Incredible India

This blogging thing is not as easy as it sounds. One has to make time for it and I always find I have less hours in a day than I thought there were! Agh well. Enjoy this piece on my recent travel to India.

I worked myself up until I had an eczema outbreak on my forehead and chest. I was not looking forward to it. The last three times I had been to India I came back with some skin infection. And here was I getting myself sick before I even boarded the flight! The first time (2003 – Mumbai and Delhi), my 5 year old dreadlocks were infested with head lice and a fungus that the dermatologist simply ordered me to have a chis’kop (bald head)! The second time, (Bangalore - 2007), I sat in Dubai airport on my way back to Johannesburg, for five hours, scratching myself all over until a concerned observer pointed me to a chemist. I wrote a letter there and then to my Directors telling them I was not going back to India unless I was assured I would be put up in hotels where there were no goggas (creepy crawlies) of any kind. Of course I was dismissed as an upper caste Diva who just wasn’t suitable to work in an organization that supports poor people. I retorted that I had grown up in poverty and didn’t cherish being thrust back into it. I was ignored.

So here I was worried sick for my newly tended 3 year old dreadlocks. I was not fooled by the picture of my Delhi hotel which I found on the net. It all looked too swanky to be real. My organization of course doesn’t do swanky, ever, so this remained to be seen.
Travelling to Asia via Dubai has to be one of life’s little pleasures. Even in economy class, Emirates airlines are just absolutely amazing. Firstly they are always on time. And if they get delayed it’s never their fault, (no really, it’s true!). The seats in economy class are wide enough to fit people like me who normally struggle on other Asian airliners! The best part is the food and the movies. The first time I travelled on Emirates I kept skipping channels that I just never watched anything till we landed. I managed to catch up with all the current movies that I haven’t seen this year. New movies, not ten year old rehashes that a certain national carrier will show on the excruciating 18 hour voyage to New York.


Emirates serve real food, well cooked rice, (not some plasticky tasting half cooked substance on that alluded to national carrier), and really tasty curry dishes. On the Dubai-Delhi leg they had proper dhal and rotis! Talk about cultural sensitivity.
In between meals, one can get very tasty wraps with all kinds of fillings, plus so many drinks, little snacks, chocolate. Yes, unlike that carrier which only offers very dry biscuits, and some nameless yellow drink that tastes quite vile!

I arrived in Delhi 13 hours after leaving Joburg, in a very good mood. My cheerful mood continued as we disembarked into the brand spanking new Indira Ghandi International Airport. This was not the Delhi I remembered with a tiny little airport, characterized by pit latrines that left my jeans all wet when I tried to use one back in 2003. The new massive airport was completed in time for the Commonwealth Games of course. The arrivals hall is covered in a lush multi coloured carpet, (I worried about how they will keep it clean?). There are beautiful toilets where I could sit – yeah!



But some things don’t change so quickly. I could swear the same Dalit (previously known as “untouchable”) woman who I met inside the toilet is still there. Her face had been burnt, she told me back then, by an upper caste family when she went to fetch water from a water point that was reserved only for Brahmins. This woman literally “lives” in the toilet. She is paid a wage for cleaning the toilet, I assume. But she practically hangs around inside the toilet, hands you hand wipes, and for her pains gets some “tips” from toilet users. We greeted each other like long lost friends.

The division of Indian society into castes is something that I still can’t get my head around. Even having lived through and still experiencing racism in this part of the world, I still find myself completely defeated by the caste system. Not that the two systems are poles apart, but I still don’t even have the language to express how I feel each time. In 2003, I had come face to face with it, when the mother in law of one colleague whose home I visited, refused to serve me tea in her good china. She gave me the tin plate and tin cup reserved for the Dalits.
Maybe this is why on this trip I bonded so much with my fellow Dalits. On the third day of my visit I travelled to very remote villages in Tamil Nadu state to meet a Dalit movement which has been reclaiming its land taken by Brahmins in the 19th century. We swapped stories about land, what it means for women’s empowerment and what land rights struggles are going on in my region.
In Chennai city, I met a group of women who talked about life before the tsunami and after the tsunami. I told them about women’s experiences in my country before HIV and after HIV. “Every woman has their own tsunami”, one wise one reflected.

We talked about women’s stuff. Wherever I went, the women were completely fascinated by my dreadlocks, touching them, playing with their own hair wondering if they could “lock” it too. Everyone wanted a picture with my hair! We giggled about sex and sexuality. I was asked why I wore silver jewelry. As opposed to, I asked foolishly? Gold of course! All the women, regardless of where they were and their social circumstances were decked in gold; earrings, necklaces, one bangle amongst twenty plastic ones, nose rings. They all looked amazingly beautiful. I worried about how much they must have paid for it. But I fully understood, it doesn’t mean that if one is poor one must always look it. It was amazing how despite the differences, women’s experiences are similar, just a different geography and different nuances.

The biggest reason I keep going back to India has got to be the food. Indian food is the only one I can eat in its own country. Thai food is very overpowering in Thailand. And I was scared off Chinese food during the Beijing conference (1995), when I was asked to choose my own snake at the door of a very classy restaurant. I can eat Indian food five times a day. And I can eat everything that is put before me. It all tastes wonderful. It smells heavenly. Whether its “wej” or “non-wej”, (that’s veg or non-veg in Ind-lish), everything is just delish. I must confess though how ignorant I was about the sheer numbers of people in India who are vegetarian. I knew about the not eating beef part, but not vegetarians. Being the carnivore that I am, I was delightfully surprised to discover the very many ways in which one can cook vegetables. Of course they seem to have a lot more veggies over there not just the cabbage and carrots one tends to be stuck with in Southern Africa. The fruit on the sides of the road is big, juicy and not genetically modified. I threw the travel doctor’s advice out of the window and gorged.

I was struck by the abundance of food everywhere I went. Eating and or drinking is a constant exercise. Hardly would half an hour pass before I was offered chai, or biscuits, or juice, or chai, and more biscuits. These days I am a caffeine addict so I need strong coffee or cappuccino to get me going. Sorry wrong country I was told, we only have tea.
Strangely I had been in Brazil in April and I was in a tea phase, and I was told the same thing, wrong country, we don’t drink tea here. India has some of the best tea in the world. To enjoy it I soon learnt that I had to say, “tea please, and hot milk, separate- separate”. You have to say the separate twice, accompanied by that nice shake of the head, otherwise you will get very milky tea, with what must surely be a whole basin full of sugar! Even when I eventually got the coffee, I had to ask for separate-separate, so I could get the instant coffee, separate from the water, milk and the sugar and mix it myself. Not quite up to my Doppio Zero standard, but it served the purpose.

But even the best tasting food does get to you after a full week. So on day eight the sight of the big M on the side of the road elicited a huge yipeeee from my Brazilian colleague and I. Imagine our disappointment when we found out that donkeys would have to grow horns before even MacDonald’s could serve beef Macs in the heart of Hindu land, North India. Fair enough. We had to settle for Chicken Macs. Not the same thing.

That India is the new rising global power is visible everywhere. There is construction all over. Even at night, construction work goes on. From Delhi, to Bhopal to Chennai, the country is a giant work in progress. Roads, bridges, shopping malls, offices are going up. The hand of global capital hovers all around. So called international brand chain stores with their dime a dozen similar looking merchandise are taking over. Restaurant and hotel chains equally pollute the space. Young Indian yuppies dressed in the latest jeans under beautifully designed kurtas, sit with their laptops (made in India or China), in air conditioned shiny cafes, speaking like their “cousins” in South Africa in a mixture of Hindi or Tamil, and English.


India’s free media is a delight. Every night I went to bed in the wee hours hopping between channels. Such a pleasure to have so much choice – unlike my local so called cable where we are served warmed up movies and talk shows day after day. I even watched Bollywood movies in Hindi (I think it was Hindi) just for the fun of it. The most fascinating are the news channels. I enjoyed the fiery debates between very serious Marxists, and die hard neo-liberals. I was mesmerized by the quality of reporting and political analysis, from Obama’s visit to the unfolding land scandal in Maharashtra state.

As for my hotels and the goggas, well, this time it was different. I stayed in a two and half star lodge in Delhi and my bad back loved being on one of the firmest mattresses I have ever had. Bliss! In Chennai I was put up in a three and half star, with the whitest sheets that side of the Indian Ocean. This was the incredible India that they advertise on my small screen. I will be going back!

Songs for My Country 2

“Lelilizwe khalila mali…hee khalila mali…Lelilizwe ligcwele olovha, hee ligcwele olovhola”. This country has no money, hee it has no money. This country is full of loafers/unemployed people, hee it is full of unemployed people”. Lovemore Majaivana was way ahead of his time when he sang this one in the early 1990s. He was wrong on one thing though, this country is awash with money. It is just that it is held by a tiny minority. A week into my holiday, and am exhausted from listening to stories of poverty. Out of guilt, empathy, or both, I just keep giving away cash. This one’s child needs school shoes if she is to go back to classes, that one needs $20 to get good medical treatment. By the end of my holiday, I start borrowing to survive in Zimbabwe myself!

