Daddies' girls and mummies' boys

I have been quiet for too long and am even embarrassed to be back. There are so many things happening in my life, good thingsJ, that I’m struggling to keep my head above water. I shall be writing all about these things, but need a little more research and a little more time to put them together. What got me to write at this very moment is my nagging cousin. She follows this blog (I’m grateful that she does), and is frustrated at my long hiatus. Trust me cousin, it frustrated me too!

The topic for today was motivated by a conversation I just had with some friends regarding children and how sometimes they tend to favour one parent over the other. When I was a child, well I’m still my parents’ child so let me say as a younger child, I can’t say I really favoured one parent over the other. I, however, somehow chose one parent over the other depending on what I wanted from them. If I wanted a good conversation, I’d go to my father who has amazing story-telling skills. I hope he can still write his first book at close to 69 years of age. If I wanted money, I’d go to my mother. She didn’t tell too many stories because she was busy thinking about making money or just being practical with her crafts. I even helped her with her crafts, and that’s one of the things that bonded us. When I look back at my childhood, I remember conversations I had with my father, and things I did with my mother. I think Rudairo will craft too because she always asks me to teach her. I’ll post my crafts here someday soon.

Back to the events that led to this post. I allowed my 4-year-old daughter to buy a can of Coca Cola (coke), against my better judgment. We never buy soft drinks for home because my children have enough sugar in their system to last them a lifetime; they don’t need to add more. Since it’s a weekend, coupled with the fact that she hasn’t had a soft drink since Christmas, I indulged her.  She slept all afternoon, and when she woke up around 5pm, she wanted to drink her coke. I told her she could only drink it tomorrow because supper was almost ready. Around 8 she drank her coke. Because she was high on the coke, she couldn’t go to sleep, even though her system was telling her it’s past bed time. I made coffee to help me stay awake and do some work. I used my cup (everyone has their own cup here). My daughter said, “Mum, you must never use daddy’s cup. You should always use your own.” I don’t know why she had to say that because I was using mine anyway. I said, “I’ll use your daddy’s cup if I want to.” Immediately the floodgates opened. She wailed loudly and continued remonstrating   about how I shouldn’t use her dad’s cup. When she got tired of crying, she went to sleep.  At some point tonight I had to snap at her after she cut my conversation with her dad short saying, “Mom, you need to be quiet when I’m talking to dad!” The audacity! If I had said that to my mom, she would have slapped that smart mouth.

As a small baby of about 6 months, she would come to me for milk, cuddles and to dance to Trace Urban beats. When the father came home, she suddenly became this chatterbox she never was in the absence of her dad. She would blabber away for several minutes without stopping until I started to feel sorry for her, thinking gosh her little lungs must be struggling with that long speech.

I was chatting to some friends about how my 12-year-old son is more attached to me rather than his dad. It was during that conversation that I began to appreciate just how affectionate he is. When I’m in the kitchen cooking, he comes to sit there and keep me company. Because he has autism, he struggles to come up with interesting topics for discussion, but he will be present, repeating the same stories he has told me before and rerunning plans for his April, August and December holidays for the umpteenth time. Even when I’m in the bathroom, he sits just outside the door, or he’ll go to the window outside so that we can continue our conversations. When I was pregnant with the sister, I had severe morning sickness and would throw up every morning without fail. As soon as I woke up, I’d go and sit in the bathroom until the bout was over. Victor would sit with me without ever getting revolted by the throwing up business. The father would quickly make himself scarce to avoid even hearing me vomit. Victor would even look in the bowl and say, “Mummy there’s a green vegetable that just came out.”

Rudairo loves trinkets, she is a very girly girl. Each time I buy her something, the first thing she says after the thank yous is, "Daddy is going to be so happy for me."

When I have to travel for some time, my son gets quite miserable while my daughter really couldn’t care less. She only starts to cry when I actually depart, but Victor worries as soon as he hears I shall leave at some point. I thought daughters were supposed to be mums’ best friends. That hasn’t been witnessed here! She has her moments when she’s extremely affectionate to me, but that’s usually when the dad isn’t around or when she just feels girls should do things together. I’m quite fascinated by that. I’m particularly thrilled when she goes to the bathroom for Number 2. She always shouts, “Daddy, come and wipe me!” that always somehow happens during meal times. The dad, at those moments, doesn’t look so proud to be the chosen one. And at those moments, my cheeks hurt from smiling.  But when she has a nightmare or needs food, she calls me. So essentially I’m the beast of burden as far as she is concerned.

I’m sure if one went to my parents, they would separately have things to say about how I related with them as a small child, maybe even now. One day someone repeated slander about me, and the first person I thought of calling was my father. Maybe my daughter takes after me after all.

So what do you think your parents would say, or would have said (if they are no longer with us)? How do you feel you related with them as a kid?

