Great notes---think you would be correct on the recording. Guessing meeting with Jacques will be interesting to say the least. Always enjoy your comments.
Two farm boys collide at university
- Thread starter jayson_steyn
- Start date
The black Land Rover growled to life with a deep, throaty rumble outside Jo’s flat where it had found its new permanent home, its freshly waxed surface reflecting the dim glow of streetlights as Jo heaved his kit bag into the boot, his hands closing around the steering wheel with trepidation of where the journey was taking them. Piet climbed into the passenger seat beside him, his faded blue cap tugged low over his intense brown eyes, his posture stiff as the weight of their destination settled over him like a gathering storm. The journey to Robertson stretched out before them in a long, unbroken silence, the tires whispering against the tar as the scenery shifted from the orderly rows of Stellenbosch’s vineyards to the wilder, rolling cattle plains that hugged the Van Der Merwe farm, their hands brushing occasionally as they reached for some biltong or a sip of their coke at the same time, a fleeting reminder of the closeness they’d shared the night before, now overshadowed by the looming confrontation with Jacques.
They pulled into the van der Merwe farmstead just as dusk draped the sky in heavy shades of orange and purple, the vast farmhouse entrance polished and gleaming, its massive barn style front door slightly ajar as if expecting their arrival. Before Jo could greet his sisters, their voices already faintly audible from the kitchen, or Piet could scan the yard for Jos mother’s comforting face, Jacques appeared in the study doorway, his broad silhouette filling the frame like a sentinel, his green eyes, sharp and unyielding, a mirror to Jo’s own, cutting through the twilight to pin them in place. “Inside, boys, now,” he barked, his voice a low, commanding growl that carried the authority of a man who’d tamed both land and men, leaving no room for pleasantries or delay. They exchanged a quick, uneasy glance, the prickle of nerves tightening their throats, and followed him with reluctant steps, the door thudding shut behind them with a sound that reverberated through the study like a gavel striking wood.
The room enveloped them in a haze of leather and stale tobacco, the walls lined with towering bookshelves stuffed with yellowed ledgers and dog-eared manuals, the air thick with the musty weight of years spent planning harvests and weathering droughts. Jacques settled behind his desk, a fortress of scratched oak littered with papers and charts, his hands clasped tightly in front of him, knuckles white, his face a stern mask carved from a lifetime of hard choices. He gestured to two chairs with a brusque wave, his voice rolling out in a deep, measured cadence that brooked no argument, “Sit down, both of you. I want every detail of this mess with Lukas, from the first step to the last, laid out plain and true, no glossing over the cracks; leave out the sordid bits that’d turn my stomach, but don’t you dare skip a single piece of the story.” His temper lurked just beneath the words, a coiled beast Jo had seen unleashed before, and it hung over them now, pressing against their resolve.
Jo shifted in his chair, his fingers tapping an anxious rhythm on the armrest, his green eyes darting to Piet before he began, his voice tight with the strain of memory, “Ja, dad, it all kicked off when Lukas started blackmailing Piet, he said had this recording from a lab night, some kak he used to twist the knife—”
Jacques interrupted with a sharp, cutting edge to his tone, his eyes narrowing as he leaned forward, hands slamming flat on the desk, “No!, no Johan, stop right there, that’s not where it begins, and you bloody well know it. How did we even get to blackmail in the first place, huh? No one just pulls that stunt out of nowhere, I want the full history, the whole damn trail that led us here, so start at the beginning, boys, and don’t test me.” His words landed like blows, the room shrinking under his glare.
Jo let out a ragged breath, dragging a hand through his messy hair as he backtracked, his voice spilling out in a rush of reluctant detail, “Alright, dad, fine, it goes back to first semester Me and Piet, you know, had a thing going, but a guy named Spencer got my attention, pulled me away from Piet.” Piet cut in “Ja oom Jacques, and I got jealous, but my geology tutor, Lukas, this Lukas, hooked me and I let it happen” Jo took over “ja so me and Piet made a pact, I would spend one night with Spencer and Piet would spend one night with Lukas and then they would be out of our systems and we would be back to normal.” “Ja, Oom Jacques, Jo’s got it spot on” Piet nodded, his cap casting a shadow over the flush creeping up his neck, his scarred hands gripping his knees as he took up the story, his voice low and deliberate, each word dragged from a place of quiet shame, “but one night, im ashamed to say, Lukas propositioned me and I caved again, that night at his flat, I was beat, running on fumes, and he offered me a beer, got me to drop my guard; he started with the flirty stuff, and I didn’t push back hard enough, as I was leaving he said he’d tell Jo everything if I didn’t play his game. I thought I could dodge him, outlast him, but ja, that’s how the blackmail started.”
“Then Piet came clean and told me dad, that’s when I came home for those few days and told you me and Piet had had a fight and I wanted my own place, but I was stupid and instead of sorting it out I shoved Piet away, thinking he was keeping secrets for no reason, not seeing Lukas pulling the strings behind it all; then it hit the fan, he cornered Piet in the quad a few weeks back” Piet took over, “he said he had a recording of me and him in the lab, he said it was graphic and clear as day and that if I didn’t follow through with the original arrangement with Jo, he’d send it out, burn down the farm deal, the gang, everything we’d built” Jo carried on “that’s when Piet came to me got help and I asked your for help and you stepped in.”
Jacques leaned forward, his gaze a blade that cut through their defenses, his voice rising in a growl that filled the room, “Fok, boys, you let that snake slither right into your lives, poisoning everything he touched, Johan, you ran like a coward instead of facing it like a van der Merwe ought to, and Pieter, you hid in the shadows like a scared kid, not the de Wet I know; now, I need the truth, what are you to each other? A couple, tied by something real? Friends who tumble into bed when the mood strikes? Give it to me straight, no dodging, or you’ll feel my temper, and I promise you won’t like it.” His words hung heavy, the air taut with expectation.
Jo squirmed, his face flushing red, his voice stumbling out in a raw, halting confession, “Dad, we’ve always been mates, thick as thieves, farm boys who’d bleed for each other, but it’s changed; those nights in the dorm, beer flowing, hands finding each other in the dark, crossing lines we never talked about, It’s more now, touch, closeness, something I can’t name yet, and it’s eating at me.” He looked to Piet, his green eyes searching, vulnerable.
Piet met his stare, his breath catching, his voice trembling as he laid himself bare, “Ja, Oom, it’s the same for me, friends, always, through every scrape, but we’ve gone past that; it’s more now, a pull I can’t shake loose, and I don’t know if it’s love or just us, carved out of this mess, stronger than I ever expected.” His words faltered, leaving him open, defenceless.
Jacques watched them, his sternness easing into a hard resolve, his voice steadying as he spoke, “Lukas is finished, expelled for good, banned from campus, his blackmail smashed by Thato’s evidence and my lawyers; he cornered you, Pieter, in the quad, spouting his threats, and we’ve got it all, audio, video, his smug face trapped, he’s done. But your future’s still a mess, boys; you’ve got to decide what you want from each other and hold to it. No more games, because I won’t drag you out of the fire again, not this time.” He paused, letting the words sink in. “Business partners? That’s fine. Keep it clean, separate, no shitting where you eat. A couple? That’s fine too. Work stays at work, home stays home, no overlap. Friends with benefits? That’s your puzzle, I’ve got no answers for it.” He let out a dry laugh, but his eyes stayed firm.
He pulled a ledger from the desk, his voice sharpening, “Now, the farm, you’re behind; wheat surveys undone, sheep checks skipped, vineyard plans stalled, all because you’ve been caught up in this nonsense, and I’ve put too much into the De Wet farm to let it fall apart.” He flipped a page, his next words a jolt, “R20 million—redevelopment, equipment, labour, all in, and I won’t see it wasted; shape up, or I’ll cut you out, deal with the De Wets direct.”