Out of a sense of duty, I accompany my mother to church. Jesus and I have an on-off relationship. We are currently in an off phase. I don’t understand how with all the piety that fills this country he and his father can turn their backs on people like this. Why can’t they hear the Methodists lift the roof with hymn 191. I hope against hope that we will not sing this song today. But right on cue the voices go up, the wailing begins. Ulabantu bakho Nkosi, kuzozonk’izkhathi….You are with your people Lord, all the time. I can’t bear this. I stick an I-pod speaker into my good ear. It’s not my lucky day. I land on UB40, I am the one in ten number one on a list, I am the one in ten even though I don’t exist, nobody knows me but am always there, a statistic a reminder of a world that doesn’t care….
Has Jesus cared to look at all the beautiful churches that have been built in his honor in the last ten years in Zimbabwe? Beautiful, grand edifices, in the middle of townships and cities, fast deteriorating into shanty towns. The chandeliers in my mother’s church are fit for a diplomat’s residence. The congregation is in various states of need and want. I feel over-dressed.

My aunt’s congregation is building a pastor’s manse fit for a prince. The prosperity gospel types are a sight to behold. Just standing outside one is like being on the sidelines of the Oscars’ red carpet. Prayers seem to be answered on that side of town. In the poorest communities churches are under trees. No frills there. I don’t remember which verse says class division of this sort is ok. I should brush up on my psalms when Jesus and I are on again.
I hope against hope again that the preacher won’t ask us to “pray for our leaders”. First they have to define who they mean. Then they have to provide a rationale. My NGO proposal writing nonsense won’t wash here though. A rather over-dressed woman (thank God I have a partner in crime!), stands up to pray for the so called leaders. I don’t want to be part of it. This time I deliberately scroll through the I-pod.
We’ve been taken for granted much too long,
Building church and university,
Deceiving the people continually,
Tell the children the truth,
Tell the children the truth right now.
Bob Marley is most apt in times like these.

“Zimbabwe will never be a colony again,” they like to proclaim on big placards at Mugabe’s rallies and speak-a-thons. Whoever came up with that outdated slogan should be court marshaled by the generals. Everywhere I look my country has quickly, quietly and yet so visibly become one country or another’s colony. The mere fact that we no longer have a national currency is evidence enough. I do a double take when I see American dollar notes and South African rand in the Sunday collection plate. I am yet to be convinced that a US$2 is legal tender. I have never seen this note anywhere. Not even in America itself. Someone seems to have printed two tones of them and dumped them in Zimbabwe. There is a story there…..
It is so ironic that South Africans, particularly white business were so loud in their condemnation of Thabo Mbeki’s role in Zimbabwe. Yet they seem to be the clearest winners from our crisis. From the goods in the shops, to the best cars on the roads, Zimbabwe could very well be a province of South Africa. Bulawayo was long taken over, the rest of the country is following suit. Young men in Mr. Price jeans and thuggish beanie hats speak in Xhosarized Ndebele in Mpopoma township it’s not funny. My friend Sophie’s dad gives me bubble gum and potato crisps from his shop. The rather strange gum which oozes some yoghurt tasting liquid is from China. The chips are South African. Where is a nation going if it can’t even produce and sell its own sweets? Sweeties! Everything is over priced. A mere litre of Cape juice is US$5. Forget good quality, two-ply toilet paper.
A poorly made Zhingaz (as we call Chinese stuff in slang), polyester blouse will set you back US$40. I wonder how many months it will take a civil servant to save up for the skirt to go with said blouse.

Everybody keeps talking about how things have improved. At least things are full in the shops. I am outraged by the prices. There’s no consistency, I feel cheated most of the time. I eventually stop trying to understand this new economy. I ask friends and family to find me what I need. They know where to go and what a fair price is. I feel hopelessly incapacitated. This is my country for heaven’s sake! I was born here. I grew up here. I should find my own way around it. I am angry. “I can’t navigate myself around my own supposed home anymore”, I post my update on Facebook. Nobody “likes”.
Tell me what can you say?
Tell me who do you blame?
No matter what you say it never gets any better,
No matter what you do, we never see any change….

Phil Collins and I are on the same page. Maybe my eyes are clouded by Johannesburg pollution I can’t see this change they all talk about.

The government no longer controls what people read, watch or listen to. There is a silver lining there! Anyone who can afford to, work for it, or steal it, has a satellite dish to watch DSTV (cable). At the lower end of the spectrum everyone who has electricity has the little gadget for pirating South African television stations. Zimbabweans are up to speed with Generations, Isidingo, and the goings on in the South African body politic. An old portable radio is an asset if you want to hear unofficial Zimbabwean news. You catch the offshore radio stations on Short Wave, not on FM. My 75 year old uncle stumbles upon one such station and he is in news heaven. He can’t stop telling me about it.

“I only buy The Herald and Sunday Mail for the obituaries, and business tender opportunities”, a friend tells me. True the obituaries page in state controlled papers are a marvel. We get to know which of the dead people has five sisters all in London. Which of the late woman’s children are all in Canada and or Australia. Who said there was no glamour in death? A chance to show off your diaspora links.
The fictionalized accounts of political goings on are even more entertaining. But I can’t waste a good US dollar on such painful entertainment. I will save it for the toll-gates.
Zimbabwe is a little outpost for media products from across the border as well. The Sunday Times (SA), Mail and Guardian have Zimbabwean editions. I am happy people have alternatives to State controlled media. I worry about the long term consequences. Acquired tastes are hard to drop.
I am ecstatic when I finally lay my hands on the new independent daily, News-Day. I text Trevor Ncube, (the publisher), based in Johannesburg, “your newspaper and sweet potatoes are making my stay enjoyable”. Finally, a paper with an alternative and factual view. But the steady stream of bad news can be depressing. Senior officials paying themselves obscene salaries. Ministers buying yet more new fancy cars. Nothing gives a sense that there is a light at the end of the tunnel. Or as someone said, to even tell us that we are indeed in a tunnel, and of what shape?

After two and half weeks I am constipated from all that starch. I am equally constipated from the litany of bad news. I miss my morning fix, Kaya FM and the very loud traffic outside my window on Corlett drive. Isn’t that bizarre? The former gives me a great laugh, the latter reminds me that I am living in a ‘happening’ country. I begin to miss having a proper bath, not splash my rather substantial self from a small bucket. I can’t get a handle on when electricity goes off and comes back on. I have become a big city rat. I want convenience.

I am happy to go back to Johannesburg. I am deeply sad to leave. I want to go. I want to stay. I don’t want to be in South Africa. I don’t want to be in Zimbabwe. If my relationship with God was in a good phase I could sing a hopeful hymn, or even talk to him. I turn to the next best thing I know. I chose Beres Hammond;

The sun, is gonna shine again
Nine out of ten
Remember,
It’s gonna shine again
Your day will come come
Don’t worry about the rocky road its gonna be
At the end of your tunnel
Is gonna be a light

I sure hope that light is not from an on-coming high speed train.

Songs for my country 1

You can always tell the state Zimbabwe is in from the paper in public toilets and government offices. In December, when I was last here, it was coarse single ply dull beige. The kind that comes apart between your fingers before it even gets to do the job. This August, the public toilets in Harare international airport have a slighter softer pink, but still single ply. A slight improvement but no soap to wash your hands after. The diamond money clearly hasn’t trickled this far down then. “I am a-longing to see you I wanna know how you’ve been doing …..I am gonna catch this flight and when I get home I hope you will be smiling…” Freddie McGregor had sung in my ears, as I got ready to go home for my annual pilgrimage as I call it. So a lack of adequate ablutions is not going to dent my spirits.
August is a great time to be here. Schools are closed, the harvest is done, sweet-potatoes are three dollars for a substantial bucket. That is 3 genuine Obamas as we call the Green buck here, not the Zim dollar which of course no longer exists. It is spring time. Nothing beats the sunshine of a spring day in a Harare garden. It seeps into your bones. Thaws your soul, gives you hope even when there is nothing in the political realm to make you this optimistic about life. For a lazy-bone-sun-lizard like me, it is a good time to forget about the office.

Or maybe I am much more patriotic than I realize. August is Heroes’ Day month. Cynical as much as I try to be, those liberation war songs get to me all the time. “Taigara mumakomo tishingirira Zimbabwe". (We hid in the mountains, determined to free Zimbabwe). The tunes are danceable too. But it is not just music. It is my country’s history. When ZANU keeps reminding us of the 16 years of hard struggle, and you see the endless footage of the war, replayed, over and over again on ZTV, and repeated every half hour on ZBC radio stations, you have to be the most cynical idiot not to feel what it all meant and what it still means to whole generations of us who are still alive.

