Memorable moments: Propaganda and the scream

Growing up in the midst of Apartheid South Africa, my childhood was framed by the visible architecture of segregation. I remember the "White Only" signs on the beaches, the segregated train carriages, and even the separate public toilets. I was fortunate enough to attend a multiracial private school, but the world outside was strictly partitioned.

One afternoon, I spotted a piece of graffiti on a wall while riding the train. I went home and asked my father a question that was, at the time, heavy with unspoken weight: "Who is Mandela?" Even as a young child, I felt a growing sense that the reality I was being shown was fundamentally wrong.

This feeling was crystallized every morning at the breakfast table. At 7:00 AM, the radio would air "This Morning’s Comment." It was always delivered in an ultra-serious, officious tone—the mouthpiece of the government using every rhetorical trick and current event to legitimize the Apartheid system. It was pure, unadulterated propaganda.

But the moment that segment ended, the airwaves were pierced by a sudden, ridiculous scream: "CHICKEN MAN!!!"

It was a silly, off-the-wall program that followed the heavy propaganda with absolute nonsense. To be honest, as a kid, I found them both irritating in their own way. But as I sat there with my cereal, the contrast struck me as something profound.

I began to see "The Chicken Man" as a wonderful, perhaps accidental, metaphor. It was as if the universe—or someone clever in the radio planning department—was saying that everything that had come before was complete and utter ridiculous bullshit. The shrill absurdity of the chicken was the only honest response to the officious lies of the state.

Memorable moments: The Goddess of Eight Bells

When I was young, our family holidays were spent at a farm retreat called Eight Bells, several hours from Cape Town. For me, the entire trip revolved around one thing: the horses.

I wasn't an experienced rider, but I made up for it with sheer, unbridled passion. The routine was always the same—we would walk the horses slowly up the paddock, then turn around for the ride back. That was the highlight, when the horses would pick up the pace into a trot or, if we were lucky, a gentle canter.

I was usually assigned the "mellow" mares, the ones with sweet, nursery-rhyme names like Tinkerbell and Buttercup. They were patient, steady, and—in my memory at least—pure white. I felt like a king on their backs, even if we were mostly just following the trail.

But then there was the farmer’s daughter.

She was eleven to my nine, and she inhabited a completely different world. While I was bobbing along on Buttercup, she was mounted on the stallions—beasts with names like Storm and Fury, as black as mine were white. She didn't walk or trot; she galloped.

I can still see her vividly: charging across the paddock with immense, effortless confidence, her long blonde hair flowing behind her like a banner. She was magnificent. To a nine-year-old boy on a horse named Tinkerbell, she wasn't just a neighbor or a fellow rider; she was a force of nature. I watched her from the back of my slow-moving mare, completely enthralled by the speed, the power, and the sheer "otherness" of a girl who could tame a horse called Fury.

She belonged to the wind and the open field. I belonged to the track and the steady rhythm of hooves. And somewhere between Buttercup and Fury, between walking and flying, a small boy first felt the pull of a bigger, wilder world.

Memorable moments: The sooty shins

When I was seven years old, I underwent surgery on both of my Achilles tendons. The recovery required me to have both legs encased in plaster of Paris from my toes to my knees for six long weeks.

At the start, I loved it. My legs became a living canvas as friends and family covered the white plaster in doodles and signatures. I can still understand the appeal of tattoos based on that early experience of wearing my social circle on my shins.

However, the novelty eventually wore off, replaced by a relentless, agonizing itch deep inside the casts. In our family home in Medway, we had a beautiful fireplace complete with a set of copper tools. Desperate for relief, I discovered that the long, slender fire poker was the perfect tool for the job. I would slide the cold metal down the top of the cast to reach those impossible spots. It was heaven, providing the only real relief I could find.

Finally, the day arrived to have the casts removed. The doctor brought out a specialized cutter and began the process of vibrantly buzzing through the layers of plaster. As the shells fell away, he suddenly recoiled in genuine horror.

My shins were stained a deep, mottled black.