Jo’s jaw dropped, his voice a stunned rush, “Fok, dad, R20 million? We’ll fix it, I swear, we won’t let you down.” Piet nodded, his tone urgent, “Ja, Oom, we’re on it, no more slipping, you’ve got my promise.”
Jacques slid a folder across the desk, his voice deliberate, “Met Grandpa De Wet this week, the De Wet farm’s part of us now; they keep ownership, we lease it, R500,000 a month, that’s the farms current annual turnover paid monthly come, rain or drought, for ten years.” He opened it, revealing a contract, “This contract hands the farm over to to you when Grandpa’s gone, Piet’s mom keeps the farmhouse, but you sign only when you’ve sorted yourselves out; thirty days, then back here to sign or walk away.”
Silence settled, four hours drained away, exhaustion etched into their faces. Jacques stood, shook their hands, his voice solid, “Welcome to adulthood, boys, now start acting like adults.” At the door, he added, “Johan, that credit card of yours is not a game, stop flashing it around like you’re a boss.” Jo nodded, sheepish, “Sorry, dad.”
Finally free of Jacques lecture, the boys could greet Jos sister and mom but the weight of what they had discussed with Jacques lingered and they excused themselves. They grabbed a bakkie, loaded it with Coke Zeros and snacks, and drove to their favourite hill overlooking the farm. Stars gleamed as they parked, engine ticking off.
Piet turned to Jo, his voice steady, “Time to man up, Jo—what do we want from all this?”
Jo leaned back, a small grin breaking through, “Ja, Piet—let’s figure this out, together.” The hill stretched out, farm below, their future wide open under the night sky.
They pulled into the van der Merwe farmstead just as dusk draped the sky in heavy shades of orange and purple, the vast farmhouse entrance polished and gleaming, its massive barn style front door slightly ajar as if expecting their arrival. Before Jo could greet his sisters, their voices already faintly audible from the kitchen, or Piet could scan the yard for Jos mother’s comforting face, Jacques appeared in the study doorway, his broad silhouette filling the frame like a sentinel, his green eyes, sharp and unyielding, a mirror to Jo’s own, cutting through the twilight to pin them in place. “Inside, boys, now,” he barked, his voice a low, commanding growl that carried the authority of a man who’d tamed both land and men, leaving no room for pleasantries or delay. They exchanged a quick, uneasy glance, the prickle of nerves tightening their throats, and followed him with reluctant steps, the door thudding shut behind them with a sound that reverberated through the study like a gavel striking wood.
The room enveloped them in a haze of leather and stale tobacco, the walls lined with towering bookshelves stuffed with yellowed ledgers and dog-eared manuals, the air thick with the musty weight of years spent planning harvests and weathering droughts. Jacques settled behind his desk, a fortress of scratched oak littered with papers and charts, his hands clasped tightly in front of him, knuckles white, his face a stern mask carved from a lifetime of hard choices. He gestured to two chairs with a brusque wave, his voice rolling out in a deep, measured cadence that brooked no argument, “Sit down, both of you. I want every detail of this mess with Lukas, from the first step to the last, laid out plain and true, no glossing over the cracks; leave out the sordid bits that’d turn my stomach, but don’t you dare skip a single piece of the story.” His temper lurked just beneath the words, a coiled beast Jo had seen unleashed before, and it hung over them now, pressing against their resolve.
Jo shifted in his chair, his fingers tapping an anxious rhythm on the armrest, his green eyes darting to Piet before he began, his voice tight with the strain of memory, “Ja, dad, it all kicked off when Lukas started blackmailing Piet, he said had this recording from a lab night, some kak he used to twist the knife—”
Jacques interrupted with a sharp, cutting edge to his tone, his eyes narrowing as he leaned forward, hands slamming flat on the desk, “No!, no Johan, stop right there, that’s not where it begins, and you bloody well know it. How did we even get to blackmail in the first place, huh? No one just pulls that stunt out of nowhere, I want the full history, the whole damn trail that led us here, so start at the beginning, boys, and don’t test me.” His words landed like blows, the room shrinking under his glare.
Jo let out a ragged breath, dragging a hand through his messy hair as he backtracked, his voice spilling out in a rush of reluctant detail, “Alright, dad, fine, it goes back to first semester Me and Piet, you know, had a thing going, but a guy named Spencer got my attention, pulled me away from Piet.” Piet cut in “Ja oom Jacques, and I got jealous, but my geology tutor, Lukas, this Lukas, hooked me and I let it happen” Jo took over “ja so me and Piet made a pact, I would spend one night with Spencer and Piet would spend one night with Lukas and then they would be out of our systems and we would be back to normal.” “Ja, Oom Jacques, Jo’s got it spot on” Piet nodded, his cap casting a shadow over the flush creeping up his neck, his scarred hands gripping his knees as he took up the story, his voice low and deliberate, each word dragged from a place of quiet shame, “but one night, im ashamed to say, Lukas propositioned me and I caved again, that night at his flat, I was beat, running on fumes, and he offered me a beer, got me to drop my guard; he started with the flirty stuff, and I didn’t push back hard enough, as I was leaving he said he’d tell Jo everything if I didn’t play his game. I thought I could dodge him, outlast him, but ja, that’s how the blackmail started.”
“Then Piet came clean and told me dad, that’s when I came home for those few days and told you me and Piet had had a fight and I wanted my own place, but I was stupid and instead of sorting it out I shoved Piet away, thinking he was keeping secrets for no reason, not seeing Lukas pulling the strings behind it all; then it hit the fan, he cornered Piet in the quad a few weeks back” Piet took over, “he said he had a recording of me and him in the lab, he said it was graphic and clear as day and that if I didn’t follow through with the original arrangement with Jo, he’d send it out, burn down the farm deal, the gang, everything we’d built” Jo carried on “that’s when Piet came to me got help and I asked your for help and you stepped in.”
Jacques leaned forward, his gaze a blade that cut through their defenses, his voice rising in a growl that filled the room, “Fok, boys, you let that snake slither right into your lives, poisoning everything he touched, Johan, you ran like a coward instead of facing it like a van der Merwe ought to, and Pieter, you hid in the shadows like a scared kid, not the de Wet I know; now, I need the truth, what are you to each other? A couple, tied by something real? Friends who tumble into bed when the mood strikes? Give it to me straight, no dodging, or you’ll feel my temper, and I promise you won’t like it.” His words hung heavy, the air taut with expectation.
Jo squirmed, his face flushing red, his voice stumbling out in a raw, halting confession, “Dad, we’ve always been mates, thick as thieves, farm boys who’d bleed for each other, but it’s changed; those nights in the dorm, beer flowing, hands finding each other in the dark, crossing lines we never talked about, It’s more now, touch, closeness, something I can’t name yet, and it’s eating at me.” He looked to Piet, his green eyes searching, vulnerable.
Piet met his stare, his breath catching, his voice trembling as he laid himself bare, “Ja, Oom, it’s the same for me, friends, always, through every scrape, but we’ve gone past that; it’s more now, a pull I can’t shake loose, and I don’t know if it’s love or just us, carved out of this mess, stronger than I ever expected.” His words faltered, leaving him open, defenceless.
Jacques watched them, his sternness easing into a hard resolve, his voice steadying as he spoke, “Lukas is finished, expelled for good, banned from campus, his blackmail smashed by Thato’s evidence and my lawyers; he cornered you, Pieter, in the quad, spouting his threats, and we’ve got it all, audio, video, his smug face trapped, he’s done. But your future’s still a mess, boys; you’ve got to decide what you want from each other and hold to it. No more games, because I won’t drag you out of the fire again, not this time.” He paused, letting the words sink in. “Business partners? That’s fine. Keep it clean, separate, no shitting where you eat. A couple? That’s fine too. Work stays at work, home stays home, no overlap. Friends with benefits? That’s your puzzle, I’ve got no answers for it.” He let out a dry laugh, but his eyes stayed firm.
