Open Writing

Cricket was on the television yet again at our house. To me it has blurred into a constant background noise but every now and again I imbibe some of it against my will. Zimbabwe were playing the West Indies. Sibanda was at the crease when he took a mighty swipe at the ball and, with a loud crack, his bat broke completely in half, one piece spinning off menacingly like an angry assegai down the pitch.

“That’s what you get for buying a bat made in a ‘povo’ country”, remarked my son cynically as he lounged on the sofa, knowing full well that using the schoolboy term for poverty stricken countries would rile my buttons of political correctness.

I gave him the ‘I don’t approve’ look but let the comment go because, having one parent from Zimbabwe and the other from South Africa, he actually has experienced African countries for himself and is not really the spoilt and ignorant Aussie whom he makes himself out to be. His paternal grandparents still live in an apartment block on Josiah Tongogara Avenue outside the presidential residence in Harare. Whenever the Mugabe motorcade comes down the street the soldiers drive ahead, brandishing AK47 rifles at anyone standing on the balconies, forcing them to move inside so that they cannot take a pot shot at Robert.

Granny’s letters describe how the fortunate few who still have motor vehicles must queue around the block for hours, waiting for a ration of fuel whenever it is rarely available. When the local supermarket actually has some stock, the news spreads fast and desperate people fight over scarce rolls of toilet paper, breakfast cereals, condensed milk, washing powder, tinned fish, jam – all the things which are taken for granted on the overflowing shelves of supermarkets in Australia - while Grandad insists on sitting outside in the car to make sure that it is not stolen. Granny lives in fear of returning to find him either melted or mugged. Living with the unrelenting stress of fear and hollow hunger of poverty has become a way of life for most Zimbabweans.

In sharp contrast, my son’s first literal and figurative taste of South Africa was in a Drakensburg Mountain’s resort which served sumptuous five course meals. A luxurious holiday in a country so divided by inequality usually makes me feel awkward and uncomfortable. I become riddled with the guilt of consumption and privilege, based purely on the fact that I was born with pink skin, whilst those beside me struggle to survive. Fortunately, here in the Kwa Zulu countryside, the hotel staff were employed, well fed and still able to live in stable nuclear families rather than being wrenched apart by the legacy of apartheid laws which forced many family breadwinners to move away to the cities to find employment.

So I relaxed and started striking up conversations in Zulu. My son’s jaw visibly dropped open.

“Mum,” he gasped in awe, “people actually understand you!”

Until this moment, my son had thought that my occasional use of Zulu words back in Australia were just the ramblings of his lunatic mother. I had taught him certain words throughout his childhood simply because they were so deliciously descriptive. “Shisa”, pronounced in a sharp and sizzling way is a wonderful way to warn children that something is fiercely hot. “amaXoxo”, where the ‘x’ is a click at the side of the mouth, as when one gees up a horse, perfectly imitates the sound made by the frogs which it names. “isiThuthuthu,” said in a breathy kind of way, stirs up a mental picture of the spluttering motorbike which it refers to.

To my son’s amazement, I soon became a minor “celebrity” at the resort. I was frequently asked if my son spoke Zulu and what his Zulu name was. I explained that he only knew the odd word and, for convenience, I hastily christened him Dumisani (We have been blessed by God). This was in his pre- teenage, pre -cantankerous years and I was still mostly favourably disposed towards him, hence my generosity of gratitude for his existence.

My son was quick to latch on to the fact that being the first born son gave him instant high ranking status in the eyes of Zulu culture and entitled him to many privileges. At meal times the head waiter would stand quietly and respectfully next to my chair, ensuring that I received the very best of service. One evening I was undecided as to which dessert to choose.

“I can’t decide whether to have the guava crumble or the mango surprise,” I mused to my son who sat alongside me.”

“For you, Sisi (sister), the chef, he says you can have BOTH,” came the waiter’s clandestine reply.

My son’s eyes sparkled in amazement.

“Me, I am Dumisani. I am the ‘fuhstbawn” he reminded the waiter hopefully.

The waiter beamed. “I see that you are also a fahst lehna. Okay, you too, nsizwa (young man). You may have two pudding. But it must be our little sikrit. We don’t have enuff food in the kishen. I kant be having the hol denning room double depping.”

Which reminds me, whilst on the subject of dining in Africa, have you ever tasted Zimbabwean food? No?

Neither have they.

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