I love radio, and go to sleep with my MP3 plugged into my ears. I wake up on Heroes’ Day itself to loud commentary from Heroes’ Acre. My friend Nozipho has long left the house to go to the ceremony. Her uncle is one of our national heroes. Every year her family is picked up and taken by the state to breakfast, the ceremony, and then lunch afterwards. All the heroes’ families are given this treat. Thank God the electricity is on today. I curl up on Nozi’s sofa and watch the whole thing on television, from beginning to end. I steel myself to be cynical, I want to dismiss it all as ZANU PF propaganda. After all, Heroes’ Day used to be called Rhodes and Founders, after the big colonialist and his band of merry enslavers. But I can not be cynical. This is real. The commentators read us the histories of the women and men lying on that hill and what their contribution was; JZ Moyo, Albert Nxele, Ruth Chinamano, Herbert Chitepo, Leopold Takawira. I look at their families crowding around the graves, laying flowers, saying prayers. I suddenly find myself weeping. I text my friends Percy and Nyaradzo in Johannesburg; “This is just too painful. Where did it all go wrong? How did we betray all these people?” I ask rhetorically. Percy sends me a rather unsympathetic response, and Nyaradzo tells me she is on Plett Bay having such fun. I am now in a foetal position and howl even more. I console myself with Bunny Wailer;
You better stop this power struggle….it’s causing the nation too much trouble endangering lives of innocent ones…With all this knowledge and education we are in a sad situation…so you better stop this power struggle….”

Dreadful and yet insignificant as this sounds, the one thing that cheers me about Heroes’ Day is seeing Morgan Tsvangirai, Thokozani Khupe, and Arthur Mutambara being saluted by members of the armed forces. The cherry on top is seeing each one of them getting into their own Benz! If inclusive government is only measured by how included every political party is at the trough, I will hide my values under the pillow and cheer. For one day only.

We will, we will rule you

My cheering is short lived though. The day following Heroes is Defence Forces’ day.
We fast forward from the people’s revolution to the men in uniform’s moment to remind us they run and own this country, including us, what we think, hear, feel, and the minerals underground. There they are, goose-stepping just the way Caucescue and Kim Il Sung taught them. They are armed to the teeth. They flex their muscles and their arms, sending chills down the spines of citizens. The words of Chairman Mao, sung by the ZANLA choir over radio Mozambique suddenly ring in my ears, “Kune nzira dzemasoja dzekuzvibata nadzo….Tisave tinotora zvinhu zvemass yedu. Dzoserai zvinhu zvose zvatorwa kumuridzi….” (These are the ways we must conduct ourselves as good revolutionary soldiers. Don’t take things from the masses. Return anything you take to its rightful owners”. Yah right Chairman Mao, have you seen what this lot has been up to in the last 10 years? You think they remember any of your exhortions?


That this is a militarized state is consistently shoved in my face for the two weeks I am in Zimbabwe. State media refer to Mugabe His Excellency the President and Commander in Chief of the Armed Forces. We always knew that. We just need to be reminded about the militarization of our state, lest we forget who is in control.

There are eight roadblocks between Harare and Bulawayo. There is no consistent pattern nor ny reasonable explanation for the search and questioning at each one. At one, we (all three of us in the car), are ordered out of the car while they turn my rickety Mazda 323 inside out. At the next one, the policeman/soldier (same difference), demands identification documents, questions me earnestly about my seemingly too long South African work permit. Driving back towards Bulawayo in a friend’s fancier car, we are told that there is some document missing. We can all tell he wants a bribe since the policeman has decided we must be swimming in American dollars. Arguing with a fully armed, testosterone filled group of men is a no win situation. I have been away for too long though. When they say “make a plan” in Johannesburg or at Beitbridge border post I know exactly how much to take out. I can even haggle to get a good “deal”. I don’t know the code word or what the appropriate amount here is. A dollar? Twenty rands? Blasting the man’s ears off with Peter Tosh’s “ I am an honest man and I love honest people…” won’t help. From the look on our driver’s face and the shocked smile on the policeman’s I know I have over done it. I reason that I have increased his measly wages by 10%.

Even at the extortionate toll-gates, there are armed men sitting, watching from the sidelines. In case someone tries to drive off without paying, I am told. They will shoot to kill. Why doesn’t Zuma send General Bheki Cele up here on secondment? I hand over the dirtiest looking one dollar note from my little stash. At least there is evidence that these little dollars are being used to repair some roads where huge craters characterized our highways.

Zvakaoma

I am struck this time by the absence of political conversation. Everybody I meet and hang out with only wants to talk about the just ended football World Cup, family issues, or just pointless gossip. When I do ask the political questions, I get the very cryptic Zimbabwean response, zvakaoma. I love and hate that word in equal measure because it means and says so much, yet at the same time, it means or says absolutely nothing! You the listener have to divine what the speaker means; it is hard, it is unspeakable, where do I begin, it is too complicated, why do you have to ask a question like that as if you don’t know the answer? Shut up sweetie. Take your pick.

Besides the media and NGO types, most of the nation doesn’t hold its collective breadth, as the SADC heads of state summit in Windhoek rolls past. Meanwhile the constitutional road show seems to be chugging along with nary great excitement amongst normal folks who are too busy chasing that elusive dollar. It is the NGO types like me who want to talk about the mechanics of the sham exercise. But no substantive issues thank you, we are not Kenyans. What had I expected? Rip roaring debate? Over what? All the big political milestones have come and gone. None has delivered meaningful change.

I am not sure which song is the most apt for this phase Zimbabwe is going through. I can’t even think of any that comes close to describing this feeling, this state of nothingness. Not hopelessness. Nothingness. This is where that little cryptic word is useful, but used in a joke-sentence – zvakaoma sekupema mupositori. It is as hard as trying to perm the hair of a member of the |Apolostic sect, (who are normally clean shaven). But then again trust Zimbabwean humor, perming a mupositori is not that hard, you just wait for the hair to grow, and hope that someone; the policeman, the soldier, the politicians, don’t chop it off before you get to it with your perm lotion.
It’ll be a hell of a wait. There are many songs to sing while we wait. Bob Marley’s “Zimbabwe” will do for me. Soon we’ll find out who is the real revolutionary…

And the Winners are......

And so it came to pass, that two thousand and ten years after the death of the one called The Christ, a great football festival was held on the African continent. Such was the excitement, the fun, the hype, the euphoria- that it took a great many wise women (and a few slightly wise men), to fully document what had happened. However, womankind’s vocabulary was not enough to describe this historic event. Unfortunately many of the wise women suffered severe post festival depression that they were unable to put pen to paper. Some gave up writing altogether. Others just took to their duvets and never got up. Others were found wandering the streets calling, “I felt it! It was here! Where did it go?” A few others simply lost their powers of speech. Hence the story will take a long time to reconstruct.
That will be the story in one history book, fifty years from now. It will be an accurate description of some of us. It has been three weeks since the Cup went to Spain, and I have not had an ounce of energy to even write a post script of the Football World Cup 2010. I woke up on the 12th of July all excited and ready to face the day. Then it struck me around noon, that there was no reason I had actually got out of bed! Well, employment doesn’t really count in times like these. By 4 pm the depression was setting in. 8.30pm came. I sat comfortably in front of my tv. Nothing. I don’t even remember what was on whichever channel I landed on. Eventually I skipped through a news channel, following coverage of the Cup’s arrival in Spain. For three days, I channel hopped just to see the cup again and again, and the Spanish fans and their team. I watched reruns. Then it hit me finally. It was really all over. No more jaunts to Melrose Arch big screen. I tried to reconnect with my old favourite soapies. They felt so…..mundane. Desperate Housewives appear even more desperate. Scandal doesn’t feel so scandalous at all. As for Generations…the sooner that Generation leaves our screens the better. Don’t get me started on Ugly Betty, those teeth versus Ayew? Sigh. Sigh. Sigh.


I am now in recovery. A trip to 30 degree temperature Vienna helped. Down here in Jozi the sun is shining again. Spring is in the air. I have discovered the joys of walking to and from my office ( I can’t explain to myself why I never did this for the last four years?), with wonderful reggae blasting in my ears. Things are looking up a bit. I have found my voice to finally do that post mortem of the coppa, and of course the prize giving. What is a competition without prize winners?
Let's get on with it then.

The ones I won’t miss

The English. What is there to say? I hear there is now a new phrase, “To Rooney”. This means failure to launch/perform. That is that on that lot.
The only thing remarkable about the Greeks, the Swiss, and the Italians is that ….there was nothing remarkable about them. I didn’t invent that, I got it from a description of Jozef Stalin by one of my favourite History authors. I don’t remember the name of one single Greek player. A Swiss one?
I insist that Algeria must decide to which continent it belongs. Till the day they stand on top of Mt. Kilimanjaro and say “We are Africans”, I refuse to even consider them as such. They simply came and went. No comment.

