seems to be intact. It has a small porch around it, and when you walk here and look through the empty rooms, the wooden planks creak under your feet.
Then you think of all the generations of people that inhabited this little house. People lived and loved here. Women cooked supper in the little kitchen, and put their children to bed in the rooms at night. The people sat and listened and watched at the old familiar sight of a distant train approaching, bringing news and people from afar. (Just as the train that is rumbling into the small station now.)
They listened to their favourite programs on the radio, as they sat out on the porch in the cool evening breeze. The children played out in the yard, and swung in their swing under the old shade tree. At night the small neighbourhood was at peace, disturbed only by the croaking of frogs in the stream, and the racket of crickets on the lawn and in the shrubbery.
A lovely little ghost house, with a million ancient stories of its own. Of life and love, won and lost. Tales of the living souls of ghosts that inhabited these walls with their joys and sorrows and dreams.
And now she stands there all alone, when will new dreamers and strugglers come to give her new life? And still I think of her sometimes…
The End.
Copyright - JP Brown – 08/05/2007.