He pulled a ledger from the desk, his voice sharpening, “Now, the farm, you’re behind; wheat surveys undone, sheep checks skipped, vineyard plans stalled, all because you’ve been caught up in this nonsense, and I’ve put too much into the De Wet farm to let it fall apart.” He flipped a page, his next words a jolt, “R20 million—redevelopment, equipment, labour, all in, and I won’t see it wasted; shape up, or I’ll cut you out, deal with the De Wets direct.”
Jo’s jaw dropped, his voice a stunned rush, “Fok, dad, R20 million? We’ll fix it, I swear, we won’t let you down.” Piet nodded, his tone urgent, “Ja, Oom, we’re on it, no more slipping, you’ve got my promise.”
Jacques slid a folder across the desk, his voice deliberate, “Met Grandpa De Wet this week, the De Wet farm’s part of us now; they keep ownership, we lease it, R500,000 a month, that’s the farms current annual turnover paid monthly come, rain or drought, for ten years.” He opened it, revealing a contract, “This contract hands the farm over to to you when Grandpa’s gone, Piet’s mom keeps the farmhouse, but you sign only when you’ve sorted yourselves out; thirty days, then back here to sign or walk away.”
Silence settled, four hours drained away, exhaustion etched into their faces. Jacques stood, shook their hands, his voice solid, “Welcome to adulthood, boys, now start acting like adults.” At the door, he added, “Johan, that credit card of yours is not a game, stop flashing it around like you’re a boss.” Jo nodded, sheepish, “Sorry, dad.”
Finally free of Jacques lecture, the boys could greet Jos sister and mom but the weight of what they had discussed with Jacques lingered and they excused themselves. They grabbed a bakkie, loaded it with Coke Zeros and snacks, and drove to their favourite hill overlooking the farm. Stars gleamed as they parked, engine ticking off.
Piet turned to Jo, his voice steady, “Time to man up, Jo—what do we want from all this?”
Jo leaned back, a small grin breaking through, “Ja, Piet—let’s figure this out, together.” The hill stretched out, farm below, their future wide open under the night sky.
Great cliff hanger! Can’t wait for the next chapter. I hope its love.
Now that is a true cliffhanger if I have ever seen. Excellent writing and story telling. You covered all the bases. I hope Jo and Piet understand the gift they have been offered and Piet understands what it means to his family. Love and partnerships are truly difficult as any relationship but the rewards here outweigh any other consideration or playtime. As Jacques stated "Welcome to adulthood". Time for farm boys to become men.
PouletAuPoivre
Cherished Member
PouletAuPoivre
Cherished Member
Oh, no question it's love.
The question is whether they can admit it.
I think Piet can, and could for some time now; he's only been afraid that saying it out loud would scare Jo away.
I think Jo is -- or was -- afraid both of admitting flat-out to himself that he's gay and of really being coupled and not single. But I suspect that this episode -- the blackmail, the separation from Piet, and then the "welcome to adulthood, boys, now start acting like adults" speech from Jacques -- has made Jo see that he has more to lose by continuing to pretend to be single and maybe possibly not gay than by acknowledging the truth of his relationship with Piet.
PouletAuPoivre
Cherished Member
I was interested to see how, despite his brusque anger, Jacques was speaking in complete sentences of the sort that neither of the boys ever use. (I noticed that their friends, except for Rachel, almost never speak in complete sentences either. It's a terse shorthand.) And, as a result, Piet and Jo were both using longer sentences than usual in response to Jacques.
PouletAuPoivre
Cherished Member
I hope that Jacques was mostly talking to Jo there; I didn't have the impression that Piet, for all his suffering, was behind on his part of the work.
As such, I hope that, when Jacques said he'd deal with the de Wets direct, he meant "the de Wets" to include Piet.
Does "over to you" mean to Piet or to both of them? I mean, when Grandpa's gone, the farm is presumably going to Piet (and his sisters?) anyway, if perhaps through Mom de Wet. After that, yes, Jacques could probably bankrupt the de Wets and take over the farm, but title wouldn't go to Jacques when Grandpa dies.
Now I'm wondering if there will be something in that contract that Piet decides he can't sign off on. If so, and Piet insists on his position, I think Jacques will admire him for it and amend the contract accordingly, but I also think Jacques will expect Piet to find whatever that thing is and do that insisting. A test of Piet's business acumen.
The Stellenbosch sun hung low, painting the campus in hues of gold and amber as autumn tightened its grip. Jo’s flat had become a second skin for Piet, his faded blue cap a fixture on the couch armrest, his toothbrush claiming space beside Jo’s in the bathroom. He hadn’t fully abandoned the dorm—his books and a spare pair of boots still cluttered his old bed—but most nights found him sprawled on Jo’s couch or tangled in the sheets beside him, the pull of their renewed rhythm too strong to resist. Things were settling back to normal, or something close to it, the jagged edges of Lukas’s shadow smoothed by time and trust.
The gang was vibing again, a loose orbit of rugby boys, rock nerds, and shed crew orbiting Jo and Piet’s gravitational pull. Rugby training sharpened Jo’s edge—his lanky frame darted through drills, green eyes fierce, three tries a game now his baseline. Piet dominated water polo, his stocky build slicing the pool, brown eyes steady as he blocked shots with a quiet ferocity. Lunches in the quad rang with Henk’s grunts, Sarah’s laughs, and the rugby boys’ shouts, the gang knitting tighter with every shared beer and bad joke.
The wine shed hummed with progress, Jo’s rosemary-kicked “Zanzibar Red” clawing its way back from disaster under Piet’s yeast wizardry. Thursday rolled in, crisp and clear, and the shed became a hive—barrels lined the walls, the air thick with fermentation and banter. Jo and Piet worked side by side at the main vat, shoulders brushing as they stirred the deep purple mix. Jo dipped a ladle, tasting, his freckled face lighting up. “Fok, bru, it’s singing now—rosemary’s there, but it’s got backbone. Your yeast trick’s gold.” He grinned, lopsided and bright, passing the ladle to Piet.
Piet took a sip, brown eyes narrowing thoughtfully under his cap. “Ja, Jo, it’s balanced, but needs a kick—maybe more nutrient, magnesium? Push the finish.” He grabbed a vial from the shelf, measuring with a mechanic’s precision, his scarred hand steady as he tipped it in. They bounced ideas like a rugby ball—quick, sharp, seamless—Jo suggesting a sugar tweak, Piet countering with pH checks, their voices overlapping in a rhythm that felt like old times, only deeper now.
Rachel leaned against a crate, dark hair swinging as she watched, her sharp brown eyes catching every glance, every casual touch. JP sprawled beside her, massive frame dwarfing a folding chair, nursing a beer as he followed her gaze. “Oi, check them,” Rachel muttered, nodding at Jo and Piet, her voice low but edged with amusement. “Zanzibar and Lurker, thick as thieves—look how they fit, hey. Bouncing off each other like they’ve got a secret playbook.”
JP smirked, tipping his beer. “Ja, Rach, they’re tight—closer than mates, if you ask me. Saw Piet crash at Jo’s flat three nights running last week. You reckon there’s more there?” His tone was light, but his eyes glinted, suspicions mirroring hers.
Rachel snorted, crossing her arms. “Bloody obvious, bru. Jo’s all grins, Piet’s got that quiet glow. They’re not just braai buddies—I’d bet my clipboard they’re shagging, or damn close to it.” She grinned, oblivious to the dorm days, the messy history etched in their bones. JP laughed, raising his beer in a mock toast. “To the shed’s worst-kept secret, then.”
The vat sealed, the day’s work done, and the shed crew parted with fist bumps and plans for Friday’s braai—Jo’s domain, the famous Braai Master event, a campus legend. Friday evening flared to life on a patch of lawn near the res, the fire pit roaring under Jo’s command, his faded rugby jersey streaked with ash as he flipped boerewors and ribs with a cocky flourish. Piet was back at his side, trusty sidekick reborn, cap low as he handed Jo spice tins and cracked beers, their movements synced like a dance they’d never forgotten. The gang sprawled around—Henk tossing a rugby ball, Sarah snapping pics, Doug and JP chanting “Zanzibar!” as the meat sizzled.