I still don’t get Ronaldo. What the allure is. I didn’t see it. So I remain as underwhelmed as I always was by him and of course Portugal. Ditto Messi. I don’t think I remember him actually kicking the ball.

Drogba, oh, Drogba. Please do something about that hair. I just couldn’t get past it to watch the football skills. Ditto Cisse and Song. Please explain the blonde hair and beards to me? You all were the most unstylish, goodbye!

So much potential, just no delivery

I loved the Danes. I have always had a soft spot for the blue eyed blondes. All the Asian teams were just fantastic. Plucky. Spirited. What is another word to describe their determination against all odds? They were not smug (like the Brazilians who thought this was a walk in the park).

Slovenia and New Zealand had my sympathy vote. But no fire there.

Gone too soon…..

The Mexican fans were the highlight of the World Cup for me. I just couldn’t get enough of those sombreros and the fans’ fun loving spirit. Melrose Arch and its environs will never be the same without the red and green ponchos. We discovered the delightful young Dos Santos. To digress, I do think there is a secret to men who hold their hair with white Alice bands. Dos Santos and Forlan. Those bands worked like magic. All men please take note. Buy one if you can. Dos Santos gets the most promising-rising good-looker to watch award.

Ah the French. All that media hype aside, I felt robbed of those delectable French team boys, (they really are all Africans from our hood aren’t they)? I wanted to see Evra, Anelka, even Ribery. Now Thierry is off to America. America? To play a sport that one American told us is so low on their list of priorities it comes just below hide and seek? Eish!

My local hosts will lynch me for this, but the only one I will miss from Bafana is Khune. ‘nuff said.
They may not have been Indomitable after all, but Cameron still gets the award for sexiest uniform of the tournament. It’s just that colour they need to do something about, but style, sexiness, yes, those boys know how to dress to impress on the pitch.

“Naija” also Rooneyed too soon. No comment there.

My other discovery was Honduras. I will keep saying this – why didn’t someone tell me they had so many gorgeous black men in Honduras? Where have they been all along? You could have knocked me down with a feather when I saw the whole team of real darkies! I shall watch them from now on.


The also rans

The cup winners themselves, yes but did they have to score only One Goal? 1 Goal was the name of a campaign it wasn’t a suggestion to score only one goal boys. It was hard to root for grown men in orange. Lord knows I tried dear Dutchmen but it was just too hard.
Beautiful footie dear Germany but do you all have to look so dour? Loosen up! Look like you are having fun. It helps. Learn from Chile.
USA – what did they play again? That beauty pageant sash themed uniform put me off on day one, there was no point watching them from then on.
Australia – stick to rugby. It is better for you and all of mankind, and womankind too. Football is just not for you.
Brazil, drop the smugness, it got you eliminated in such unstylish fashion.
Argentina, the touchy feely thing doesn’t quite work. Drop it, and the Godfather with the two watches.
Chile, better luck next time. Serbia, you will remember that win over Germany forever. Savour it.

And now the Winners…..
1. Most beautiful player- Ayew
2. Good looking and lots of potential – the Boateng brothers and Dos Santos (Mexico)
3. The player with “the most”…Alice band factored in – Forlan
4. The team with the most (sorry Africans you can nail me to the nearest lamp post), Uruguay. An entire good looking team. We will excuse the drab uniform.
5. Sexiest uniform – Cameroon
6. Sexiest coach – no prize awarded. The field was just so dire wasn't it? Where is Jose Mourinho when you need him?
7. Pluckiest team – Japan
8. The happiest, most colourful fans – Mexico
9. If only self belief and hope won World cups award – South Africa
10. The team forever in my heart and dreams….Ghana!

Till 2014 then. I don't know about you all but my bag is packed already.

Off the pitch

The fun continues. And to think I almost missed this. A year ago, I had made up my mind that the FIFA world cup would be such a nuisance. That Johannesburg would be so full of people and terribly chaotic that it was better to go away. While I do love football, I still haven’t reconciled myself to going into a stadium to watch it since my footballer brother passed away in 1995. So I reasoned, why bother sticking around? Going as far away as possible from Johannesburg and South Africa felt like a good idea. My friend Nancy, bless her beautiful heart – convinced me otherwise. She painted such a glorious picture of how much fun it would be that I wouldn’t want to miss it. Truth be told, I half listened to her, and what stopped me from travelling is that I was broke, couldn’t get myself organized for a whole year, and eventually I just found myself here. Am I glad I stayed. Oh it has been just amazing.

The locals can smile….

Yes they can! I have discovered this in the last two weeks. Surly doormen at various establishments, who I always thought had no teeth, do have their mouths full of pearly whites. They can even say, “hello! Good morning! Welcome!” For the five years I have been in this country, I mostly encountered these grumpy (mostly men), who treated me like a nuisance. Now I get greeted, doors opened. I am invited to come inside.
The women (mostly), at till points at all my closest shops have discovered that I am a paying customer. I get greeted with smiles, and a nice “thank you!” when the transaction is done. I enter these shops at least once or twice a week. I should be on first name terms with Pinky, Palesa and Futhi at Woolies, Pick’n’pay and Clicks by now. But no, I was always treated like that pesky woman (and her clearly coconut son who doesn’t speak Sotho and Tswana). The most I ever got was to be “mummified”, coupled with a scowl. A little explanation; “mummy! Mama!” is what women of my age + race+ weight +perceived economic bracket, get called by pert little girls and boys in establishments. My (seriously empirical), research shows that this is not a term of respect, but rather a form of condescension and simply telling you that you are nobody in their wise opinion.

Respect at last – but only if you are carrying a foreign credit card

The most remarkable revolution has been amongst white (mostly), owners of establishments. Restaurant owners, boutique owners, hair dressers, masseuse, folks who never deigned to look in my direction or if they did, they would quickly summon Mamosebi the black cleaner from the back to come and ask me who (not what) I wanted. Poor Mamosebi would get a rude response in English from me, and Mrs. Snyman would start shouting at both of us for not being able to speak to each other. In some cases I would be followed around by said Mamosebi, or her front office colleague loudly indicating the prices of every item I touched, “one thousand rand! Oh that is very new stock, too much expensive ne?” I was worn down by this running commentary and left empty handed.
I am now a potential customer, These days I get shown around, escorted to my table. I even get waitrons fighting to serve me in restaurants where I used to be invisible. I am milking it for what it’s worth and making fun of some of these folks just for the heck of it.
Mrs S; Let me show you our new boots
Me: Great
Mrs S: Terrible weather we are having, pity it’s summer back home for you hey?
Me: Mmm, ummm
Mrs S: These look fabulous, great colour. You can always use them in winter back home?
Me: Mmm, ummm
Mrs S: Thembi bring the new scarves as well please
Thembi: Yes, I am sure she will love these
Mrs S: Oh eekslent! You will be snug as a bug
Me: Yes. Definitely
Thembi (to another sister standing by); Abantu be overseas laba baya shopa ne? (these people from overseas shop hey?
Mrs S: Great, so will you be paying by credit card or cash madam?
Me: Credit card thanks, here you go.
Mrs S: Wow, I have never seen one of these, but it should go through no problem
Thembi: That’s an interesting one. Overseas ones look different
Me: Mmm, yah…umm
Mrs S: Thank you so much ma’am have a lovely time in our country. Hope your country wins.
Me: (to Thembi and the other sister) Ngiyabonga. Lisale khahle!
Me: (to Mrs S), I am from Zimbabwe and I live just here in Illovo. Have a lovely day!

Not a moving ATM ….for now


Twice this world cup I have bumped into members of the police force. Those men of the thick blue line, who normally love to harass foreigners and ask for IDs. This as we know, as a way of making a rand, or a hundred. As I started fumbling in my handbag for my passport, which I knew wasn’t in there as I had just left it at some embassy for a visa, I was pleasantly surprised to be greeted with wide smiles by the men in blue, as they simply sauntered past. The next lot I bumped into helpfully gave me directions as I was lost. “Enjoy the World Cup ma’am”, they waved me off with yet more smiles.
Ma’am! Yes that’s me.
I got the same smiles, efficient service, when I arrived at OR Tambo airport from Kenya. Surprise! I was asked how my “holiday” had been and bade, “a fantastic world cup in our wonderful country”. Our. Not his. Not my. Our.

