By Rabbie Serumula
I hadn't seen Oom Piet in about a year. This week, at an open house for a property I’m selling, there he was—smiling, steady, the same man who had done business with my father before me.
"Are these plants real?" he asked, pointing at my beloved’s potted greenery. "They look like you speak to them."
We laughed, but Oom Piet had unknowingly opened the door to a memory—one about fathers, wisdom, and the things we inherit beyond houses.
I met Piet Pretorius, the principal of El Cupid Estates, when I was 15. He was more than my dad’s real estate agent—he was his neighbour, his friend. It was 2001, and my father had just bought a house through El Cupid on the same street where Oom Piet lived in Krugersdorp North.
Years later, in 2015, I bought a house in Little Falls and moved out, carving my own path. But life has a way of calling us home. In 2017, when my father passed away, I returned. And in the years that followed, I found myself continuing a tradition neither Oom Piet nor I had planned—I inherited him as my agent. Since 2018, I have bought and sold a few properties through him, but beyond the transactions, I gained something far more valuable: a mentor, a guide, and a man who has done business with two generations of my family.
This week, when Oom Piet saw my beloved’s plants, he was reminded of his late father.
"My dad had a big piece of land," he said. "He farmed potatoes, tomatoes, maize, and more. Every day, he’d walk through the fields, pacing up and down, talking to himself. People thought he was losing his mind—old age does strange things, they said."
But then the crops grew. "You should have seen the size of those potatoes," Oom Piet said, shaking his head in admiration.
Recently, he stumbled upon a study that made him see his father’s wisdom in a new light. Scientists placed two plants in identical conditions—same water, same sunlight. But to one, they spoke only words of encouragement: You are beautiful. You will grow tall and strong. To the other, they whispered only negativity: You are weak. You will never thrive.
The result? The plant that received kindness flourished. The other, stunted and struggling, barely grew at all.
"It was then that I realised—some people talk to plants because they understand how it helps them grow. Others do it simply to feel closer to nature. My father knew exactly what he was doing," Oom Piet said.
As I listened, I thought about my own father. About the wisdom that sometimes takes us years to recognise. About the quiet rituals of love and care that don’t always make sense until we see their fruits.
Maybe Oom Piet’s father wasn’t just speaking to his crops. Maybe he was passing down a lesson—to his son, and unknowingly, to me.