Children can have a hard time telling fact from fiction, but middle child Vania Jooste allowed herself to be misled a few too many times…
It was a long and frightening afternoon in 1983 as I waited for the security police to come and arrest me. I was eight years old.
Earlier that day, my eldest brother Zane and cousin Glynn had dared me to swear at PW Botha over the phone. What I didn't know was that they'd called the number for the speaking clock, which told you the time, then handed me the landline headset to say, "PW se moer!"
I'm not sure whether I wanted to impress them or if I understood at that young age that apartheid was an evil system, but I did swear at the president. Only then did my brother inform me that the security police could tap phones and listen to your conversations.
He said he really hoped they hadn't heard what I'd said because they'd come and get me and throw me in jail… I spent the entire afternoon waiting for the police to knock on our door.
I haven't outgrown my naivety. I still click on phishing e-mails even though I know better.
My brother has exploited that naivety throughout my life with his dark sense of humour. I was always the perfect victim for his schemes.
I believed everything he told me because he was six years older than me.
I spent many sleepless nights with myears pricked. Zane told me he and the Smurfs drove around in a red Ferrari at night, which they parked under our house during the day. They couldn't go out in daylight because only he knew about the Smurfs. No one else could know.
He made me believe that if I stayed awake at night, I would get to meet the Smurfs and go for a spin with them.
Night after night, I tried my hardest not to fall asleep. And every morning I'd be so disappointed with myself when I realised that I'd fallen asleep and missed out on an adventure with the small, blue creatures in their red car.
My brother would just tell me to try again the next night…
Staying awake was a problem because my Grade 2 teacher, Ms Richards, said that she could see in our eyes if we'd gone to bed too late. Obviously, I believed her.
Kids had to get lots of sleep so they could learn better, she said. If I wasn't asleep by 8 pm, I'd stress that Ms Richards would catch me out.
On Monday nights, I always stood in the hallway to watch The A-Team without my parents knowing - I was still too young to watch those programmes.
V gave me nightmares, but I wanted to see the aliens that gulped down mice. (Or were they white rats?)
The same teacher also askedus to practise speaking English at home. For every Afrikaans word you used by mistake, you had to bring 5c to school. My dad just laughed when I asked for the money and told me my teacher couldn't see (or hear) what I did at home.
I was a conscientious student and once asked my brother to help me with my homework. Only once. He deliberately led me astray and gave me all the wrong answers. He would also intentionally keep me at the breakfast table too long, telling stories, so I'd be late for school.
But I eventually got my revenge. One night, when Zane thought I was fast asleep, he leopard-crawled into my room to scare me (something he'd done several times before), but I was waiting for him and laughed in his face. I think he got the bigger fright that time.
I often had nightmares about snakes and ghosts as a child. (I'd rather not know what a dream interpreter would say about this…)
I was born with a caul and the old people always said it gave you the power to see things others could not. One time, when I called my dad because there was a ghost in my room, he just yelled back: "The scalp of the last ghost I saw is hanging in my closet! Go to sleep!"
The most hurtful lie Zane ever told me was that I was adopted. I was about 11 years old when he took me aside and said he thought it was time I knew the truth.
Our parents loved me, but he didn't think they were going to tell me and I had the right to know. On a rainy winter's day, someone had abandoned me in a basket on the stoep. Since my parents didn't have a daughter, they decided to keep me.
I cried myself to sleep for a week before I asked my mom about it. I can't remember all the drama, but I do know I was comforted and assured that I was indeed their blood. Zane got into trouble.
These days, we all laugh about my week of agonising because I was left in a basket like Moses, but back then it wasn't so funny.
I also have a younger brother, Francois, and I've read lots of articles over the years about middle-child syndrome.
Psychologists say the middle child often doesn't have a comfortable place in their family due to their birth order. A study has found that middle children are more likely to become depressed as adults.
But I never felt like my parents didn't love me and I never felt excluded (except the week I believed I was adopted).
Maybe the fact that I was the only girl ensured I got special attention.
But there was the issue of the bicycle. Or the lack of one. My dad, Ernest, passed away on Christmas Day in 2005 and during the months he was sick, we talked about everything.
I don't know how we stumbled upon the subject, but I had to confess to him: I told him I was sad I'd never got my own bike, while my brothers both did.
Neither my dad nor I could work out why this had happened because I wasn't a shy child - I asked when I wanted something.
And if there was money to buy bicycles for the boys, surely there must have been enough to buy one for me, too.
Maybe my parents thought a girl wouldn't be interested in riding a bicycle? But I didn't really play with dolls - I was always outside playing touch rugby and street tennis.
I did learn to ride, though. Probably on one of my brothers' bicycles when they weren't looking.
I recall Zane's golden Raleigh standing untouched in the garage for weeks because he'd broken his arm.
Francois would sometimes allow me to ride his red BMX, but I would only be two houses down the street before he'd call me back. I can remember a fall from that BMX - the pedal cut into my thigh so deep you could see the fat. I still have the scar.
On another occasion, my dad bought Francois a new bicycle for his birthday and hid it behind my late grandmother's dressing table - in my room!
I can't really say I felt neglected because I never got my own bicycle, but my dad did feel bad when I eventually told him about it. He said he felt like he'd failed me.
I forgive you, Dad. And I think the time has finally come to get that bike of my own…
