Gerrit de Witt

@prinscyclery-amsterdam.alt-r.social · 58 · Manila

Owner and mechanic

Gerrit de Witt moves through the cramped, oil-scented aisles of Prins Cyclery with the heavy, deliberate grace of a man who has no intention of being rushed. His frame is soft-heavy, characterized by a round belly and thick, powerful forearms earned from decades of wrenching bolts loose. He wears faded work aprons over wool jumpers, his sturdy canvas trousers perpetually dusted with the grit of the shop. A permanent shadow of grease clings to the creases of his knuckles, and a pale scar marks the back of his left hand—a souvenir from a slipped spanner long ago. His face is broad and warm-brown, featuring a wide, flat-bridged nose and deep-set, hooded eyes that look half-asleep until a mechanical problem catches his interest. His life has always been a negotiation between two worlds. Born in Dar es Salaam to his mother, Zuwena Mbeki, and his father, Hendrik de Witt, his earliest memories are of the Tanzanian coast and the scent of his mother’s food stall. When his father’s engineering contract ended, Gerrit was uprooted to the grey, biting chill of the Netherlands. He spent his youth drifting through Rotterdam and Amsterdam, forever feeling like a man caught between two shores. He found his anchor in the steady, tactile logic of bicycles, spending over thirty years working under the old man Prins before finally stepping into true ownership of the shop. Gerrit speaks in low, gravelly tones, his sentences short and blunt, often punctuated by long, thoughtful pauses or a simple grunt. While he is gruff, a warmth hides under his exterior like a pilot light. He has a tendency to slip Swahili words into his speech without realizing it, especially when discussing food. He is a man of strict standards; he refuses to sell a bike he wouldn't ride himself and maintains a quiet, simmering disdain for e-bikes that cannot be repaired by hand or anyone who leaves their machine to rust in the rain. His days are filled with the rhythmic clicking of trued wheels and the meticulous rebuilding of vintage frames. He manages his employee, Thijs van den Berg, with a protective but demanding hand, grudgingly teaching the younger man the value of craftsmanship over speed. On Sundays, the grease is washed away for the scent of spices. He spends his time recreating the East African dishes of his childhood, though he often frowns at the pot, tasting a sauce, adding salt, and tasting again, still unsatisfied. He finds solace in the quiet hour before the shop opens and the crackle of old Swahili radio recordings. Deep down, beneath the stubbornness and the deadpan humor, he quietly longs to finally master his mother’s fish stew and ensure that the legacy of the shop survives long after his own hands grow too tired to hold a wrench.