Rachel jostled in, playful but sharp, vying for Jo’s ear with a tray of koeksisters. “Oi, Braai Master, don’t burn my dessert, hey,” she teased, nudging Piet aside with a grin. Piet laughed—a rare, full sound—passing her a beer instead of retreating, jealousy burned out, replaced by a steady ease. “Ja, Rach, keep him in line—I’m just here for the wors,” he quipped, brown eyes warm as he stepped back, letting her lean in.
Later, as the fire dimmed and the gang thinned, Rachel cornered Jo by the cooler, her voice dropping low, conspiratorial. “Jo, listen, bru—Piet’s your shadow, and you’re lit up around him. It’s obvious there’s something there, hey. Make your move, don’t cock it up.” Her brown eyes sparkled, pushing him with a nudge, blind to the layers she couldn’t see.
Jo’s grin faltered, green eyes flicking to Piet across the lawn, then back to her. “Fok, Rach, you’re dreaming—me and Piet, we’re just mates, thick as ever. That’s it.” He brushed her off, voice light but strained, grabbing a beer to dodge her stare. She shrugged, unconvinced, but let it drop, sauntering off with a “Your loss, Zanzibar.”
The braai wound down, embers glowing, and Jo and Piet walked back to the flat, arms slung around each other’s shoulders, steps uneven from the beers. Jo’s freckled arm rested heavy on Piet’s stocky frame, Piet’s hand gripping Jo’s waist, the night air cool against their flushed skin. They stumbled through the door, boots thudding, and flopped onto the couch, legs tangled, the flat wrapping them in its quiet hum.
Jo shifted, sitting up straighter, green eyes locking on Piet’s. “Bru, we haven’t talked about us since the farm—what’s happening here?” His voice was low, rough with the weight of it, Rachel’s words sinking in despite his deflection.
Piet pulled off his cap, running a hand through his short brown hair, brown eyes meeting Jo’s with a steady, searching look. “Ja, Jo, been dodging it, hey. Farm was heavy—your dad laid it out, forced us to think. I’ve been here more than the dorm, sleeping next to you, and it feels… right. More than mates, more than just messing around. You?”
Jo nodded, slow, his freckled hand resting on Piet’s knee, fingers brushing the denim. “Same, bru. You’re here, and I don’t want you gone. Those nights—hands, heat, all of it—it’s not just beer and horniness anymore. It’s us, carved deep, like you said. But what do we call it? Couple? Partners? Still mates who fuck?”
Piet’s smirk flickered, dry but warm. “Fok, Jo, labels are kak. We’re us—farm boys who’d die for each other, who fit like this.” He gestured between them, hand landing on Jo’s, squeezing lightly. “I want you—flat, bed, life, all of it. No more half-in. You in?”
Jo’s grin broke wide, green eyes softening as he leaned closer, forehead brushing Piet’s. “Ja, Piet, I’m in. No more dodging—flat’s yours too, we’re together, whatever that means. Business at the farm, this here, no overlap, like dad said. Just us.” His hand tightened on Piet’s, the decision settling like a fire stoked steady.
Piet nodded, breath hitching as he closed the gap, lips crashing into Jo’s in a kiss that was hot, sure, no hesitation now. Hands roamed—Jo’s up Piet’s back, Piet’s gripping Jo’s neck—sealing it, the flat their ground zero. They pulled back, panting, foreheads pressed, a pact forged in the quiet, no labels needed, just Jo and Piet, all in, the night stretching out with their future wide open.
The gang was vibing again, a loose orbit of rugby boys, rock nerds, and shed crew orbiting Jo and Piet’s gravitational pull. Rugby training sharpened Jo’s edge—his lanky frame darted through drills, green eyes fierce, three tries a game now his baseline. Piet dominated water polo, his stocky build slicing the pool, brown eyes steady as he blocked shots with a quiet ferocity. Lunches in the quad rang with Henk’s grunts, Sarah’s laughs, and the rugby boys’ shouts, the gang knitting tighter with every shared beer and bad joke.
The wine shed hummed with progress, Jo’s rosemary-kicked “Zanzibar Red” clawing its way back from disaster under Piet’s yeast wizardry. Thursday rolled in, crisp and clear, and the shed became a hive—barrels lined the walls, the air thick with fermentation and banter. Jo and Piet worked side by side at the main vat, shoulders brushing as they stirred the deep purple mix. Jo dipped a ladle, tasting, his freckled face lighting up. “Fok, bru, it’s singing now—rosemary’s there, but it’s got backbone. Your yeast trick’s gold.” He grinned, lopsided and bright, passing the ladle to Piet.
Piet took a sip, brown eyes narrowing thoughtfully under his cap. “Ja, Jo, it’s balanced, but needs a kick—maybe more nutrient, magnesium? Push the finish.” He grabbed a vial from the shelf, measuring with a mechanic’s precision, his scarred hand steady as he tipped it in. They bounced ideas like a rugby ball—quick, sharp, seamless—Jo suggesting a sugar tweak, Piet countering with pH checks, their voices overlapping in a rhythm that felt like old times, only deeper now.
Rachel leaned against a crate, dark hair swinging as she watched, her sharp brown eyes catching every glance, every casual touch. JP sprawled beside her, massive frame dwarfing a folding chair, nursing a beer as he followed her gaze. “Oi, check them,” Rachel muttered, nodding at Jo and Piet, her voice low but edged with amusement. “Zanzibar and Lurker, thick as thieves—look how they fit, hey. Bouncing off each other like they’ve got a secret playbook.”
JP smirked, tipping his beer. “Ja, Rach, they’re tight—closer than mates, if you ask me. Saw Piet crash at Jo’s flat three nights running last week. You reckon there’s more there?” His tone was light, but his eyes glinted, suspicions mirroring hers.
Rachel snorted, crossing her arms. “Bloody obvious, bru. Jo’s all grins, Piet’s got that quiet glow. They’re not just braai buddies—I’d bet my clipboard they’re shagging, or damn close to it.” She grinned, oblivious to the dorm days, the messy history etched in their bones. JP laughed, raising his beer in a mock toast. “To the shed’s worst-kept secret, then.”
The vat sealed, the day’s work done, and the shed crew parted with fist bumps and plans for Friday’s braai—Jo’s domain, the famous Braai Master event, a campus legend. Friday evening flared to life on a patch of lawn near the res, the fire pit roaring under Jo’s command, his faded rugby jersey streaked with ash as he flipped boerewors and ribs with a cocky flourish. Piet was back at his side, trusty sidekick reborn, cap low as he handed Jo spice tins and cracked beers, their movements synced like a dance they’d never forgotten. The gang sprawled around—Henk tossing a rugby ball, Sarah snapping pics, Doug and JP chanting “Zanzibar!” as the meat sizzled.
Rachel jostled in, playful but sharp, vying for Jo’s ear with a tray of koeksisters. “Oi, Braai Master, don’t burn my dessert, hey,” she teased, nudging Piet aside with a grin. Piet laughed—a rare, full sound—passing her a beer instead of retreating, jealousy burned out, replaced by a steady ease. “Ja, Rach, keep him in line—I’m just here for the wors,” he quipped, brown eyes warm as he stepped back, letting her lean in.
Later, as the fire dimmed and the gang thinned, Rachel cornered Jo by the cooler, her voice dropping low, conspiratorial. “Jo, listen, bru—Piet’s your shadow, and you’re lit up around him. It’s obvious there’s something there, hey. Make your move, don’t cock it up.” Her brown eyes sparkled, pushing him with a nudge, blind to the layers she couldn’t see.
