Where the hell did ‘koko ya fridge’ come from?

Lately I have been feeling so nostalgic. I could imagine myself as a young girl in Driefontein, the small village where I grew up. I see that girl going to fetch wood from the forest, going to fetch water about two kilometres away from home and being fit as a horse.

What did she eat? She ate mostly porridge made of mabele (sorghum) and morogo. Oh, maybe I should mention that mabele had to be stomped using a pestle and mortar and then ground with a grinder and regardless of the type of grinder, there was a lot of physical work and sweat. That was girl duties. Toned arms guaranteed. I could trade these flabby things for that any time hey!

Some days she ate a combination of mielies and beans. Meat days meant a free range chicken would be slaughtered. Each member of the family would get a piece, just enough for a taste. It was great. Households which were better off consumed what was then called ‘refrigerated chicken’ or ‘koko ya fridge’. How we envied them! They didn’t have to run after a hen or deal with all the mess of cleaning the thing up.

Once in a while a goat would be slaughtered and it would be shared amongst relatives. The same with a cow.

When my eldest sister started working for a supermarket in town, we also began to enjoy ‘refrigerated chicken’. It was softer than the home chicken which is today called ‘hard body’. I remember the explanation was that such chickens were machine bred and the chicks could be old enough for consumption in a few weeks, unlike the usual home chickens. We felt lucky to be able to finally have access to that.

I remember my mother was never a sickly person. She used to work in the mielie fields and that was hard work. She walked a very long distance to those fields and continued to labour there. And she was very healthy, seldom complained of anything. I may be wrong, but I think her health problems started a few years after she stopped ploughing the fields. She stayed home and even had some help at home. And we ate refrigerated chicken and other stuff we had not had access to before.  

I also remember that there was a time people used soot and ash to clean their teeth. No one stressed about the lack of toothpaste. I don’t miss cleaning teeth with ash and soot. But I wonder why I have to buy activated charcoal to help me with various health issues including oral hygiene. Why is it that I am told over and over again, though in many different ways, that the lifestyle I was exposed to as a young girl was the best? Many of us have various health issues which are mainly lifestyle related. We continue to abuse our bodies by consuming a lot of wrong things. I guess it’s like they say: ‘sin has a way of feeling so good’. This is when we are trying to justify our wrong deeds.

Oh, I know that back then mielies would be cooked in a huge pot and the corn silk was seldom removed. And we used to drink the water thereof. Guess what? Apparently people with kidney problems can consume corn silk tea. You just brew that for 30 minutes and voila! You can deal with kidney issues and bed wetting. You think that’s absurd? Go to your source of information.

I am on the road to reclaiming my health. I need to get rid of this sciatic pain which denies me the pleasure of being in the outdoors to admire God’s work. I also need to have my digestive system back in order, and I am prepared to do that the natural way. I know it’s probably going to be an arduous mission. I poisoned my body eating a lot of stuff I had no business eating just because I could afford. I am going to be patient enough to let nature take care of this beautiful body. That may mean growing my own food and dare I say I am prepared to do it?

Paranoid? Maybe - Creepy? Definitely!

Anti-social, backward, rural…these are names my friends – and I love them all – have used to describe my relationship with social media.

I have long conceded that when it comes to technology I am a slow learner. Some of my techno savvy friends have given up on me and there are those who still don’t believe I can be found on any social media space beyond Whats App. Oh, and the more they try to explain why they check in at restaurants, airports and other places, the less sense it makes.

My unease with social media probably stems from my shy character. I have always been a private person believing that my business has to remain just that. So, sharing my personal information with faceless people on the web was never going to appeal to me. Oh, and my boys wouldn’t have it any other way. Apparently I do not belong in that space anyway.

As a small business owner, having a website was a necessary tool for marketing my business. It was not facebook and it was not twitter and oh, it was not about sharing my personal information with faceless people. Well, except whoever visited my website would have to be able to contact me meaning I had to display my contact details. That did not bother me much as I obviously needed to be accessible to my potential clients.

I am writing this because this past Monday, I got a call from a guy whose name I have forgotten but who identified himself as a Zimbabwean based in Johannesburg. The reason for his call was that he got my contact details from someone named Thembi who apparently recommended me for my events management expertise. The caller was actually calling on behalf of some ladies from Zambia who needed an events management company to assist with a conference they were to host in Johannesburg.

