Carol’s Column

'Goud-gevaar' as Kiwis grab the SA mealie market

Do you remember the days of the swaart gevaar? The days when anyone who managed to get hold of Black Beauty – the story about a “love affair” between a cheeky black horse and a simpering white teenager – was branded a communist?

The days when the red flag and yellow sickle lurked in every unexpected place? When miniskirts were sinful, and it was believed that dancing led to sex?

As I wheeled my trolley down the supermarket aisle, bumping into display stands of washing detergent arranged so that as you rounded a corner you'd knock them down then feel guilty and buy one, I came upon a blockage of shoppers and trollies.

A stout man with the neck of a giant ficus tree and the shoulders of a prize ox was holding forth.

“We are being invaded. This is the goud gevaar! For 40 years I have farmed for my country, fought weevils and borers, locusts and drought and overcome.”

He held up his ham-like hands. “These are the hands of a planter.”

Well, they didn't look like the hands of a heart surgeon. I sidled around and observed a large pile of frozen sweetcorn. “Why's he getting so excited about mealies?” I whispered to the woman beside me.

“Because they're all black,” she replied.

I looked closely. As far as I could see they looked golden yellow as usual. Just ordinary mealies. “They don't look black to me,” I whispered back.

“No, don't you see?” She nudged me. “They're All Black mealies from New Zealand.”

“It's a scandal,” growled the farmer who introduced himself as Ertjies van Tonder. “We beat them on the rugby field and now we have to beat them on our mealie lands.”

By now, there were about 15 shoppers standing around. “It's true,” shouted one gatherer. “Mealies are our lifeblood. What do the Kiwis know about mealies? They know a'bout sheep, but mealies?”

“What's more,” said a grandmotherly soul in a brilliant floral doek, “look at the difference.”

She held up two one kilogram packets of frozen mealies, one South African, the other from New Zealand. “The All-Black mealies are R3 cheaper than ours.”

“Undercutting! Undercutting!” yelled the crowd.

“Cheaper Irish butter is bad enough, but mealies – they're messing with the heart of our country, the staple food of the nation!” With his strident voice, Ertjies van Tonder was an orator.

The manager was summoned. A bespectacled kipper, he twitched. “I can't see that there's a problem. We try to give our customers the best deal and right now, mealies from New Zealand are more competitively priced than local products. So we pass the benefit on to the consumer.”

The meeting became somewhat raucous and at one stage it seemed that blows might be struck. I heard the words “patriotic” and “sacred” rising above the babble. Because I was late for a dentist appointment to cap the front tooth I'd chipped on a beer can, I slipped away.

Later, at dinner, I recounted the tale to my spouse. “So what mealies are these?” said my husband. “Let me guess.” He closed his eyes and chewed. “Mmm, delicious, these are definitely ours. You can't beat the taste of a home-grown Free State mealie.”

So now I have this problem. Do I spoil his dinner and tell him that actually the golden corn he's popping into his mouth come from Omahu, New Zealand, because to spend an extra R3 unnecessarily would be crazy?

No. I savour the All Black mealies and think to myself that although they can't play rugby, the Kiwis know how to grow mealies.

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