Jo’s grin faltered, green eyes flicking to Piet across the lawn, then back to her. “Fok, Rach, you’re dreaming—me and Piet, we’re just mates, thick as ever. That’s it.” He brushed her off, voice light but strained, grabbing a beer to dodge her stare. She shrugged, unconvinced, but let it drop, sauntering off with a “Your loss, Zanzibar.”
The braai wound down, embers glowing, and Jo and Piet walked back to the flat, arms slung around each other’s shoulders, steps uneven from the beers. Jo’s freckled arm rested heavy on Piet’s stocky frame, Piet’s hand gripping Jo’s waist, the night air cool against their flushed skin. They stumbled through the door, boots thudding, and flopped onto the couch, legs tangled, the flat wrapping them in its quiet hum.
Jo shifted, sitting up straighter, green eyes locking on Piet’s. “Bru, we haven’t talked about us since the farm—what’s happening here?” His voice was low, rough with the weight of it, Rachel’s words sinking in despite his deflection.
Piet pulled off his cap, running a hand through his short brown hair, brown eyes meeting Jo’s with a steady, searching look. “Ja, Jo, been dodging it, hey. Farm was heavy—your dad laid it out, forced us to think. I’ve been here more than the dorm, sleeping next to you, and it feels… right. More than mates, more than just messing around. You?”
Jo nodded, slow, his freckled hand resting on Piet’s knee, fingers brushing the denim. “Same, bru. You’re here, and I don’t want you gone. Those nights—hands, heat, all of it—it’s not just beer and horniness anymore. It’s us, carved deep, like you said. But what do we call it? Couple? Partners? Still mates who fuck?”
Piet’s smirk flickered, dry but warm. “Fok, Jo, labels are kak. We’re us—farm boys who’d die for each other, who fit like this.” He gestured between them, hand landing on Jo’s, squeezing lightly. “I want you—flat, bed, life, all of it. No more half-in. You in?”
Jo’s grin broke wide, green eyes softening as he leaned closer, forehead brushing Piet’s. “Ja, Piet, I’m in. No more dodging—flat’s yours too, we’re together, whatever that means. Business at the farm, this here, no overlap, like dad said. Just us.” His hand tightened on Piet’s, the decision settling like a fire stoked steady.
Piet nodded, breath hitching as he closed the gap, lips crashing into Jo’s in a kiss that was hot, sure, no hesitation now. Hands roamed—Jo’s up Piet’s back, Piet’s gripping Jo’s neck—sealing it, the flat their ground zero. They pulled back, panting, foreheads pressed, a pact forged in the quiet, no labels needed, just Jo and Piet, all in, the night stretching out with their future wide open.
The Stellenbosch campus buzzed with its usual Friday hum, lectures winding down, students spilling into the quad, the air crisp with autumn’s bite. Jo and Piet had spent the week cementing their new rhythm: nights tangled in the flat, mornings trading sleepy grins over coffee, their bond unspoken but solid. By Thursday, they’d agreed, no more tiptoeing. They’d make it semi-official, tell the gang and the wine crew, let the chips fall. Friday evening loomed, the perfect stage: a pub night with the gang and a shed meetup rolled into one.
They hit the pub first, a gritty spot off the main drag, its sticky floors and pulsing music a familiar haunt. The gang was already there, Henk, Sarah, the rugby boys, the rock nerds, even Dylan and Matt. Jo and Piet slid in, shoulders brushing, green and brown eyes glinting with a shared secret. Jo raised his beer, voice cutting through the din. “Oi, okes, listen up, me and Piet, we’re together now, exclusive-like. No big labels yet, just us, sorted.”
The table erupted in laughter, loud and bright. A rugby guy slammed his beer down, grinning. “Fok, bru, took you long enough, we’ve known since the dorm days!” A rock nerd nodded, eyes sparkling. “Ja, Jo, those ‘roommate’ vibes? Please, we weren’t blind.” The rugby boys whooped, one shouting, “About time, Braai Master and Lurker!” Piet flushed under his cap, smirking, while Jo’s lopsided grin widened, his freckled hand clapping Piet’s shoulder.
The wine crew rolled in next, Rachel, JP, and Doug stomping through the door, vats on their minds. Jo waved them over, repeating the spiel. “Hey, okes, me and Piet, we’re a thing now, exclusive, no kak labels yet.” Rachel’s jaw dropped, then she barked a laugh, brown eyes flashing. “Called it, Zanzibar! Told you to make a move!” JP fist-bumped her, grinning wide. “Ja, Rach, we nailed it, saw them at the shed, tight as hell.” Doug boomed, “Lekker, bru! Didn’t know the history, but you fit, happy for you!” The wine gang, oblivious to the dorm’s messy past, cheered just as loud, clinking glasses, the pub alive with their approval.
Later, sprawled on the flat’s couch, Jo dialed Jacques, Piet’s knee pressed against his, the phone on speaker. “Dad, it’s us,” Jo started, green eyes on Piet. “We’ve sorted it, me and Piet, we’re together, exclusive, no fancy labels yet, just us. Flat’s ours, we’re dedicated to the farm, all in.”
Jacques’s voice crackled through, stern but warm. “Good, boys. Glad you’ve manned up, picked a lane. No label’s fine but keep it clean, keep it yours. Contract’s ready, come to Robertson tomorrow after lectures, sign it with the De Wets. We’ll sort the rest.” Jo grinned, “Lekker, dad, we’re there.” Piet nodded, brown eyes soft, the call ending with a click that felt like a seal.
Friday afternoon, lectures done, they piled into the black Land Rover, Jo behind the wheel, Piet shotgun, the road to Robertson unfurling under a bruised sky. The drive was quiet, hands brushing as they shared a Coke, the weight of the contract, and their choice, settling in. They rolled into the van der Merwe farmstead as dusk fell, the massive barn-style door wide open, warm light spilling out. The De Wet family was already there, Piet’s mom, bustling in the kitchen with Jo’s sisters, and Grandpa De Wet, stooped but steady, leaning on a cane near the dining table.
Warm welcomes washed over them this time, Jo’s sisters tackling him with hugs, Jo’s mom pulling him into a tight embrace, her voice thick. “My boys are home.” Jacques clapped their shoulders, green eyes approving, while Piet’s mom, having taken command of the kitchen, waved from the stove, thick lamb stew simmering. They gathered around the massive dining table, wood scarred from years of feasts, plates piled with meat and mielies, the air thick with laughter and clinking glasses.
Grandpa De Wet took the lead, Jacques sitting back, knowing what was coming. Grandpa De Wets voice gravelly but firm, cutting through the chatter. “Van der Merwes, De Wets, listen up. I owe you everything, Jacques. Your family’s saved ours, pulled us from the brink when drought and debt had us by the throat. This deal, the lease, the future. it’s stability we never dreamed of. My legacy’s safe now, tied to yours, and I’m damn pleased Piet and Jo are the ones to carry it.”
He paused, rheumy eyes glinting, then dropped the bomb. “Got news, though, terminal cancer, boys.” The table froze, forks clattering. Piet’s breath hitched, brown eyes flooding as he stared at his grandpa. “No, Grandpa, how—?” His voice broke, tears spilling, cap tumbling to the floor.
Grandpa De Wet raised a hand, steady despite the tremble. “Save your tears, Pieter. I’ve lived my time, cattle, land, family, it’s enough. Jacques, you stepped in just right, saved us when I couldn’t anymore. I can rest easy now, knowing Piet and Jo’ll take the reins, guided by your group. The farm’s theirs when I’m gone, your mom keeps the house, Piet, but you two, you’re the heart of it.”
Piet shoved his chair back, rushing around the table, and threw himself into his grandpa’s arms, sobbing hard. “How long, Grandpa? How long do you have?” Tears streamed down his sunburnt face, soaking the old man’s shirt. Grandpa hugged him back, voice soft but resolute. “Few months, son, if I’m lucky. Don’t waste it crying, make it count.”