For a terrifying second, the doctor was convinced he was looking at a catastrophic, gangrenous infection that had claimed both of my legs under his watch. His relief was palpable—and perhaps a little exasperated—when I explained that I’d simply been scratching myself with the soot-covered fire poker for the last month.

Memorable moments: The almond heist

When I was young, I was quite the pilferer. Looking back, I'm genuinely surprised it didn't lead to a full-blown life of crime. My operations were divided into two distinct categories: the sophisticated, high-stakes heist and the reckless, sugary smash-and-grab.

The flaked almonds were my "Ocean’s Eleven" moment. I would wait until the kitchen was empty, then strike. First, I’d liberate a razor blade from my father’s bathroom cupboard. With the precision of a diamond cutter, I’d slice a microscopic slit into the side of my mother's almond packet, edging out the nuts one by one. I’d then seal the wound with a sliver of cellotape so perfectly that the packet looked untouched. It was a literal heist, and Mum never cottoned on.

My other ventures were significantly less subtle. I had a habit of raiding the freezer for Mum's chocolate, an addiction that once got her so irritated she sent me off on my bike to the local café to buy her a replacement with my own money.

But my undoing was the condensed milk. I would steal the tins, retreat to my room, and indulge in the thick, sugary loot. I was eventually busted when Mum discovered a mountain of discarded, empty tins hidden in the back of my own cupboard. To this day, I can’t remember why I didn’t think to discard the evidence.

In hindsight, my criminal career had a very clear pattern: brilliant entry, catastrophic exit.

The almond job was all finesse—silent, precise, almost artistic. The chocolate raids were impulsive but survivable. But the condensed milk… that was less “heist” and more “crime scene preservation.”

It turns out I wasn’t caught because I lacked intelligence. I was caught because, at some point, it simply stopped occurring to me that crimes should include an escape plan—or, at the very least, a rubbish bin.

Memorable moments: The slow-motion comb

I have always struggled with a deep-seated phobia of making people wait. If I’m even a few minutes behind schedule, a familiar, prickly anxiety begins to bloom. For years, I wondered where this frantic need for punctuality came from, but looking back at our family trips to Muizenberg beach, the source is clear.

Muizenberg was a local institution, and on a good day, the parking lot was a battlefield. Dozens of cars would circle the asphalt like sharks, or as my father would mutter under his breath, "Vultures!"

After a day in the sun, Jo, my mum, my dad, and I would troop back to our cream-colored Volkswagen Variant. Inevitably, a "vulture" would spot us packing our gear and pull up alongside, indicator blinking with predatory expectation. Most people, sensing the pressure, would hurry.

My father was not most people.

We would climb into the car, the waiting driver idling just inches away, ready to pounce on our spot. Instead of turning the key and vacating the space, Dad would reach into his pocket and slowly, deliberately, produce a comb.

Then, he would begin a performance that felt like it lasted a lifetime. In extreme slow motion, he would meticulously comb his mostly bald head. He wasn't just grooming; he was savoring the power. He would check his reflection, adjust an invisible stray hair, and enjoy every agonizing second of making the "vulture" wait.

In the back seat, Jo and I would catch each other’s eyes and roll them toward the ceiling in a silent plea for the earth to swallow us whole. It was excruciatingly embarrassing, a masterclass in petty defiance that Dad absolutely relished.

I think I spent the rest of my life running five minutes early just to compensate for those few minutes in the Muizenberg parking lot. While my dad was finding his bliss in the slow-motion stroke of a comb, he was inadvertently hard-wiring me to never, ever be the person holding up the line.

Memorable moments: The Birkenhead legend

When I was a child, I was the grandson of a living legend—a man of quiet reserve and an incredibly enormous appetite. One of our greatest family traditions was traveling to Hermanus to stay at the Birkenhead Hotel with Granny and Grandpa. It was a magnificent place, perched right by the crashing Indian Ocean, and it was renowned across the Cape for its culinary indulgence.

Every night, we would process into the dining room. Grandpa was always greeted by name by the staff; despite his reserved nature, he was a local celebrity in those halls.

The menu at the Birkenhead was a masterpiece of choice: there were always seven starters, seven main courses, and seven desserts. The portions were healthy, the food was delicious, and the hotel policy was dangerously encouraging—you were allowed to order as many dishes as you wanted. In fact, they practically dared you to explore the limits of your own hunger.

