HUMOUR

Ndumiso Ngcobo on “de-vice-ing” his kids

If you asked me to choose between deciphering the Theory of Quantum Entanglement and working out the perfect method of parenting, I’d get my calculator and head towards the nearest physics lab. Picking up a watermelon seed off a wet floor is easier than trying to get a 10-year-old boy (or as I call them, “balls of funk”) to wipe his bum properly. I wish someone had whispered this truth in my ear before I procreated.

Last weekend I was having a conversation with Phiwo, a student at the University of the Free State. She was telling me how her mom is hectically anti-alcohol. Apparently, in her late teens Phiwo once arrived home in a state of mild but visible intoxication.

Her mom insisted on performing a home Breathalyser test, which involved her breathing into her mother’s nose.

For some reason, the mother couldn’t pick up any alcohol fumes, which made things even worse. Her imagination ran wild, like wildebeest stampeding across the Serengeti. Clearly, her precious child was on Mandrax, whoonga or — please, Lord, let it not be — blow! That’s when she sat her folks down to tell them, “Look, I enjoy a glass or two or 17 of the sweet nectar that Jesus converted from water at a wedding in Cana, Galilee.”

One of the major paradoxes about being a parent is that we hope our children not acquire a taste for the vices we quite happily indulge in.

When I was growing up, I was acutely aware that my folks did not want me to partake of the fermented waters of immortality, tobacco, or the green herb of enlightenment.

What complicated matters for me is that my father … how does one say this … confused the hell out of me. He had more than just a healthy appetite for his tipple. And I’d witnessed him light up a cigarette when entertaining his friends. Also, when his favourite team, AmaZulu, played Chiefs, he would yell the kind of expletives befitting an Irish sailor after an encounter with 20 pints of Guinness. And yet, when my younger brother spit out an innocuous “voetsek!” at one of his playmates, he got a famous hiding.

It is for this reason that, when I started dabbling in these wells of iniquity, I hid them from my folks.

When I was 14, I developed a thirst for Hansa Pilsener. My elder brother simultaneously developed a penchant for Carling Black Label. We would buy a few cans of our favourite brews and drink surreptitiously, hiding the cans behind the couch while watching TV. After all, what crack squad of detectives could penetrate this foolproof, clandestine plot to guzzle beer undetected?

It never occurred to us that our mother, a teetotaller, could smell beer a mile away. Also, our sophisticated disposal method for the empty cans was — you guessed it — throwing them in the trash can. Seeing as Dad was more of a Castle Lager man, it didn’t take too long for them to figure us out.

So, one Friday evening we’re watching the variety music show Jam Alley on SABC1. Dad walks in with a two six-packs of beer — one Hansa, the other Black Label. “I do not know who drinks what, but here you are. I’d much rather you sit and drink at home than end up being shot in shebeens because you fear us,” he said.

What is fascinating about this, though, is that it was not until I was 32 years old that I was able to bring myself to pour myself alcohol in front of my folks. And even then, my hand was forced. We were visiting my brother in Rome and I was damned if I was going to go dry for almost two weeks.

When my firstborn, Ntobeko, turned out to be an avid rugby and basketball player in high school, I knew what would follow. I was 17 once and I’m well aware of the after-match choice of beverage. One hot summer Sunday afternoon, as we sat down for lunch, he and a mate of his ordered Fanta and Sprite respectively. But their faces betrayed a different thirst. I whispered to the waitress, “Bring them Castle Lites instead.” I have never seen so much joy in their faces.

It reminded me of the time one of my cousins poured Coke into a glass in front of our uncles, tilting the glass in the process. One of the uncles snatched the Coke from his hand and handed him a beer, remarking, “You’re clearly used to pouring foamy beverages.”

The parenting road is littered with many potholes. Sometimes I think to myself that being concerned about my kids consuming alcohol or smoking whatever leaves are their favourite is the height of worrying about all the wrong things. And then I read harrowing tales of addiction and get acute ulcers.

I will tell you what is absurd, though. It is my other cousin who, at age 38, was still hiding the fact that he smokes. We’re standing outside his folks’ garage and his father appears out of nowhere. The old man asks him a question and my cousin stands there just staring at him. His dad repeats the question. As he opens his mouth to respond, billows of smoke escape. Awkward doesn’t begin to describe the situation.

Awkward doesn’t begin to describe the situation