The caller did not have a clue what the conference was about, nor did he have an idea of the dates thereof. Those nameless ladies were the ones with information and he was just facilitating things this side for them. What he needed was an urgent meeting with me so we could discuss some basic requirements for the conference which he did not have any details of.

I asked him to send me more information to give me an idea of what the conference was about before I wasted his and my time on something I would probably not be willing to be part of. He tried to conceal his disappointed and promised to get the information and forward it. He did not ask for my e-mail address but maybe the kind Thembi had provided him with that. As you would guess, he hasn’t contacted me yet.

This is not really about social media but about how easily accessible technology has made us to be. And since we often provide so much information and we even check in at some places, what are the odds that a person like this guy could follow you to where you have checked in? We have heard of stories of women being lured by people who promised them jobs etc. only to end up as victims of rape, even murder with some ending up as drug mules. I couldn’t help but wonder if this was the new modus operandi for these sick people. Times are tough and we small business owners are most of the time desperate for any type of contract. And some serial rapist or killer may just have found soft targets in us. I may be paranoid but I must say I found that creepy. 

Go robetse mogaka!

I believe that if anybody ever had any misgivings about how great Nelson Mandela was, that would have been wiped off completely this past week. 

As a young girl growing up in rural Driefontein, I never quite knew who this Nelson Mandela was and what he had done to deserve to perish in prison. You’d be sternly rebuked for even trying to find out why ‘they’ arrested him. I remember my cousin had a nickname ‘Professor Mandela’ and most adults used to say how that would land us in trouble. It never made sense, but as years went by, I got to get bits and pieces of information about him and ultimately understood. 

The past week has been an eye-opener in many ways. As many people would have observed, there were many history lessons dished out on different media platforms. While many may have been irked by these since it meant they had to forego  their favourite television programmes, they were welcome to most who for the first time got to know who Nelson Mandela really was and the sacrifices he made for what we call ‘our freedom’.  

One has read and listened to many commentators and for the first time ever, I think even his detractors had to pause and admit that he was indeed a great man. A great man who was still human and therefore fallible and mortal as any of us.  I don’t think as South Africans we had anticipated the reaction that we witnessed following the announcement that Ntate Nelson Mandela was no more. Not even the prior knowledge of Tata’s state of health could have prepared the nation. The shock, the disbelief and the pain was just immense. And the pain cut across the colour line. 

As the song ‘Nelson Mandela ha hona ya tshoanang le oena’ reverberated across the country,  one could only imagine the difficulty of being a Mandela at a moment such as this. It almost seemed like the family had to abandon their need to grief so as to allow everybody else to mourn one of their own.  But then I guess when one of your own lived for those he served, you are almost pre-conditioned for such moments. We are told to accept death as a meaningful new beginning, whatever that means.

The challenge for those of us he freed, we are told, is to ensure that his legacy lives on. Whether we will still remember this challenge beyond his burial remains to be seen.  But maybe we should, each one of us, strive to do at least one good thing in his memory, maybe not for him, but for us and for our children. 

I cannot reflect on the past week without mentioning how South Africans also demonstrated their creativity in the crassest of ways. Poor Mandoza! He was an object for many of these cruel jokes. And when another icon in the form of Baby Jake Matlala also threw in the towel, this also gave creative minds something to work on. It was a week of a mix of sadness and celebration. A nation and the world saddened by the passing of such a great man, and yet feeling the need to celebrate a life well lived. 

We will miss his unique voice. We will miss his Madiba Shirts. We will miss the Madiba dance. We will miss his selflessness, his dedication and commitment, his infinite love for children and his continued strive for a peaceful existence of humanity devoid of lack and strife. We owe it to him and everybody else who contributed to the freedom we now enjoy to ensure that their sacrifices were not in vain.

Re a leboga Morwa Mandela ka botho jwa gago le ditiro tsa gago tsa bonatla. Robala ka kagiso, tiro o e weditse. Go mo matlhogeleng a gago go agelela mo letlhakung la gago.

Are all men pigs?