Jo watched, green eyes glistening, freckled hand gripping the table’s edge. Jacques nodded, voice gruff. “We’ve got you, Piet, both families do.” Piet’s mom wiped her eyes, Jo’s sisters huddled close, the room heavy with love and loss.
The night stretched on, Grandpa De Wet’s revelation a bittersweet anchor. Piet stayed close to his grandpa, hand on his shoulder, while Jo leaned into him, their bond a quiet strength amid the storm. The farm loomed below the hill they’d parked on later, stars sharp above, the future theirs to claim—but the contract not yet signed.
They hit the pub first, a gritty spot off the main drag, its sticky floors and pulsing music a familiar haunt. The gang was already there, Henk, Sarah, the rugby boys, the rock nerds, even Dylan and Matt. Jo and Piet slid in, shoulders brushing, green and brown eyes glinting with a shared secret. Jo raised his beer, voice cutting through the din. “Oi, okes, listen up, me and Piet, we’re together now, exclusive-like. No big labels yet, just us, sorted.”
The table erupted in laughter, loud and bright. A rugby guy slammed his beer down, grinning. “Fok, bru, took you long enough, we’ve known since the dorm days!” A rock nerd nodded, eyes sparkling. “Ja, Jo, those ‘roommate’ vibes? Please, we weren’t blind.” The rugby boys whooped, one shouting, “About time, Braai Master and Lurker!” Piet flushed under his cap, smirking, while Jo’s lopsided grin widened, his freckled hand clapping Piet’s shoulder.
The wine crew rolled in next, Rachel, JP, and Doug stomping through the door, vats on their minds. Jo waved them over, repeating the spiel. “Hey, okes, me and Piet, we’re a thing now, exclusive, no kak labels yet.” Rachel’s jaw dropped, then she barked a laugh, brown eyes flashing. “Called it, Zanzibar! Told you to make a move!” JP fist-bumped her, grinning wide. “Ja, Rach, we nailed it, saw them at the shed, tight as hell.” Doug boomed, “Lekker, bru! Didn’t know the history, but you fit, happy for you!” The wine gang, oblivious to the dorm’s messy past, cheered just as loud, clinking glasses, the pub alive with their approval.
Later, sprawled on the flat’s couch, Jo dialed Jacques, Piet’s knee pressed against his, the phone on speaker. “Dad, it’s us,” Jo started, green eyes on Piet. “We’ve sorted it, me and Piet, we’re together, exclusive, no fancy labels yet, just us. Flat’s ours, we’re dedicated to the farm, all in.”
Jacques’s voice crackled through, stern but warm. “Good, boys. Glad you’ve manned up, picked a lane. No label’s fine but keep it clean, keep it yours. Contract’s ready, come to Robertson tomorrow after lectures, sign it with the De Wets. We’ll sort the rest.” Jo grinned, “Lekker, dad, we’re there.” Piet nodded, brown eyes soft, the call ending with a click that felt like a seal.
Friday afternoon, lectures done, they piled into the black Land Rover, Jo behind the wheel, Piet shotgun, the road to Robertson unfurling under a bruised sky. The drive was quiet, hands brushing as they shared a Coke, the weight of the contract, and their choice, settling in. They rolled into the van der Merwe farmstead as dusk fell, the massive barn-style door wide open, warm light spilling out. The De Wet family was already there, Piet’s mom, bustling in the kitchen with Jo’s sisters, and Grandpa De Wet, stooped but steady, leaning on a cane near the dining table.
Warm welcomes washed over them this time, Jo’s sisters tackling him with hugs, Jo’s mom pulling him into a tight embrace, her voice thick. “My boys are home.” Jacques clapped their shoulders, green eyes approving, while Piet’s mom, having taken command of the kitchen, waved from the stove, thick lamb stew simmering. They gathered around the massive dining table, wood scarred from years of feasts, plates piled with meat and mielies, the air thick with laughter and clinking glasses.
Grandpa De Wet took the lead, Jacques sitting back, knowing what was coming. Grandpa De Wets voice gravelly but firm, cutting through the chatter. “Van der Merwes, De Wets, listen up. I owe you everything, Jacques. Your family’s saved ours, pulled us from the brink when drought and debt had us by the throat. This deal, the lease, the future. it’s stability we never dreamed of. My legacy’s safe now, tied to yours, and I’m damn pleased Piet and Jo are the ones to carry it.”
He paused, rheumy eyes glinting, then dropped the bomb. “Got news, though, terminal cancer, boys.” The table froze, forks clattering. Piet’s breath hitched, brown eyes flooding as he stared at his grandpa. “No, Grandpa, how—?” His voice broke, tears spilling, cap tumbling to the floor.
Grandpa De Wet raised a hand, steady despite the tremble. “Save your tears, Pieter. I’ve lived my time, cattle, land, family, it’s enough. Jacques, you stepped in just right, saved us when I couldn’t anymore. I can rest easy now, knowing Piet and Jo’ll take the reins, guided by your group. The farm’s theirs when I’m gone, your mom keeps the house, Piet, but you two, you’re the heart of it.”
Piet shoved his chair back, rushing around the table, and threw himself into his grandpa’s arms, sobbing hard. “How long, Grandpa? How long do you have?” Tears streamed down his sunburnt face, soaking the old man’s shirt. Grandpa hugged him back, voice soft but resolute. “Few months, son, if I’m lucky. Don’t waste it crying, make it count.”
Jo watched, green eyes glistening, freckled hand gripping the table’s edge. Jacques nodded, voice gruff. “We’ve got you, Piet, both families do.” Piet’s mom wiped her eyes, Jo’s sisters huddled close, the room heavy with love and loss.
The night stretched on, Grandpa De Wet’s revelation a bittersweet anchor. Piet stayed close to his grandpa, hand on his shoulder, while Jo leaned into him, their bond a quiet strength amid the storm. The farm loomed below the hill they’d parked on later, stars sharp above, the future theirs to claim—but the contract not yet signed.
That was a really nice addition. It is time for them to grow up and face the challenges and journey together. Thanks for this..
Good and bad all wrapped together. You did an awesome job of making all the pieces fit but I wonder with the comment about the contract not signed if everything falls apart? Here's to hoping that is not the situation we face. It is time for these two to get down to the real work ahead of them and make this a successful journey for themselves and their families. Sometimes good and love has to win out. I love the way you have brought us on this journey and the many layers and turns we have had along the way. Your writing style is awesome--thought provoking and engaging all along the way There was never a time to lose interest or not appreciate the character development that has transpired. Much appreciated.
PouletAuPoivre
Cherished Member
Great episodes, Jayson.
"No labels," hey?
Even now, they (mostly Jo) just can't say it, even though pretty much everyone in their lives knows the score.
"No labels," hey?
Even now, they (mostly Jo) just can't say it, even though pretty much everyone in their lives knows the score.
PouletAuPoivre
Cherished Member
You mean Byron and Matt, right?
The moon filtered through the heavy curtains of the van der Merwe farmhouse, casting long, silver shadows across the polished dining table where Jo, Piet, Jacques, and Grandpa De Wet gathered. The air carried the faint scent of lamb stew from the night’s feast, now replaced by the crisp tension of the moment. Papers were spread meticulously before them, the contract, a thick stack of legal jargon, resting at the center like a gauntlet to be faced. The massive barn-style door stood ajar, letting in a cool breeze that rustled the edges of the documents, a reminder of the farm stretching out beyond the walls, its fate hanging in the balance.
Jacques sat at the head of the table, his broad frame imposing, green eyes sharp as he adjusted his glasses and tapped a pen against the oak. Grandpa De Wet, stooped but resolute, occupied the chair to his right, his cane propped against the table, his rheumy eyes scanning the room with a quiet pride. Jo lounged beside Jacques, his lanky frame relaxed but his freckled hands fidgeting, green eyes darting between the papers and Piet. Piet sat opposite, his stocky build rigid in the chair, faded blue cap pulled low over his sunburnt brow, scarred hands gripping the armrests as if anchoring himself against a rising tide of unease.