A Tale of Disastrous Cakes at my House

After my catastrophic efforts to save money by baking birthday cakes instead of buying for family members  last year, I vowed to keep trying. Never say die, up girl and bake, right? Read here about what happened when I baked for my 2-year-old daughter, Rudairo, in November 2015.  .Well, it doesn't look like things are improving much this year. The pictures below tell the full horrific tale. 

 23 November 2015

This is the shameful cake I made for Rudairo when she turned 2. There was sweltering heat that November day, which I blame for the icing that melted like a burning candle. The real truth is I can't ice cakes. 

12 January 2016

I decided to bake a two-layered moist chocolate cake on the eve of my son Victor's birthday. He was turning 10. To make up for the icing challenges, I bought ready-made icing,  and slept well assured that nothing could go wrong this time. 

I woke up to find he had dug a hole in the centre from top to base

Determined not to fail this time around, I dashed to the shops to buy cupcakes to do some patchwork. Unfortunately I could not find chocolate ones and had to make do with vanilla ones. 

After filling up the hole, I iced the cake and sprinkled hundreds and thousands on top. No-one could have guessed what lay beneath the icing. Can't help thinking that's exactly the same way people present themselves in life - masquerading as people they are not, putting layers of icing on their real personalities. Sobering thought. 

We placed the candles and joyously sang "Happy Birthday to You  Vicky", and he blew his candles. So we can safely say I iced and aced it haha!

You can never hide the truth forever. After cutting, the true colours Cyndie Lauper  sang about started showing J

9 February 2016

I had my husband's cake professionally made at Bakers Corner, Matsapha. The joint is known far and wide for making very good cakes. I decided against baking at home because we were having a dinner party and I did not want to embarrass myself and have the guests feel sorry for me and say, "At least you tried, shame!" I sent a whatsapp message requesting a Manchester United cake. I was quite relaxed because, come on, these were professionals who baked and delivered cakes everyday. What could possibly go wrong? Nothing!

Before loading the cake in the car, I decided to just peek to ensure it was really his. Lo and behold, they had made an Arsenal cake. He would have choked on it. I had to sit for some 15 minutes while they superimposed the Manchester United  logo

I think God is trying to tell me something. We should not be eating cake in our house. I'm trying to lose weight and sugar is my biggest downfall. It can't surely be a coincidence that all efforts at cakes are such epic fails? Next birthday in the house is in August. Let's wait and see! I think God is telling me, "Child, eat apples on birthdays. Your waistline will thank you!"

My father's grapevine

My father's grape vine

When I went to Zimbabwe for the holidays, I had a list of things I planned enjoying upon hitting home soil. I looked forward to enjoying peanut butter from Zimbabwe, especially the homemade stuff. You will never get anything better anywhere else. I also wanted my kids to enjoy the popular cereal, Cerevita, which I think should be ranked among the best cereals in the world. Matemba and mufushwa* were also up there on my wish list. But more than anything else, I hoped the grapes in my father’s little vineyard would be ripe in time for my visit.  

A plate of sadza, covo and matemba

That little vineyard was always his pride and joy, and he jealously protected it as he did us, his kids, and his dogs. We were not allowed anywhere near the grapes until they had become dark purple, or nearly black. If anyone stole a bunch, my father would know. It was as if he had counted all the clusters and knew them by name. No-one could come between my father and his grapes. It was always a sad day if a visitor came and headed straight for the grapes and started plucking the few ripe ones when we hadn’t had a taste of them because my father would say, “Imbomirai anyatsoti tsvaa!” (Wait till they become quite dark).

When he felt the time was right, it would usually be an afternoon during the weekend, he would take a dish and pick the grapes himself and place them on the table. We would all swarm up to the table and savour the bitter sweet dark grapes that we would have spent our whole lives waiting for. There are grapes in Swaziland, all varieties, but I just could not wait to get my hands on my father’s. They have their own unique taste, and I guess I just wanted to eat them because having to wait for them so many times made them really special.

In 2001, it was the same story of waiting for the grapes until anyatsoti tsvaa! They would usually be the right colour (in my father’s eyes) around late mid-February depending on how good the rains were, I guess. Unfortunately one of my favourite uncles, Aggrey, died at Rusape Hospital on the 20^th of January. As is custom in the township, people flocked to our house to convey their condolences. The women traditionally sit inside the house where they sit on the floor, sing and chat in hushed tones. The men take the couches out of the house and find a shade to place them and they sit and chat as well. In this instance, they chose to see under the grape vine. So they sat, chatted, and devoured grapes. We went to Dowa for the funeral, and upon returning, discovered there was nothing to show that grapes ever grew on that vine. We were extremely sad – for the loss of our uncle and the disappearance of the grapes. We felt robbed. We were angry with our father and his adherence to dark grapes. We could have just enjoyed them even when they were semi-dark.

