Saluting our moms and dads

Eight young homies from the Eastern Cape were celebrating the successful business venture by two of them.

Over a braai at the back yard of Hlangabeza’s home in Joza.

They were conversing about their parents and their families.

Their faces beaming with laughter. Tears of joy and wonder streaming down their cheeks.

I was a neighbour helping to set out a rickety trestle table and placing pap and gravy.

“Potato and beans salad”, named “Hoity-toity” when we were civil enough to have them on our braai menu.

Qondiswa had generously brought a green one from her home, but the hostess had asked me to place it at the far end of the table because she was certain we would not have it… she called it goat leaves.

Young neighbours, eight to 18 years of age watched over their fences; amazement, curiosity and “what the hell?” Inscribed on their jealous faces; the older ones and their parents wore the “couldn’t be bothered attitude” singing songs with undecipherable lyrics at the top of their voices. The groups were discussing: Literacy, jealousy, morality, vengeance, laziness, dependency on parents, community and government, low self esteem, inferiority complex, greed, negative competition, theft, living above one’s means, racism, boxing people according to their own standards of right and wrong, substance abuse, abortion, woman and child abuse.

I was genuinely surprised when one of them said “Guys, it boils down to one thing – Your attitude decides your aptitudes”.

Attitudes

And what can all of us do to change these attitudes? I remarked.

“Mama, home pot.”

Yes, confirmed one of them and giving the Xhosa interpretation of the “home pot – ukufa kusembizeni” – meaning “The poison is in your mama’s pot”.

Dad is also a culprit because he provides the “food” to be cooked.You’re lucky guys. There was not even a poison pot in my home.

Mom cooked maize meal porridge on a primus stove she had been given by her exemployer in Worcester Street.

She does not even have a pricker for it. So the pot boiled from one single orange smoke flame.We stood patiently as she dished it up into one large bowl.

We were then able to take turns, sipping the sugar free isidudu (soft porridge) two gulps per person per time, ending with the youngest child it begins in the slurping the final round and throwing away the empty bowl which would unfortunately land on Mama’s lap. “Sorry Ma” she would yell, running along after us.

Then we would all rush to school, from A Street to Joza where my mom’s cousin was a teacher and would assist by buying us fish bread (fried stale bread slices), chicken feet and heads and the popular drink o’ Pop (flavoured coloured juice).

We just could not miss the treat which kept us in good gear for the rest of the school day. We would then help Makazi carry her stuff to her home; clean her house and yard and water her small backyard garden.

She stayed at Time Housing in Joza, and it was a real treat to shower in her bathroom. Warm water!! She allowed us to use the shower gel – Woww-w-w, that was heaven.

At home the following day we would have to wash from the same basin. Just dipping our facecloth in the water and wiping our faces down to the feet.

Letter

Our sister would be the last to wash herself in the back yard flat. Okay, you were asking “where was Dad?” In Joburg of course, had found work in the mines and posted hard cash notes (not postal orders) per registered letter, which never reached home.

All Tata had to do was put the notes in the registered envelope, then the clerk would fill in the details on it.

Mama would not be home when we arrived from school. We would help one another with homework, lucky to have light from our homemade paraffin lamp with just enough paraffin in it to give light until we could go to bed, which used to be about 7pm and I, the eldest, lay awake waiting for Mama to come back from wherever she’d spent the day.

The next day would be the same as the day before. At this stage my friends would either be staring into space with tears lingering in their eyes, or chewing on something, just pretending they had not heard Mpumelelo who had just shared his experiences.

Mzamo, also wiping a lingering tear that had slid off, down one check continued with his: “You were lucky you had a dad.

I was raised by a single parent.” Dad had told his uncles they would have to wait until I was born:- “Saw’ ubon’emntwaneni”.

The result was a spitting image of Daddy Dear, who at age five would see me walking down the street, would beckon, spin a R5 coin; smugly saying “heads or tails?” I would smile, respond incorrectly on the toss, for which he very generously added an extra R5 for sweets.

I made regular walks down the street and kept hoping I would do as I had done previously.

Escapades

One of my uncles had heard about my escapades; secretly followed me down the street one day, caught Dad and I in the act. He was so furious, a fight started.

Dad caught unawares, was stabbed to death by my mom’s brother.Mom left the family, found employment as a domestic worker in Somerset Heights and that is where I was raised. We stayed in the servants’ quarters of her employer’s home.

Mr Brown who was a professor at Rhodes University assisted my mom and paid for my education.

To cut a long story short, here I am today with a Master’s degree in science, employed by CSIR and living with my mom in a town house in Midrand that had been left for her by my benefactor’s aged mom whom she had nursed until she died. Am hoping to get married soon and have vowed to treat my own family differently.

I pray that one day I will be able to make some form of “thank you” to my benefactors.

Scones and soup

I still watch rugby and soccer, still witness the tossing of the coin. It changed my life. Six more stories to listen to. We seemed to be the only ones around the fading coals of the braai fire.

We’ve eaten to our hearts’ content. Fortunately the green salad was still standing where it had been placed. Qondiswa kindly offered it to me. I had to drive home, Mama had to attend a night vigil and had to take some scones and a pot of soup for the bereaved family.

It was Father’s Day on Sunday and we wished the best for all of them.

We would not be here without them. You know what? We have their genes. Do I need to say more? We say a lot about the abuse of women and children-rightly so. I know men who would rather die than report abuse by the opposite sex.

A handsome 23-year-old young man. “Ben Ten” of a 53-year-old woman, had to observe “home time 18:30”.

The taxi was held up in a stop/go traffic jam.

He could see lover Mama’s house across the veld from where the taxi stood. It was 5.50pm, and he thought a good sprint across the veld would save him from a spanking. He jumped out of the taxi, ran like a lunatic across the veld – to land in mama’s loving arms.

She had seen him running to her house and he deserved lots of hugs and kisses, especially because Friday was pay day and she had already prepared a bubbly bath for the two of them; will leave the rest to your imagination.

Fight

When Mama’s three sons plus-minus the same age as BT heard about her behaviour they decided to come back home and stay with her (they had left her after their father’s death).

On this particular Friday, they came back drunk and in a good mood for a fight. So they set up one, but landed good, solid blows on the youngest one. Mama and BT rushed out to intervene.

The latter got a good one on his stomach, followed by a quick one on the cheek from another brother.

He landed helpless on the ground and Mama was yelling “yu-u-u yu yu-u-u wallet gone with the boxers”.

As if that was not enough, lover Mama helped BT get up, just when he was muttering “thanks sweetie” got a clap from her, swearing at him calling him a “softie”. Can you beat it? The Ben Ten trend – older women sometimes resort to “adopting” much younger lovers for whatever reason.

The young men are usually unemployed.

Lover Mama spoils them to bits.

They lounge around in her house, fridge and bar at their disposal.

Sometimes they even invite younger girl friends to join them while lover Mama is sweating it out at her executive job.

Sometimes the poor women get jilted by men in higher positions of employment in the workplace, had been promised marriage, cheated on, abused, ridiculed even demoted in some instances.

Solution – Ben Ten who prefers older, more “experienced” women.

This is what my old eyes and ears see and hear!