Jacques cleared his throat, his voice a deep rumble that filled the room. “Right, boys, let’s walk through this. Every paragraph, no rush. Grandpa and I’ll break it down, make sure you understand what you’re signing.” He flipped to the first page, his finger tracing the text. “Paragraph one—lease agreement. The De Wet farm, lock, stock, and barrel, leased to van der Merwe Enterprises for ten years. We pay R500,000 monthly, rain or shine. Grandpa, your take?”
Grandpa De Wet nodded, his gravelly voice steady despite the weight of his recent revelation. “Ja, Pieter, Jacques stepped in when the drought nearly broke us. This lease keeps the farm alive, puts food on our table, and secures your mom’s house. It’s a lifeline, boy, plain and simple.” His eyes met Piet’s, a flicker of reassurance beneath the weariness.
Piet shifted uncomfortably, the chair creaking under him, his mind wandering as Jacques moved to the next paragraph. Why is Jacques doing this? he wondered, his brown eyes narrowing. Is it a land grab? He’s pouring R20 million into this—equipment, labour, redevelopment—but what’s his angle? Control? Profit? And why didn’t he flinch at Grandpa’s cancer bombshell? Just sat there, cool as stone, like it was another ledger entry. His scarred fingers tightened, a cold sweat prickling his neck as doubt gnawed at him.
Jacques continued, unflappable. “Paragraph two—management. Jo and Piet, you’ll run the operation day-to-day. Van der Merwe Enterprises oversees the big moves—investments, contracts—but you two hold the reins on the ground. Grandpa, anything to add?”
“Ja,” Grandpa rasped, tapping his cane lightly. “Piet you know the land, Jo you understand cattle, it syncs. This gives you power, Pieter, to shape it, but with Jacques’s backing. It’s a partnership, not a takeover.” His tone was firm, but Piet’s unease deepened, his mind racing. Partnership? Or a leash? Jacques could pull strings, dictate terms, and we’d be stuck.
The pages turned, Jacques’s voice a steady drone. “Paragraph three—ownership transition. Upon Grandpa’s passing, the farm transfers to you two, fifty-fifty, with your mom retaining the farmhouse. Lease payments continue until 2035, ensuring stability.” He paused, letting it sink in, while Grandpa nodded approval.
But then came paragraph four, and Piet’s breath caught. The clause leaped off the page, a jagged thorn in the contract’s smooth prose: “In the event of a material breach by either party—defined as failure to meet production quotas, mismanagement, or personal conduct deemed detrimental to the partnership—van der Merwe Enterprises reserves the right to assume full ownership of the De Wet farm, terminating the lease and all subsequent claims, with compensation limited to the initial investment amortized over the lease term.” Piet’s stomach churned, his scarred hand trembling as he reread it. Full ownership? They could take it all if we slip? What’s ‘detrimental conduct’? Jo and I—our thing—could that be used against us?
His chest tightened, the room spinning slightly. He shoved his chair back, the scrape loud against the floor. “Wait, I need a break,” he said, voice rough, standing abruptly. “Air, this is… it’s all too final. My family’s legacy…” His brown eyes darted to Jo, then Jacques, pleading. “I need a minute.”
Jo’s green eyes widened, concern flickering, but he nodded. “Ja, bru, take what you need.” Jacques raised an eyebrow but said nothing, while Grandpa De Wet’s gaze softened, understanding etched in his lined face.
Piet stumbled outside, the cool air hitting his flushed skin as he crossed the yard. He spotted his mom near the kitchen garden, her apron dusted with flour, and called out, “Ma, come with me?” She wiped her hands, concern creasing her face, and followed him to the massive oak tree at the edge of the driveway , its gnarled branches casting haunting shadows below. They sat on the grass, Piet’s stocky frame hunched, his cap in his hands, fingers tracing the worn brim.
“Ma,” he began, voice low, “I’m scared. This contract—Jacques is sinking R20 million into the farm, but what if it’s a grab? He didn’t even blink at Grandpa’s cancer. And that clause—breach, and they take everything. Jo’s half-owner now, someone I barely knew eight months ago. Dad died for this land, for us, and I’m handing it over, splitting it with a stranger from Robertson.”
His mom reached for his scarred hand, her grip warm and firm. “Pieter, listen to me. This isn’t a grab,it’s salvation. The van der Merwes pulled us from the edge when the drought hit, when the bank was circling. That R500,000 a month, for ten years—that’s R60 million, boy. Life-changing money. Your dad would’ve seen it as a chance to keep the farm breathing, not lose it to foreclosure.”
Piet shook his head, tears stinging his eyes. “It’s not about the money, Ma. It’s Dad’s blood in this soil, the memories—him teaching me to fix fences, the cattle drives. Now it’s half Jo’s, and I don’t know if I can trust Jacques’s motives.”
She squeezed his hand, her voice softening. “New memories can grow, Pieter. Jo’s not a stranger anymore,he’s your partner, your… more, from what I see. Without the van der Merwes, there’d be no farm left to fight for. Your dad’s legacy isn’t just the land,it’s you carrying it forward. This deal lets you do that, with strength behind you.”
Piet’s inner conflict raged, a storm of loyalty and fear. The farm was his father’s dream, every scar on his arms a testament to that fight, every memory a tether to a past slipping away. Yet the reality loomed, without Jacques’s money, the De Wet farm would’ve crumbled, his mom displaced, Grandpa’s legacy dust. Jo, once a stranger, had become his anchor, their bond forged in dorm nights, quad braais and wine shed battles. The clause gnawed at him, a threat of loss, but his mom’s words—new memories, stability—stirred a flicker of hope. Could he trust Jacques? Could he share this with Jo, a man he’d grown to need?
He exhaled, the tension easing as resolve took root. The farm wasn’t just his father’s, it was his to shape, with Jo beside him. The money secured his mom, honored Grandpa’s sacrifice, and the clause, while risky, was a challenge they could meet together. He met his mom’s eyes, nodding slowly. “Ja, Ma, you’re right. It’s our future now. I’ll sign, but I’ll watch Jacques, make sure it’s fair.”
She smiled, brushing a tear from his cheek. “That’s my boy. Go back in, hold your head high. Your dad’s proud, wherever he is.”
Piet stood, cap back on, scarred hand steady as he helped his mom up. They returned to the farmhouse, the contract waiting, his decision made, half his legacy, half Jo’s, but wholly theirs to protect.
Jacques sat at the head of the table, his broad frame imposing, green eyes sharp as he adjusted his glasses and tapped a pen against the oak. Grandpa De Wet, stooped but resolute, occupied the chair to his right, his cane propped against the table, his rheumy eyes scanning the room with a quiet pride. Jo lounged beside Jacques, his lanky frame relaxed but his freckled hands fidgeting, green eyes darting between the papers and Piet. Piet sat opposite, his stocky build rigid in the chair, faded blue cap pulled low over his sunburnt brow, scarred hands gripping the armrests as if anchoring himself against a rising tide of unease.
Jacques cleared his throat, his voice a deep rumble that filled the room. “Right, boys, let’s walk through this. Every paragraph, no rush. Grandpa and I’ll break it down, make sure you understand what you’re signing.” He flipped to the first page, his finger tracing the text. “Paragraph one—lease agreement. The De Wet farm, lock, stock, and barrel, leased to van der Merwe Enterprises for ten years. We pay R500,000 monthly, rain or shine. Grandpa, your take?”
Grandpa De Wet nodded, his gravelly voice steady despite the weight of his recent revelation. “Ja, Pieter, Jacques stepped in when the drought nearly broke us. This lease keeps the farm alive, puts food on our table, and secures your mom’s house. It’s a lifeline, boy, plain and simple.” His eyes met Piet’s, a flicker of reassurance beneath the weariness.