The unifying powers of football

My heart has been warmed, in this dreadful cold, by the scenes of erm…brotherhood at the public viewing places I have been to. Blacks, whites, coloureds, locals, foreigners, have been hugging, physically embracing one another. A lot has been said, about the unifying powers of football, and South Africans have written about what this festival has done for them. For me as a foreigner living in this country, there has never been a time when I felt like I truly am welcome here like this week. But more importantly, this is the first time I have seen with my own eyes and heard South Africa talk about itself as being an African country, and publicly embracing its own Africanness. I have been physically folded into that embrace. I have seen black South Africans waving Nigerian flags. Nigerian!? That bogey country for all things terrible that have befallen this country? People I never expected suddenly know how to pronounce Cote d’ Ivoire, and wear T-shirts with Drogba’s name at the back. One white guy proudly walked around wearing a Ghanain wig, (or was it German? Those two’s colours are confusing). No matter, he wore it on the day Ghana was playing so I am happy to assume he was rooting for Ghana.
Seeing so many African singers at the opening concert and ceremony of the World Cup brought tears to my eyes. It is such a pity that nobody thought it appropriate to play Thabo Mbeki’s I am an African. The MTN advert with the African footballers just makes me want to weep. It is just a commercial, yet such a powerful symbol of a South African company identifying itself with the continent.
And Africa hasn’t disappointed. It has embraced South Africa back. Everyone I know has been rooting for Bafana Bafana. Even those of us for whom yellow was never our colour, made concessions! We went for the flags and hoisted them all over, polished up our knowledge of the Sotho bit of the national anthem, (we know the first bit), but drew the line at the last bit, sorry. The diski dance will definitely replace the wedding shuffle at many a party across the Limpopo.

All of this will change come July 11th. I hear rumblings of xenophobic attacks being planned in the townships. Some of my relatives have already been told to pack up and leave, before the end of the World Cup. I know I must make a copy of my passport and always move around with it. Mrs Snyman and other shop owners will count their windfalls and take long holidays in Mauritius. Lerato the bank teller and Moses the doorman will go back to their surly ways. But for now, I shall enjoy this mirage, of a rainbow continent.

On the Pitch

What a week! What drama! What fun! What colour! And to think I almost missed this.
So here we are girls, (and fun loving boys), week one, and we are on a roll. The show got off to an R-Kelly start, and away we went.

Is there anyone on this giant planet who didn’t see the picture of the Portuguese contingent arriving in snazzy (but ill-fitting?)suits. That fashion seems to've passed me by, tight suits. I have received the picture almost 50 times.You can all stop sending it to me thanks. I told you I don’t like Christiano Ronaldo’s cockiness. I don’t care how much he is paid or how much was paid for him, (people who are paid for always end up in tears, ask umm….anyone who was the subject of a financial transaction, including lobola).

Everyone has played their first games now. We have already seen some second matches. So let us take stock of the moveable feast that has been before our eyes.

I love men in uniform

But it has to be of a particular kind. So far the best uniform I have seen is the Ausssie one. This is not a sympathy vote for their drubbing by Germany, the Australian uniform is MANLY. Dark colours. It says, "power!". Lovely matching dark socks. Even most of their boots were sedately coloured. This is how men’s uniforms should be, you know like the air force, or senior army generals'.

But of course the sexiest uniform still goes to…..Cameroon! Those boys have perfected the art of uniform design. Sleek, body hugging. Showing us those chisselled pecs. Samuel Eto’o and his boys look fabulous in those close to skimpy numbers. The only downer is the colour. Hayi, hayi, hayi, as we’d say in various Nguni languages. What’s with the bright colours? I know this has something to do with national flags and all that, but here is the thing. How is a man supposed to look sexy in a green top, red bottom, and horror of all horrors, yellow boots!! Yellow boots? In our old un-PC days we used to call such dressing, kupfeka semuNyasarand. I won’t translate that, just read the name of the country at the end.

Colour
Which brings up the question; what’s with these yellow, red and orange boots? Who makes them? Why? Is there a fear that the players won’t see each other if their boots are darker (manly) colours? Whose brilliant idea was it? I need an essay written on the subject. I do have a very fashion conscious son so I consider myself an expert on the subject of colours. When he was younger, yes, we bought colourful shoes, jackets, hats. Psychologists told us that these made children happy, cheerful, and made us the parents and complete strangers want to pick them up because they looked adorable. By the time he got to 12, we started toning down the colours. I know I am on shaky sexist ground here, but feminism taken completely into account, men should not wear red or yellow boots after a certain age. No. It is wrong.
Staying with colour, South Africa’s yellow, and Dutch orange, were the other colours I don’t think look so fetching on men with six packs, (never mind on women with two tummies). I don’t know who was scarier between the two. Maybe that is the idea, to dazzle the opposition with….colour? The brightness of these colours was magnified by the seas of supporters each of these teams had. From the shirts, to the wigs, (yes dear friends who are reading this from across the Indian ocean, WIGS). I am all for riotous colour and showing one’s national or continental colours. But flaming yellow and blinding orange wigs, also didn’t work very well, off the pitch. The alternative in SA was to don something with the whole full flag. As you all know, those of us who got our freedom after 1980 went a bit overboard when it came to designing flags. They are so “busy”, and such wikipedias of our countries’ symbols that one needs an entire seminar on them. Zimbabwe, South Africa. All those colours were just meant to be splashed on pieces of canvass, not draped on our bodies.

At the other end of the spectrum are the boring colours. Argentina, Uruguay, England. Plain boring. Nothing to write about there. The funniest is Uruguay’s Forlan, in his sky blues, complemented by the now famous Alice band around his hair. What’s the story there? My friend Alejandra who is Uruguayan tells me Forlan is a famous heartthrob, (see below). That Alice band shall be his undoing on the global stage am afraid. Even funnier are some local fans donning these boring colours on their heads. I saw a Zulu man with a blue and white wig. Eish. Let me keep quiet.

Both Koreas and the Japanese have all decided to stick with equally boring colours. Red looks good on demonstrators and socialist causes. Not on the football pitch.

Wrong competition?

I don’t get the American uniform. What’s with the sash running across the shirts? Is this a beauty pageant Obama’s men? Or did you rock up at the wrong competition?

What happened to the mini?

My big gripe with all the teams (Cameroon is slightly excused), is that they are wearing shorts that we call here Clam Diggers. Long shorts that cover everything. Everything. What’s with that? What happened to the mini? In the run up to this World Cup I was brushing up on my knowledge of all things football by watching grainy movies of games gone past. In almost all of them, until about the early 1990s, the boys wore nice, skimpy shorts! That was more like it. We could see these men’s beautifully sculpted legs. That is the point of us paying good money to watch men kicking a pig’s bladder around for 90 minutes. The scores are just the topping. We don’t want to see men in daytime pyjamas.

The men with the looks

And now to the important bit. Who are the cute ones? I am not going to talk about the old perennials. Let’s look at the, ahem, debutantes, if we can call them that. The ones those of us reared on English FA and UEFA are not used to seeing regularly on our small screens.
In our beauty pageant, week one has been won by Uruguay. How does a nation manage to field an entire team of good looking men? England and Germany please take note.
Itumeleng Khune of South Africa has been red carded so we won’t be seeing him again (soon). The child is cute. But that red uniform doesn’t go with his palor. A deep Portuguese green, or maroon would work beautifully.
Nigeria’s Odemwige is another beauty. He carries those hair plaits much better than other men – who really shouldn’t bother. If Nigeria doesn’t advance to the second round, that will be our major loss. Pity the green uniform, the Aussie navy would go very well with his tone.
Andrej Konac from Slovenia is my other new discovery. Darkish, in that attractive Mediterranean way. Mmm.
There is also a good looking one from DPRK, but I was too busy cheering them on, (I studied the Juche idea and am still getting over it). I will keep looking out for him.

The prettiest debutante so far is Mexico’s Dos Santos. Cuteness as cuteness. He just should remove the Alice band as well and let his hair down.

I am keeping my fingers crossed that none of my beautiful ones get knocked out in the first round. Otherwise the light will just go out of the World cup for me.

Happy viewing girls! And boys who know a good thing when they see it.

2010 is here!

Before you think I have lost my marbles, I am not just talking about the year, 2010 AD. I am talking of THE 2010. Let me school you if you are uninitiated. 2010 here in Saath Efrika refers to the Soccer World Cup, which kicks off a week from today.
That is how everyone here talks about the footie-fest. About a year ago, I watched coverage of a strike by workers in an industry I can not recall. Several of the strikers kept threatening that if they didn't get their dues then "2010 will not come! We will stop this 2010! The government must ekt (act), now, or this 2010 is not going to happen!" For a few days after that I wandered about in a daze, seriously fearing the supernatural power of these folks to actually stop a whole year from "coming".
So here we are. The Brazilian World Cup has come to our African shores. Yes I just called it the Brazilian World Cup, because that is what the kids in Recife told me it is called. I met three groups of children and youths on my visit there in April. As soon as they heard I lived in South Africa the kids were ecstastic. Their teachers asked them if they knew what was happening in Afrique de Sud. "Yes, the Brazilian World Cup!", they chimed more than three times. I am with them on that one. Ooops. I am supposed to be non-aligned right?

