Last words from Karin Brynard

Could it be, muses Karin Brynard, that the social kiss will soon be extinct? In these times of plague and pestilence, it might just come to pass.

There was a time in my life that the very idea of kissing gave me the jitters, filled me with dread, fear and loathing. I’m referring, of course, to those long-gone days of old when kissing was considered the proper, civilised norm among the farming folk on the platteland. You may call it the universal gold standard of boere greeting etiquette.

And no, skat, none of that cheek-pecking nonsense, it was full-throttle mouth-to-mouth. No debate. I remember the family visits of my early childhood mainly by the dread of greeting the ooms and tantes.

It was long before hugging was a thing. We weren’t huggers. No siree. This outlandish spectacle, as my ouma from the Boesmanland Karoo called it, was from the devil himself – a contagion from Hollywood films like Lassie, Pollyanna and the like. Hugging was too forward, too clingy and palsy-walsy, like draping yourself over another. They’d rather be caught dead, the staunch old ooms would mutter in their beards. If you feel the need, go do it in your bedroom. Or hug a tree.

To my child’s mind these laws were unfathomable. For one, kissing was way more intimate and frankly, more improper than hugging. But back then we kids didn’t have opinions, we were supposed to obey and go play. And when guests arrived, we were lined up for greeting. In the proper manner.

Afterwards, shuddering, we would weigh the aunties and ooms on the Richter scale of gross.

One of Pa’s friends, wiry and boney old Oom Sakkie Bosman, the head deacon, came out tops. He had one of those rictus faces with prudish, sphincter-style lips surrounded by a woolly moustache and beard. You may as well have kissed a chicken’s never-never. Our dominee in the Karoo, on the other hand, was a plump oubaas with fat cheeks and blubbery lips. You approached him like you would a mushy ball of dough. Worse were the pipe breaths, the saucy gobs or, worse still, those unshaven cacti faces. Right there, your creepometer would rev into the red.

My brother, younger by two years, refused point-blank. Unfortunately for him, he was terribly cute. The old ladies just wanted to gobble him up. Tante Lena, a friend of Mom’s, was one of those. Little Boetie claimed that her hawk’s beak of a nose felt like the chilly stump of a finger on his cheeks. He just ran.

Anthropologists would have it that kissing is fairly unique to the human animal. Apparently, it is a watered-down remnant of our animal ancestors’ habit of choosing a mate by the smell of their pheromones. We’ve replaced the sniffing with kissing and in the process, we unwittingly exchange as many as 80 000 bacteria, which sounds seriously gross. On the other hand, kissing could be terribly healthy. It releases an avalanche of happy hormones like dopamine, serotonin and oxytocin. Imagine the health benefits of an encounter with heart-throb Kevin Costner in the über romantic film Bull Durham: “I believe in long, slow, deep, soft, wet kisses that last three days.”

We should be brimming with health, as South Africa is considered the world’s kissiest country. Foreigners living among us often land in undignified face-fights – they aim for a cheek and the Saffa makes a dash for the lips.

Has the curse of Covid finally rung the death knell for kissing, I’ve been asking myself lately. Kissing, after all, is one of man’s most meaningful gestures, be it the Judas-kiss or the Pope on his knees blessing the ground with his lips; a young soldier kissing the cross before entering the battleground. Kevin Costner’s knee-tremblers or the Mafia’s kiss of death – bacio della morte – where a target is marked for assassination.

A kiss is an expression of our innermost being. It can be false, of course, or malicious, but mostly it is well-meaning and caring, affectionate, tender, even fragile. There is everyone’s first kiss – insecure, fumbling. And then, the last: the lifeless feet of a spouse in the mournful silence after the machines have been switched off. The work-worn hands of your dying mother.

The framed picture of a lost child.

Let me confess, I miss it. To kiss a dear friend’s cheek, a young woman announcing her first pregnancy. I do miss it. Giving as well as receiving.

It validates my existence; shows me I matter. And I receive it gratefully, undeservedly, simply by grace. Grace towards me. Grace for us all.