A French eulogy,

A polony eater recalls her memories of the cold meat of her childhood, now ruined by listeriosis

Last week the Mail & Guardian’s Bhekisisa reported on the Van Neel family losing two loved ones to the largest outbreak of listeriosis ever reported. Health Minister Aaron Motsoaledi has since attributed the outbreak to two companies that specialise in the production and packaging of processed meats. In the story, members of the Van Neel family recall and resent how the deceased Sandra van Neel loved Rainbow Simply Chicken Polony.

The department of health’s plea for South Africans to avoid cold meats has created a paradox: our stubborn reliance on the product and the fear of its deadly potential coexist in a manner that I am battling with as I relinquish my personal relationship with French polony, a mainstay item in middle-class households around the country.

Now that our outlook has changed drastically as a result of these unnecessary deaths, what do I do with the fond memories I have collected over the years?

With no answer to this, I linger upon them one last time before sending them to storage.

Mapha, a term used ko Pitori, accompanied by palms outstretched towards food — which I grew up hearing and adopted on the playground — to request that a friend share their food with me.

When I think of this term right now, my fondest memory of French polony cannot help but resurface.

“Mapha?” The bell for first break had hardly rang as I walked into the school’s quad with bo chommee when Tumi requested a taste from my skaftin before I revealed its contents.

“Aowa, Tumi. Niix Mapha,” I half sulked, half-protested, knowing very well that Mama had made me a sandwich using white bread and her new makeshift paste — made by grating polony and adding a dollop of mayonnaise.

At first I squirmed at the combination but became a believer at first bite. So that day I knew I would not be sharing.

Tumi’s transparent lunch box let me know that she too had polony in her sandwich. But unlike mine, she dressed it in the basic butter and bread outfit that my 11-year-old self was already bored with. So I understood her need to hustle an alternative snack.

But Tumi was not the only one who would be drawn to my polony’s new outfit. Bo Bonolo, Letlhogonolo, Fiona, Shanice and even the newly converted vegetarian, Lehlomela, were fascinated by the fluffy, almost meaty and tangy mush Mama had concocted and placed between Albany bread slices, back when they still made them Serena Williams thick.

That was not the first or last time polony stirred conversation, brought people together or even got some of us into trouble.

I remember the time when the size of our slices earned me and my siblings a screaming rampage from Mama, after a full sealed version of polony was ravished in a week. My cousins had come to visit us from Loding eMpumalanga over the June holidays.

So, the eldest of the bunch, my brother, Mandla, was entrusted with the responsibility of keeping our tummies full while keeping our taste buds entertained.

And as I would expect any other 19-year-old to do, he took the easy route of introducing polony to my cousins and allowing them free rein with it.

What a big mistake.

Soon after they had gone home we removed the blame by explaining to Mama that our cousins, who were not familiar with the freedom of eating polony as frequently or cutting their own slices as they pleased at home, were responsible because their slices were so thick we