Piet shifted uncomfortably, the chair creaking under him, his mind wandering as Jacques moved to the next paragraph. Why is Jacques doing this? he wondered, his brown eyes narrowing. Is it a land grab? He’s pouring R20 million into this—equipment, labour, redevelopment—but what’s his angle? Control? Profit? And why didn’t he flinch at Grandpa’s cancer bombshell? Just sat there, cool as stone, like it was another ledger entry. His scarred fingers tightened, a cold sweat prickling his neck as doubt gnawed at him.
Jacques continued, unflappable. “Paragraph two—management. Jo and Piet, you’ll run the operation day-to-day. Van der Merwe Enterprises oversees the big moves—investments, contracts—but you two hold the reins on the ground. Grandpa, anything to add?”
“Ja,” Grandpa rasped, tapping his cane lightly. “Piet you know the land, Jo you understand cattle, it syncs. This gives you power, Pieter, to shape it, but with Jacques’s backing. It’s a partnership, not a takeover.” His tone was firm, but Piet’s unease deepened, his mind racing. Partnership? Or a leash? Jacques could pull strings, dictate terms, and we’d be stuck.
The pages turned, Jacques’s voice a steady drone. “Paragraph three—ownership transition. Upon Grandpa’s passing, the farm transfers to you two, fifty-fifty, with your mom retaining the farmhouse. Lease payments continue until 2035, ensuring stability.” He paused, letting it sink in, while Grandpa nodded approval.
But then came paragraph four, and Piet’s breath caught. The clause leaped off the page, a jagged thorn in the contract’s smooth prose: “In the event of a material breach by either party—defined as failure to meet production quotas, mismanagement, or personal conduct deemed detrimental to the partnership—van der Merwe Enterprises reserves the right to assume full ownership of the De Wet farm, terminating the lease and all subsequent claims, with compensation limited to the initial investment amortized over the lease term.” Piet’s stomach churned, his scarred hand trembling as he reread it. Full ownership? They could take it all if we slip? What’s ‘detrimental conduct’? Jo and I—our thing—could that be used against us?
His chest tightened, the room spinning slightly. He shoved his chair back, the scrape loud against the floor. “Wait, I need a break,” he said, voice rough, standing abruptly. “Air, this is… it’s all too final. My family’s legacy…” His brown eyes darted to Jo, then Jacques, pleading. “I need a minute.”
Jo’s green eyes widened, concern flickering, but he nodded. “Ja, bru, take what you need.” Jacques raised an eyebrow but said nothing, while Grandpa De Wet’s gaze softened, understanding etched in his lined face.
Piet stumbled outside, the cool air hitting his flushed skin as he crossed the yard. He spotted his mom near the kitchen garden, her apron dusted with flour, and called out, “Ma, come with me?” She wiped her hands, concern creasing her face, and followed him to the massive oak tree at the edge of the driveway , its gnarled branches casting haunting shadows below. They sat on the grass, Piet’s stocky frame hunched, his cap in his hands, fingers tracing the worn brim.
“Ma,” he began, voice low, “I’m scared. This contract—Jacques is sinking R20 million into the farm, but what if it’s a grab? He didn’t even blink at Grandpa’s cancer. And that clause—breach, and they take everything. Jo’s half-owner now, someone I barely knew eight months ago. Dad died for this land, for us, and I’m handing it over, splitting it with a stranger from Robertson.”
His mom reached for his scarred hand, her grip warm and firm. “Pieter, listen to me. This isn’t a grab,it’s salvation. The van der Merwes pulled us from the edge when the drought hit, when the bank was circling. That R500,000 a month, for ten years—that’s R60 million, boy. Life-changing money. Your dad would’ve seen it as a chance to keep the farm breathing, not lose it to foreclosure.”
Piet shook his head, tears stinging his eyes. “It’s not about the money, Ma. It’s Dad’s blood in this soil, the memories—him teaching me to fix fences, the cattle drives. Now it’s half Jo’s, and I don’t know if I can trust Jacques’s motives.”
She squeezed his hand, her voice softening. “New memories can grow, Pieter. Jo’s not a stranger anymore,he’s your partner, your… more, from what I see. Without the van der Merwes, there’d be no farm left to fight for. Your dad’s legacy isn’t just the land,it’s you carrying it forward. This deal lets you do that, with strength behind you.”
Piet’s inner conflict raged, a storm of loyalty and fear. The farm was his father’s dream, every scar on his arms a testament to that fight, every memory a tether to a past slipping away. Yet the reality loomed, without Jacques’s money, the De Wet farm would’ve crumbled, his mom displaced, Grandpa’s legacy dust. Jo, once a stranger, had become his anchor, their bond forged in dorm nights, quad braais and wine shed battles. The clause gnawed at him, a threat of loss, but his mom’s words—new memories, stability—stirred a flicker of hope. Could he trust Jacques? Could he share this with Jo, a man he’d grown to need?
He exhaled, the tension easing as resolve took root. The farm wasn’t just his father’s, it was his to shape, with Jo beside him. The money secured his mom, honored Grandpa’s sacrifice, and the clause, while risky, was a challenge they could meet together. He met his mom’s eyes, nodding slowly. “Ja, Ma, you’re right. It’s our future now. I’ll sign, but I’ll watch Jacques, make sure it’s fair.”
She smiled, brushing a tear from his cheek. “That’s my boy. Go back in, hold your head high. Your dad’s proud, wherever he is.”
Piet stood, cap back on, scarred hand steady as he helped his mom up. They returned to the farmhouse, the contract waiting, his decision made, half his legacy, half Jo’s, but wholly theirs to protect.
I have to say one more time---EXCELLENT writing. I am truly amazed at how you weave all the characters in and together. Awesome job. Now you have made so that a true partnership is the only way everything works for everyone. It is all up to Jo and Piet going forward. New history and memories to be made.
Thanks very much for sharing.
PouletAuPoivre
Cherished Member
Don't do it, Piet! Not yet ...
In the event of a material breach by either party, van der Merwe Enterprises reserves the right to assume full ownership of the de Wet farm? So Jacques or Kobus -- or Piet or potentially any employee of van der Merwe Enterprises -- cam breach the contract himself and then take over the farm?
And who determines what constitutes "personal conduct" is or is not "detrimental to the partnership"? For that matter, who determines what constitutes "mismanagement"?
These aren't bad provisions to have in the agreement (except for van der Merwe taking over the farm regardless of who breaches the contract), but there should probably some clearer definition of what constitutes a breach, definitely a mechanism for an impartial arbitrator to determine what constitutes a breach in case of a disagreement, and a provision that says that if van der Merwe Enterprises breaches the contract, ownership of the farm reverts to the de Wet family with no return of the R20 million in investment. That may infuriate Jacques, but it's the only counterbalance to van der Merwe taking ownership if a de Wet breaches the contract.
And Piet, your 30 days aren't over yet. You don't have to sign tonight.
And don't forget that nobody made Jacques invest that R20 million; that was his unilateral decision.
These fairly standard language for any investment group here in the States Since the put up nothing for the initial investment and no one forced Piet's family to take the money. As his Mother stated the bank was going to take the farm if they had not had the assistance. Jacques is doing this to tie in Piet because he only has Jo to take over his farm and the has stated that he does not have the book since but can operate the farm, land and crops. He needs Piet since Jo is his only heir. This is a smart move on his part for the continuation and success of both farms. Piet's family is receiving 500,000 income per month regardless of their farm income. Piet's family has no other source of revenue to pull from.
Jo and Piet are adults now and time to perform and it is not about who gets jerked off.
kinda surprised at Piet, especially after feeling so hurt and disappointed in Jo's misstep with Spencer. Intrigued and unsure where things will go. I can't imagine Piet could or would ever set up a threesome with Jo and Lucas. Piet really messed up.