2010 is finally so close. I can see it coming. I can feel it. I can touch it. I can taste it. The entire country is in a frenzy. Everywhere you look, it's all about the cup. We are drowning in cup fever. I have been calm these last six months. I even pretended it wasn't such a big deal. Yet here I am with my temperature rising as if I am on one of the teams. I can not help myself. I love soccer. Ever since my late brothers got me to watch matches every Sunday on tv, or in stadiums, that many decades ago, I have been hooked. This is one sport I actually follow and even understand. Well, except for that one offside rule that was introduced way after Jabu (the soccer star of my two brothers), hung up his boots and joined the angels.
I keep calling it the "new" offside rule and everyone born after 1975 pulls a face when I say it. As if to suggest I am one slice short of a sandwich. S'tru, there is a new offside rule, which I still don't get.

Back to the cup fever. It was only this week that it suddenly hit me, I am actually not prepared for this world cup. On Sunday I arrived back from a three week safari in Kenya. Driving down the R24 from ORT (I know it is disrespectful but ORT means Oral Rehydratation Therapy where I come from)...I mean the airport, not the sugar and salt solution...I was finally gripped by this fever in my bones. Dozens of flags are flying beautifully all the way down the road. I started counting how many I could recognize. Sad to say I only managed the African ones and the Union Jack. Bad bad Anglophile Miss EJ.
The flags look so beautiful. The last time I saw any such flag line up was at CHOGM in Harare, 1997. Before that, at the Non-Aligned Summit. The flags were often accompanied by photos of one male dictator or other. Thank Godness nobody saw it fit to hang those for the footie. It's all about the nations and their flags.
Speaking of flags, I must go out and buy one. Or 13? I don't really know whose flag I should be flying. With all due respect to my current hosts, mmm, erm....ja, well....The less said of that the better. It has nothing to do with the fact that my own country could only manage to play "bhora remapepa" versus Brazil in a friendly match this week. Bhora remapepa means literally playing with a ball made of waste paper. The kind we used to play in the townships and rural schools in my childhood. I am not jealous of South Africa's fortune and place in the cup. I just don't handle supporting underdogs very well. Put it down to my Aquarian-winonly-second place won't do-mentality.

I am in this dillema. The organisation I work for has some 13 countries represented in this World Cup! Yes 13, if I haven't forgotten anyone. How the hell am I supposed to choose? Let's see, I could just go by race first? But where does that put France and Brazil? I do love Michael Ballack, but not necessarily Germany. Pity he is not playing. So that's that on Germany then.
I could just go with the Africans. But there is still Brazil and France....Then there is the small matter of England. Like my cucumber sandwich loving President, I have a little soft spot for my former colonial masters. More like a sympathy twinge. All that "Rule Britannia rah rah, sun never sets on the Empire", yet not a cup in sight since I was born? If that doesn't elicit dollops of sympathy I don't know what will.
I also love the Italians. Simply because they are the only country that always gives me a multiple entry Schengen visa. I love their food, the way they speak in that sing song way. The way they get all heated up and extremely animated in discussions. I love their country. I love Rome, I love Milan. I just want to move there. So I support Italy.
The Danes are just sweet and beautifully blue eyed. My two close friends are married to the most wonderful Danish cooks who fuss over me when I visit. They cook, clean the house, mind the babies, and bring you a drink when you call loudly from the veranda. How dare one not support such dream men? If they lose, it is only because they are such gentle-men.

You realise I could go on and on in this vain and pretty soon, I will be supporting every team. I am a global citizen. I love all the countries where I work. Which is the state I am in. So I will go buy everyone's flag (when the prices come down, I really think it is abominable to sell flags at R100 surely).
By late June, I will start the process of elimination depending on various factors, (see below).

I realise I am a bit late getting into the cup spirit. It is too late for me to think of what to sell or how to make some quick dosh out of this whole enterprise. I kept prevaricating over putting my apartment on the market. I had these nightmares of some yobs breaking my lovely bed, (it is a lovely bed, made only for one purpose as Graham Greene would have described it). I feared that some drinkers would dump their beer glasses on my cheap wooden coffee table and leaves marks forever. So there went the rental option.
I could not think of selling any food. I am not the cooking type. I just eat.
I do live two minutes walk from Oxford Street. In Illovo. Could that still be an option? Maybe it is already too late. Where does one start? Do I set up a website? Put up a billboard on Corlett Drive? Will I be able to compete with the rest of the continent which I believe has moved here for the duration? Eish, I will just give up on trying to make any money. I don't think Fifa will licence me at this late stage anyway. I also hear that they are out of Female condoms in this country. Someone sent me a notice today advising all women coming for a spot of "work" to bring their own.

This weekend I am going shopping for my cup regalia. After the flags, come the clothing. Now there is more dillema. I am yet to see sexy t-shirts. I have never understood why t-shirt manufacturers just don't have a sense of style. I mean honestly which women do they expect to don those shapeless made-for men- soccer jerseys and Ts? They are just too ugly beyond words. I made the mistake of not buying the sexy types in Rio, (Ok I don't only support Brazil in case you are now getting that impression). The Brazilians really know how to make women's t-shirts. Even in my dowdy old NGO, they make such sexy t-shirts they make anti-poverty campaigns look fashionable. Women's t-shirts, especially ones made for adult women with two tummies like me, should be fitted at the top....widen towards the waist...and voila you got sexy! Not these long-one-shape-looks grungy-on every single wearer-and your two tummies- shall look like five- in this sack!
I don't do ugly. Not at this age.
The best little Ts I have seen so far, at my favourite chain store are for....Brazil! I am not making this up. These t-shirts are delightful. Black. Tiny colourful sequins making up the Brazilian logo. Shapely. How can one compare with the yellows, the reds, and the other gaudy colours on the market?

I will give the famous vuvuzela a miss. This is a weapon of tranquility destruction that I still don't get. Sepp Blatter, Danny Jordan and everyone else's too loud protestations aside, I dislike the vuvuzela. I stand to be lynched for saying this in public. Extremely loud noise just doesn't add value to the beautiful game. Sorry. Give me the stereotypical singing-gyrating African any day of the week and I am game. That vuvu-thing, no thanks.
Ditto the face paint. What is the point of going out into the world with all that gunk on one's visage? The whole point of turning up at any stadium - unless one's brother/lover/friend is playing is to see and be seen. Yes well, and to cheer. You can't do it in style with your national flag painted on your face. Unless of course you have issues with your own visage, in which case you are forgiven for wanting to hide it in black, green and red.

Which is where my problem has been in the run up to this 2010. Very little media has been speaking to me as a female soccer fan. From the testesterone filled advertisements featuring yesterday's players, to the endless Fifa-rization of the entire country (with Sepp Blatter as the main act), very little has said to me as a woman, "we want you to enjoy this too". The same on radio or in newspapers. It is all about and for men. Occasionally there is the odd advert making fun of big women, (this in a country where the average dress size across the colour lines is 18-20), playing some grotesque imitation of soccer. Quite deplorable I must say.

Until suddenly, a sliver of light appeared from the North - this month's issue of Vanity Fair! Yeah Goddesses! Where have you been? Ugh! Ugh! Ugh! Is all I can say. Just the cover alone makes me so glad to be here to witness this world Cup!
Down here in the girls' locker room the excitment and the fever over the world cup is all about the nice legs that will be on display for an entire month. Those legs. Those muscles. Those little shorts. Ah, such titillating delights. Finally we girls get to gawk at this veritable flesh market - for a change. Just for one month alone, it shall all be on display. And we love it.
The competition is not about who plays the best footie, that is the side show. I am running my own parallel competition, and for this I won't need a Fifa licence. I just need a following. So here we are dear friends. It is time to select;
1. The sexiest coach - without Jose Mourinho and all those fuddy duddies to choose from eish!
2. The sexiest player - (no cockiness allowed, that rules out Christiano Ronaldo and Wayne Rooney sorry).
3. The team with the sexiest uniform; tight fitting, titillating shorts, you know, not prison garb long white ones plus ugly socks ala Malawian team at AFCON.
4. Drama Queeen of the tournament, (Drogba is a contender already).
5. The best looking team; including grooming (no bad hair ala Drogba please), sexy smiles, seriously good looks, great pairs of legs, sexy uniform. The whole package.


I am taking leave from June 11th. I have front row seats - in my lounge, at the Wanderers Club where I am a member across the road, Melrose Arch mall giant screen in the piazza, Sandton Square giant screen. I will wander to the public parks on some days.
May the most gorgeous men win!