Apparently all women problems have men in them. Talk about menstruation, dysmenorrhea or menopause. And we often hear phrases like ‘men are dogs’ and ‘men are pigs’. But are they? Well, I guess if you have been with a man who doesn’t know that any business you do in the bathroom has to be inside the toilet bowl without leaving any traces on or around the seat, assuming he even remembers to put it back after lifting it, you may be tempted to agree with those statements.

Some years back when I used to have a column in a government newspaper, I was often labelled as a man hater since I tended to question a number of so-called male privileges. And even when I said I had nothing against men since I had three in my life, I was still faulted. Anyway, this is not about my perceived hatred for men. In fact my writing today is about the admiration I have for men – some of them anyway.

I recently spent a night with a friend that I have not been with in a long time. She actually reminded me that the last time we spent so much time together (and I’m talking half a day here) was when we were on holiday sometime in 2007. My friend is a mother of two little boys aged three years and six months. But we spent a night together, only the two of us. She had left her toddler and baby with her husband. Her husband, who is a man, was home with a three year old and a six month old baby. I have to emphasize this. As you can imagine, it meant he had to play with these kids, feed them, bathe them, clothe them, and change nappies. Kudos bro! Wouldn’t you want to hook up with one of his type? Do they even still make them?

I know there are men who probably do not know that a kettle has a switch which you press to boil water. Men who probably think a microwave oven is an invention made only for women. Men who do not imagine laundry and men in one sentence. Yet here is a man who is equipped and able to take care of his off springs because he had been part of their lives even before they were born, attending antenatal classes. I could go on about what else he does but I will spare you. I know most girls are turning green with envy here.  

Yesterday morning as I was driving, I saw this young man who could be in his twenties carrying a little girl of about two or three. He was carrying a backpack which indicated that he was probably going to work, carrying the girl’s bag and holding her protectively on his chest. I admired the love displayed by this young man. He did not have his own transport but knew that he had to carry out the responsibility of making sure that his little girl got to crèche safely.

I know that soon we will be talking 16 days of activism against gender-based violence. All of a sudden all men would be painted as these horrible abusers who do nothing to protect their women and children. I am saying let’s give credit where it’s due. I know that at least, there is one young man out there who loves and protects his daughter. I know that at least there is one young man out there who maintains his little girl. And I hope that much the same as I was touched by this act of love, someone, maybe another young man or even older man, saw that and learnt something.

I have seen men, young and old, walking with their kids and wives or girlfriends at malls. I have seen men shopping with their kids. I have seen men hiking with their sons and/or daughters. They can’t be pigs or dogs hey.

While there are men who have no idea how and where their kids were born, there’s a man somewhere out there who still remembers the sneeze of his baby boy, minutes after his birth. He remembers because he was there when the boy was born. He is still there to guide the boy through his tempestuous teens. He is one of the men we should celebrate as we continue to wage war against those men who abuse women and children. 

While there are men who expect their spouses to warm food for them regardless of what time they arrive home, there are men who cook for their families. There are men who share household chores not because they were given ‘korobela’, but because they love their partners and understand that they too enjoy being served. While there are men who may feel emasculated by the success of their women, there are men out there who support their partners in their quest for success. Let us not forget. Let us avoid painting all of them with the same brush. There may be few who remember that first sneeze, few who know how to change a nappy, and few who know that bras come in different cup sizes, but they are there nonetheless, and they are not pigs. 

A bus ride home - synopsis

A bus ride home is a story of young romance that rekindles in maturity, thereby inspiring a long, reflective journey.  When Tlotlego encounters her childhood lover at a wedding, her life is thrown into disarray. She had spent the past few years, following her divorce trying to get her life back and flushing men out of her system. Now seeing Jabu - the boy whose kiss made her feel things she could not describe at 14 - reignited her feelings for him and his for her. They decide to give their love a chance until she sees a part of him that unnerves her. She makes an impulsive decision to be part of the annual three day 124 km walk from Menkhoaneng to Thaba-bosiu in Lesotho, hoping to be able to reflect on her life. Her journey takes us through her childhood, marriage and divorce. It also gives us a glimpse into the lives of her friends. There is Kgopolo, whose divorce forces her to downgrade her life style, Amantle who is nursing an ungrateful HIV positive husband and Pelontle, an eccentric and adventurous soul with a fear of marriage.

Available from amazon.com