My grandfather was the only man in the hotel's history to accept that dare in its entirety. In a single sitting, he quietly made his way through the entire menu—all twenty-one dishes.

He didn't make a scene or demand attention; he simply sat there and methodically etched his name into the hotel’s history books. As the waiters shuttled back and forth, bringing plate after plate of starters, mains, and sweets, the room seemed to hold its breath. He was revered by the staff and fellow guests alike for his silent, gastronomic stamina.

I remember sitting there, a small boy in the shadow of this quiet giant, feeling a surge of immense pride. I wasn't just related to a man who liked his food; I was the grandson of a man who could conquer a hotel menu like a mountain. It taught me early on that you don't need to be the loudest person in the room to become a legend—sometimes, you just need a very steady fork and an unstoppable resolve.

Memorable moments: The falling forward pace

I have always loved to walk. Whether it’s a rugged trek through the wilderness or a long, exhilarating urban hike through the city, walking is my primary mode of engagement with the world. However, I often hear a familiar refrain from my companions: "Graeme, you walk so fast! I can't keep up."

The reason for my unrelenting pace can be traced back to my childhood and a man who, at least to my young eyes, seemed ancient and quite a slow mover. That was, until he started walking.

My Grandpa lived about five kilometers from our house in a flat by the Rondebosch station. He would regularly make the trip on foot to Bertram Crescent to pick up my sister, Jo, and me. He’d then walk us through the park back to his place.

Gramps had a very specific, slightly ungainly gait. It was a "falling forward" style of movement—a rhythmic, high-speed stumble that he somehow converted into pure velocity. As soon as he set off, he would fly. Jo and I would practically have to jog at his heels just to stay in his orbit. This pace was even more pronounced during our regular excursions to Muizenberg Beach. We would fly along the sand in that same desperate, joyful pursuit, my small legs working double-time to match his momentum.

I loved the challenge of it. But more than that, I loved the reward.

The absolute highlight of these expeditions was the Appletiser. My mum would always pack one in my bag for the journey. In the hierarchy of childhood treats, Appletiser was the "champagne of apple juices." Its sophisticated fizz made it my favorite drink in the world, a luxury reserved only for the most special occasions.

Sitting there, catching my breath and sipping that fizzy gold after a high-speed trek with Gramps, is one of my most vivid memories.

I realize now that my "fast-walking" isn't just a physical habit; it’s a piece of Lambert that I still carry with me. Every time I outpace a fellow hiker or fly through a city street, I’m back on that beach or in that park, an Appletiser waiting in my bag, forever trying to keep up with the man who taught me that the best way to move through the world is to fall forward into it with everything you've got.

Memorable moments: Highlander of the high school

Before I was born, my parents engaged in a titanic struggle over my identity. My father was determined to name me Lambert, after his own father. My mother, however, was equally determined that I would be Graeme.

Thankfully, my mother’s powers of persuasion won the day. I became Graeme Myburgh, and Lambert was relegated to the "middle name" safe zone—sandwiched between Anthony and my surname as a tribute to both my grandfathers.

For years, it stayed hidden, but in my final years of high school, the secret got out. "Lambert" became my nickname. To my surprise, I didn't mind it. My grandfather had passed away by then, and carrying his name felt like a quiet way to keep his memory alive.

It also didn't hurt that Christopher Lambert had just starred in Highlander. Suddenly, my "old-fashioned" middle name wasn't a liability; it was the name of an immortal, sword-wielding hero.

So in the end, Mum won the argument. No doubt about that.

But life has a funny way of balancing things out.

Because despite all that effort…

I still ended up being called Lambert anyway.

Memorable moments: The day the lightbulb went on

As a kid, I made a life-changing discovery: I could scale the great tree in our garden. I was obsessed. For a solid week, I spent every spare hour perched in the branches, a miniature king surveying the world below from my secret leafy fortress.

Then came the day I returned from school to a scene of devastation.