To my son on your 16th Birthday

My little man. Today you are 16. It feels just like yesterday when you were this little bundle in my arms, and I didn't know what to do with you. Nobody had quite warned me what to expect. Every other mother made it look so easy. So effortless. "Congratulations! He is soooo cute! Oh, you are so lucky!" They all said. I was not too sure about that. They call babies "bundles of joy". That is in English of course. I don't know what the Shona or Ndebele equivalent is. The closest it gets is "Chipo chakabva kuna Mwari", a gift from God. I could write a whole thesis on that whole theory. I have always called you my gift from the mushroom.

There is a story we read in Grade 4, about a couple who did not have a child and for years they prayed for one. Finally someone advised them to offer prayers to a giant mushroom, who was known to bring luck. The mushroom gave them the baby, but on one condition, they never made the baby cry, upset, or unhappy. They were told if they did this, the child would vanish and come back to the mushroom. The happy couple promised to do what they were told and got their baby. A few years later the child started behaving like all children, and poof! The child went back to the mushroom.
I still haven't worked out what the moral of that story was. But each time you wailed so loudly, refused to eat anything that was coloured yellow or orange, (you still refuse to drink orange juice or eat mangoes to this day), I felt like that couple. Not that I had asked any mushroom for you. You just sort of happened, and I made the choice to have you. It was a choice.

I am the last born child of my mother, so I had never been made to look after any other babies. I wailed with you. I was totally helpless, not knowing who to hand you over to, or what to give you. Thank God for my wonderful late housekeepeer - the ever efficient Lucy. Now there was the gift from the Gods. She knew exactly what to do with you. Here was a born mother - and I don't mean that in that condescending madame/maid way. She was the genuine item. Her joy was your joy. Your pain was hers. I happily handed you over and cowered in the corner, watching this woman and you create a bond. I became a spectator in your upbringing. For the first eight years of your life Lucy became the mother that I wasn't, or that I could ever hope to be.
That is a story for another book.
Save to say, always remember Lucy and what she meant to you. You were too young to appreciate it then. I am telling you now so you know. So that when you lie on your psychologist's chair sometime from now, you can blame it all on the fact that you had another mother who wasn't me! You can tell the therapist that I was just one of those women who didn't fit into that mould they write about in books, or that they write "mothering" books for. I never read one. Not a single one to this day. Because no book could ever prepare me, or anyone else for that matter. I still believe there is no formula. No theory to raising children. There are no books written for women like me, who love their children, but love them in a very different way to what they tell us. That is why you are in a boarding school, four hours away from where I am. I love being with you at certain moments but not 24/7. I am not one of those women who get "fulfilled" by baking scones for the bake sale, making you a witch costume, or fetching and carrying you from every basketball game.
I will give both my kidneys for you if I ever have to. But I want you to be your own person. To navigate yourself around the world. I want you to become a global citizen, who can chose to live, love, work, enjoy any part of this beautiful world. To see what I haven't seen. To have a network that spans places I have never heard of.

Now that you are at an age where I can have adult conversations with you, let me use this day and this space to tell you what I wish for you. At 16 you can now drive a car or a scooter, (in Zimbabwe that is). Learn how to drive. Don't be like me who is too scared to reverse. I can go forward or sideways. Just don't expect me to go backwards. They tell me it is something embedded in my psychology. But being the villager that I am, I haven't laid me down on a therapist's chair to explore that. Drive yourself around. It gives you freedom, and will give you the licence to explore the world slowly. I can not wait for the day we buy you a car, (with your money honey, not mine), and we take a drive round the SADC region.

16 is the age to explore sexually. You are lucky you are a boy. Yes let's not forget that bit. If you were a girl there would be now talk of you getting married, in some societies you would be given in marriage to some old geyser. That is why I do the work that I do my son. To fight for the rights of girls your age to be free like you are, too choose. To love who they want, when they want. I hope you join me in this fight one day. You are starting to think about sex. Make wise choices. Sadly for you, the word sex is immediately followed by HIV & AIDS. Don't forget you live in a region where this is the topic uppermost in our minds and our lives. You have seen for yourself the huge damage it has done to our family. But it need not be like that. Sex is also about pleasure, joy, fun.
You are still at that age where you don't quite know your own sexuality. At the moment you are totally convinced that you are heterosexual. You are sometimes so homophobic it is not funny! I fully understand. So don't worry there is plenty time to find out. Whatever you are, I will always love you. Be prepared to also change your views about others' sexuality. Don't be a cave-man. I hope I have raised you to recognize that every human being has rights and that it is your responsibility to fight for those rights, and let everyone enjoy their rights. Bigotry, hate, and stereotyping have no place in the society you live in.


Just your having a penis brings with it so much power, privilege, and opens up quite a large number of doors. Coupled with this, the education you are getting, in one of the most privileged schools in this country and beyond, will add to that power and privilege. I so enjoy the confidence that you seem to acquire each and every day you are at St. Andrew's. I have told all my friends how literally you came back from your very first term of Grade 8 and you were walking like you had six balls! I always wondered where that came from when I saw my friends like Brian who walk like that. Chest in the air. Head held up high. Speaking your mind. Asking questions. Looking everyone in the eye. I chuckle each time you have conversations with my friends, you speak like an adult to people in public places, and insist on your rights when you think they are violated. I hope you keep that confidence and that self assuredness. You will need it wherever you go.

The trick though my son, is not to be arrogant. Don't confuse confidence with arrogance. The other trick is how you use your power and privilege of being an educated man. Will you use ito oppress others? To look down upon those who have less than you? Women? Those who are materially deprived? Those who haven't been where you have been? Let me warn you now before you get lost. Don't grow up to be like many privileged men who; have no sense of how much power they wield in such negative ways that they actually curse you if they are ever challenged. Speak so loudly and so abrasively to those with less power as to simply shut them up. Think that women are their possessions. Behave as if everyone should get out of their way because they are lesser beings. It is a good thing to be educated, smart, knowledgeable, and of course to be a man. But use what you have wisely, and justly. It is after all ....a gift from the mushroom....


You must have srong values. Positive values. I will not impose mine on you, but let me suggest some important things; Always hold your family close. In Western society, I am the closest family you have. But you know that is not the case. You were born into my wise, wonderfully huge family. Each one of them has been there for you and me. I hope you will be there for them too. Have friends. Good friends that make you laugh, cry, and share with. Build deep lasting relationships. Be loyal to your friends and family. But not blindly so. Always respect others, elders and peers alike. They will respect you too.

Chose those things that matter. Don't fret about those that don't. Here I worry about the messages you get from TV, movies, and the all too ubiquitous American culture that your generation imbibes by the gallon. You have only been to America once and saw for yourself that not everyone lives in those "cribs" you see on Entertainment tv! Niether does everyone carry that much gold on their teeth or around their necks. As I always tell you, those with real money don't invest it in their teeth or around their necks. Not everyone with a huge car is happy, nor is that huge car even paid for! Money is important, it will buy you all kinds of comforts. But it won't buy you a meaningful life. You will have to define for yourself what that meaningful life is. I will not do it for you.

Read my son. Please read! Anything. Something. Please read. It will widen your horizons. Sadly watching tv, or the internet will never equal reading a good book, a good journal. Be literate. Choose what to watch on tv. Listen to radio. It is sometimes more powerful. Watch good movies with a story. Which will teach you something important. Read newspapers. Know what is happening in the world. There is nothing as embarrasing as asking on facebook, "what is happening in Sudan?" Or, "Who is "Yoweri Museveni?" Hai, no my son. If only for the sake of not embarrasing me, please be up to speed with current affairs.

Travel. Even if it is to East London. It is amazing what you discover about the world, or even about yourself. That is why I dragged you all the way to Vietnam three years ago. I was so proud of you, standing in that sun, with those hundreds of people to see the body of Uncle Ho Chi Minh. You even bought Uncle Ho's bust, t-shit and a poster. You even all about him. I will continue to drag you to more places if I can afford it, because I would like you to know history, so you can understand the present. I don't want you to be ignorant about the past. Travelling will give you empathy, understanding, and connections with other human beings. And of course it is great fun.

Know the history of our beautiful country, and its present politics. You are a citizen. You have not grown up in the country of your birth, but that is the only country that you currently call HOME. Until you chose another home, you owe it to yourself to know what you can about it. Be interested in it.

You are also resident in this great and interesting country, South Africa. It is your present home, (in smaller letters of course). You and this country's freedom were born in the same year. I don't know if you will eventually chose this one as your HOME. For now, enjoy it. Love it. Savour what is has given you. Be interested in where it is going, because you are here.

Someone once said the world is run by those who participate. Join something. Participate in something meaningful. A sporting team. A social club. A debating society. Join a cause. Everyone is always asking you to join one on Facebook I am sure. Find one or two. That is the art of citizenship. If you are just floating about, and letting others define how your world should be, you might as well be dead. Don't float. Anchor yourself. Care about something. Be involved.