The grapes my father sent me 

Going back to when I visited home in 2015, sadly the grapes were still quite raw and green. A few times I saw my husband and my sister’s husband lurking under the grape tree, picking a few ripe ones and ruefully thought my father was growing soft. That was not allowed in our time and I didn’t even attempt to follow in their footsteps. I obeyed the rules. We left Rusape when the grapes were still green and I felt like there was a void in my heart. After many years away from home I was going to go without eating THE GRAPESL. While we were in Harare, my father called one morning and said he had sent something with the conductor of a kombi written ‘Sister Chido’ at the back and he also texted his number. (Public transport operators have become the chosen mode of sending money and packages across towns In Zimbabwe. Not only is this method quicker, it is also more reliable than the postal service which was always fraught with strikes, and in many cases, missing packages.)  We found the conductor and he gave us a shoe box wrapped in an OK carrier bag. With keen fingers, I unwrapped the gift, and lo and behold – dark grapes. I mentally punched the air with my fist and said, “This is what I’m talking about. This is coming home!”J

I’m sure my father had registered my sadness at going away without eating his grapes, even though I had not vocalized it. For him it was a small gesture, but for me it became a treasured memory, and that’s why it has found space on this page.

*Mufushwa is dried vegetables. They could be kale, cabbage, cowpeas leaves and other wild varieties. I prefer the wild ones and cowpeas leaves, which I boil and mix with peanut butter. Yum yum! 

Family is for keeps

The curtain on the Oscar Pistorius trial, and his life as he and everybody knew it, has finally come down. He was sentenced to a maximum of five years in prison for the shooting death of his girlfriend, Reeva Steenkamp. Speculation is rife that he will be out in about 10 months. What a tragic thing to happen to happen to a young man that was so full of promise, inspired a lot of people, and made South Africa and Africa proud. I feel extremely sad for Reeva’s family, but I also feel very sorry for Oscar himself, as well as his family. Who in the world has been following the trial doesn’t know Uncle Arnold, Carl and Aimee Pistorius. There were brothers-in-law, aunts and more uncles supporting him in court. His brother, Carl, also continued coming to court in his wheelchair after a car accident.

The trial evidently took an emotional toll on Oscar’s whole family. I’m sure they couldn’t wait for the verdict so that they could go back to their lives, which will never be the same. From the day Oscar gunned down Reeva, that family hasn’t known peace. They have consistently come to court for all his appearances, thereby losing a lot of productive time. They must all have good bosses. Either that or they are their own bosses.

When I was a court reporter, I used to witness the same kind of scenarios in court, a menacing-looking thug on trial for heinous crimes would appear in court and his poor mother would break down in tears. A weeping girlfriend would blow kisses and the thug would return the gesture with a soft look on his hardened features and mumble, “Don’t cry, my love”. Moments like these always left me spellbound.  Someone raped or killed somebody out there, and people still cry for that person and miss him, wishing he was out there walking our streets?”Sometimes I would try to interview the offender’s family and their invariable answer was usually, “He’s innocent. He’s a Christian.”  I guess everybody has a soft side to them that makes it hard for their loved ones to believe they could ever put one foot wrong.

My very first court story involved some young men from Soweto who murdered a teenager for his debit card.One of the young men was only 18 and had to drop out of Grade 12 to go to prison. His sister would bring a different brand of cigarettes every time she came to court, and I figured they were not for him to smoke but to buy favours or for protection inside. I remember thinking, “Oh so they are still worried their little brother will be sodomised even after he killed someone?” I suppose I would also go and weep in court if someone close to me was to be found on the wrong side of the law. You can’t automatically forget all the good times you had or the good deeds that person performed after they commit a crime.

I guess that’s among the prices we have to pay for having some people in our lives. What a wonderful life it would be if everybody carried themselves responsibly to protect their loved ones from the pain of seeing bad things happen to them. People just chose to live on the razor's edge because they feel their life is their own show to run, but when things come a cropper, others are left to pick up the pieces. If bail money is wanted, it’s the innocent that have to run around to keep the offending family member out of jail. You can’t just wash your hands of them and say, “You made your bed, now lie in it.” That would be like going to hospital to see a person who just had a heart attack and whisper, “You know, if only you had jogged and eaten less KFC, you wouldn't be in this mess.”

This is not just about crime. Some chose to be promiscuous, then fall pregnant without two cents to rub together, and their families are the ones that have to cater for their medical bills and upkeep of the baby after it is born. Others also contract illnesses through recklessness and then expect emotional and material support from their families. Others make lousy life decisions that end up costing everyone. Like Oscar. It was him, his guns, his friends, and his money. His world has come crumbling down, friends deserted him and threw him under the bus in court, and it’s now just him and his family.

Lesson learned: everything else is ephemeral, but family is for keeps, even though some people do not realize it.