The tree was gone. My father stood there with a chainsaw, and my kingdom lay in a million splintered pieces. I was heartbroken. For years, I nursed a quiet, righteous "peevement" against him for destroying my favorite sanctuary without so much as a warning.

Then, I hit a certain age.

I looked back at the layout of the old garden and realized exactly where that tree had been located: directly level with my parents' bedroom window.

Suddenly, my father’s urgency with the power tools made perfect sense. Every married couple deserves their privacy—and no father wants his son accidentally becoming the world’s most innocent voyeur.

Postscript

I recently shared this story with my mother, expecting a laugh over my belated realization. Instead, she looked at me with total confusion.

"Graeme," she said, "there was never a tree outside our bedroom window. Dad chopped a tree down at the back of the house, not the front."

I told her I was worried about her memory, but she was adamant. "My memory is not what it used to be, but I'm pretty sure. Check with Jo."

I did. My sister’s response was a second, even more violent "chainsaw" to my childhood kingdom: "No, there was never a tree there."

I was absolutely shocked. I can remember that tree so vividly—the texture of the bark, the specific branches I gripped, even the caterpillars I used to watch crawling along the leaves. I had carried that tree with me for decades, using it to define my childhood sense of adventure and my father’s "ruthlessness." To find out it never existed is a staggering realization. It suggests that our personal history is less of a documentary and more of a convincing fiction. If the very foundations of who we think we are are built on memories that can vanish into thin air, it makes you wonder what else we’ve perfectly imagined.

Pure nostalgia: Playing table tennis as a kid

Oh how I loved table tennis!  Gramps took out English lottery tickets for Jo and I and one day, I won £ 200.  There was no question how to spend the money.  We promptly got a wonderful table tennis table that allowed one to raise the one side up so you could play against yourself.  We put the table in the outside room and I spent many happy hours playing myself and others.  To this day, I still play table tennis whenever I get the opportunity.

 

Pure nostalgia: Singing in the St George's Choir

Memory highlights

• Singing a confident "loo" in music class and being signed up for the choir immediately as a result.
• Singing at St George's Cathedral on a Friday night (practice) and Sunday night (church service).
• Practicing at school each week in the music room.
• Barry Smith, our wonderful choir master, especially his passion and animated expressions when he conducted us.
• Barry getting so worked up one day that he shook the choir pews with a mighty crash. Very memorable but a once off. 
• Singing gorgeous Magnificats and Anthems.
• Putting on my robes and cassock before the cathedral service in the choir room.
• One Sunday, when still very young, we were singing a magnificat. We came to the descant where some sang high, soaring notes and others low.  I was so transfixed by the beauty of it that I was unable to sing. I just stood there, basking in the beauty of the music, tears streaming down my face. It was one of my first spiritual experiences.
• The two big annual services at The Cathedral: Palm Sunday and Xmas Eve.
• Getting lifted on Fri and Sun nights by Jocelyn or mum with the Rusconi boys.
• As a 9 year old, appearing on TV with the choir singing carols.
• Singing at the inauguration of the new archbishop in 1981. We practised for weeks, if not months.
• Singing in inter-school choir competitions and winning every year. We were really good.
• Singing solo in eisteddfods and especially getting a golden diploma singing a hymn composed by our school pastor.
• Watching Sleuth on TV with Barry and other choir members before a competition.
• Singing at weddings a few times.
• Leaving the choir when my voice broke. I was initially happy to get my Fridays and Sundays back but ended up missing it. I was very blessed to have had the experience.

Barry Smith, our choir master

Choir pews

Some my favourite musical pieces that we used to sing

Pure nostalgia: Comics I enjoyed as a child

My all time favourites were Tintin and Asterix.

 

Pure Nostalgia: Cartoons I watched as a kid

I wasn't a big cartoon watcher as a kid but here are the ones I watched from time to time.  I particularly loved La Linea, loving the creativity and genius of it.

Favourite toys as a child: Army men

Hours and hours of fun staging battles between opposing forces. I threw matchstick boxes to emulate artillery!

Pure nostalgia: TV from my school years

I loved all these shows. Our family would watch TV while eating dinner. My most vivid and fond memory is watching Magnum PI on a Saturday night with coffee and chocolate.