I know I am not always the perfect mother. Nor do we always agre on everything. In fact as you grow older we fight a lot about many things you and I. I am not a man, so sometimes I don't know how to deal with your masculinity. But you are my son. I know you will not be so angry with me as to go back to the mushroom. I want what is best for you. I have seen enough harm done to this world by men (and women), who only care about themselves. That is why my fights with you are nearly always about values. About what is important in life rather than what will pass like the proverbial morning dew.

We don't have some rite of passage ritual in my culture, so we will celebrate your birthday when you come on holiday. We will do something fun together. I am still looking for some male role models for you. They will help you deal with all that testeterone, and show you the manly ropes. But as you can imagine that is not as easy as it might look. I have set the bar very high, because I would like to find you men who can teach you to be a loving, caring, sharing, and yet strong man.

For today, I will give you the gift of music. I want you to listen to that wonderful song by Phil Collins called Father to Son. Listen to those words, and call the song Mother to Son.

Somewhere down the road you are gonna find a place,
It seems so far but it never is,
And you won't need to stay,
But you might lose your strength on the way
Sometimes you may feel you are the only one,
Coz all the things you thought were safe...oh now they are gone.
But you won't be alone,
Because I will be here to carry you along
Watching you till all the work is done


If you heart is beating fast then you know she is right
If you don't know what to say well that's alright
Don't know what to do
Remember she is just as scared as you
Don't be shy, even when it hurts to say
Remember, you are gonna get hurt some day anyway
You must lift your head,
Keept it there,
Remember what I said,
I will always be with you don't forget
Just look over your shoulder I will be there


Welcome to a new phase of life my child.

My pet peeves 1

Life is such fun. It really is. But there are those terrible little niggly things that just make you say "ugggh"!!!!! Aren't there? Those seemingly unimportant yet huge things that just send you into a tail spin and your blood pressure shoots up. If you are one of those people who read self help manuals and want to tell me, "no EJ, you must not bother about those little things, there is more to life than honking combi drivers. Be calm. Breathe in...." You are one of my pet peeves! Yes, you really are. Every human being should get riled up by some tiny thing. Mosquitoes rile you. Hands up if you don't get up as soon as you hear that little zzzzing...zzzing round and round your head, down the other end of the room, Zzzing close to your leg! See what I mean?
Getting riled up is a sign that you are still alive and well. That you still have a heart in there and it can pump faster than it should. So there. Admit it, we all have pet peeves. Here are my top ones, for today. There are dozens more where these came from.
1. People who read too many self help manuals and even sound like one. Live your life. There is no manual for EVERYTHING. If God wanted us to have manuals she would have ensured we are all born clutching one.
2. Dirty toilets. Especially on long haul flights. Or in public places. You wait in that long line to get into a loo, your bladder is bursting. One opens up, but it just had to be the dirty one! You just have to be the person faced with this empty but dirty loo. You give the dude/woman who just walked out your dirtiest look. But she says, oh, sorry, I found it like that. I just did my thing standing up. Yeah right....
3. The wobbly trolley. All I want is to do my grocery shopping. I get the trolley. It just has to be the one with wobbly wheels. I only discover this when it's half full, and I am way down the supermarket. Too late to go back and get a good one - especially in those hypermarkets where the trolleys are kept outside. Why oh why!
4. Hair dressers with no hair. It might appear fashionable, but surely the whole point of being a hairdresser is to show us how to dress our hair. Yours included. How are we to know if you do indeed know how to dress hair if you yourself have none?
5. Manicurists with dirty nails and chipped nail varnish. Same as the hair dresser. Does the word "role model" exist in your vocab? If I am to entrust my nails to you I must be assured that they are in safe.....hands, no?
6. Men in (white) socks and sandals. This seems to be a Zimbabwean men's specialty. I know it came with Rhodesia, but now that "Zimbabwe will never be a colony again", to quote the War-vets, should this sloppy dressing be continued? If you are hot, then show us you are hot by wearing sandals. You can't be hot and cold. Sweet and sour is only for Chinese food honey.
7. Loud men. So crass. So unattractive. Especially in public places e.g. restaurants. Or on your mobile phone. Nobody wants to know that you have "yaaah, that five thousand rands in the headboard drawer on the left. Yes, take that one. Eehh, give it to Mai Senzeni, pulazi (pluus), the other 10 thou in the wardrobe. Yes...haaa very very good!" Ditto the loud man in office meetings, workshops. If you can't impress us by the sheer depth of your ideas, don't shout. Volume isn't intellect.
8. I do so dislike text messaging language. This one just drives me up the wall. There is now something called Predictive text. On a good phone, (please buy Sony Ericsson, it finishes spelling the words for you!), predictive text will save you from repetitive strain syndrome. Why send me such a message, "Luv u. Lts go awt 2mo". If you can expend your energy typing the word AWT, why not just type OUT, like a normal civilised human being. LUV? It just doesn't cut it for me. Either you LOVE me, or please just don't say it like that. It takes away the sweetness. And my peeve has nothing to do with age. I can't stand teens or adults who send me such messages or who send them to each other. Oh and in case you didn't know, once you use certain words repetitively - in whatever language, on your beautiful Sony Ericsson, it will get saved on your phone memory. Voila, you can spell KWAKANAKA in full!
9. People who call someone their half brother, half sister, step-daughter.... I know it comes from some Western cultures, but when darkies say it, eek, it just becomes something else. Either they are your sister or your brother. Full stop. If you didn't want to marry their parent, knowing they already had a child then why did you bother? Who do you want to know that that child is not yours but your hubby/wife's etc? What value does that add to anything? Does that mean you love them half? Or hey are a step removed from you then? Half and half is only for American milk methinks. Not humans.
10. Reply All. The reply function is always earlier/closer than Reply all on most computers. Why reply All, particularly when you don't know the ALL? Does everyone really need to know that, "Alice, I haven't seen you for a while girl. I met your son who looks fab". This in response to a group email telling everyone about the forthcoming African Union Summit. Really my dear.
11. Bankless banking. I love technology. But there is a limit. I want to see my banker at least once a month. I want to shake her hand. I want to be assured that she is a good egg, who will not run away with my small savings. I don't want to talk to the faceless call center worker in Bangalore, when I call my bank in Sandton.
12. Uninformed shop-keepers. It doesn't matter that we now politely call them shop assistants/sales consultants/merchandising technicians. They are still shopkeepers. Why keep shop when you don't know what is in the shop or what isn't? I particularly can't stand the ones in record shops who tell me they have never heard of Gregory Isaacs. Or the ones in book shops who have do not know that Barbara Kingsolver has a new book out. So what is the point of your presence in a record shop? Adding to the ambience of the place?

These are my top dozen for today. What are your pet peeves?

The joys of internet dating

I am on leave this week. I just want to chill, enjoy the sunshine, eat lots of Easter eggs, and hot-cross buns. So I am going to write about something totally frivolous! Internet dating. Well, it is not actually as frivolous come to think of it. This is serious business. For starters it is not exactly cheap. At some R350 a month or even more, depending on the site, that is quite a lot to fork out. That is not peanuts by my standards. Then there are the hours you spend on the internet itself, (more money to the service providers), plus your own time. The latter can add up to quite a lot of person hours, just creating your profile alone. That killer profile that is supposed to get the whole world of possible dates impressed.
That is such hard work I can tell you.

As indicated in my 45th birthday blog, internet dating is now the new way of dating, since men in my age, social class, and reproductive stage cohort are now hard to find on the street - so to speak. It sounds almost like a cliche, but it's true. Men in my cohort, (all the above taken into account), are either looking for 14to 25 year olds, or are already married and all they want is a side salad, or heaven forbid they are actually very single, have always been single, so you are bound to wonder what the heck is wrong with them?

Thanks to technology one can now meet a man who is in Mexico, Bahrain, or even (the latest one), Tuvalu, (where is Tuvalu? I am not being silly, I have no idea where Tuvalu is so I have to look it up on a map soon). Gone are the days when we just had to make do with the MuZezuru in the flat opposite yours, or the very boring guy in the admin. department whose sexuality you can't quite determine. On the net, you are supplied with a vast menu. Lots of embillishments of courseon their profiles, but you get the whole toot. You know how old he is, they are not shy to actually tell you how old they are. It is true then that the older men get the more they actually feel they are much more desirable than they were in their 20s. I am amazed at the honesty. But I shouldn't be. Take Toby, his profile says he is 66. He is a handsome widower, who is looking for a woman (aged 25-45), for a serious relationship. He promises lots of fun, lots of travel, fine dining, and the best things that money can buy.I have seen loads of men over 65 or 70 as well. There is no sell by date where dudes are concerned, the older the better. I still remain fascinated by the age group of women the older guys seem to want. The younger the better seems to be the maxim. Inside every man is a Hugh Heffner waiting to pop out?

Some take this honesty thing a little further. Rod, or Hot Rod as he nicknames himself, all of 58 years of age, tells us that he is "happily married", but he is looking for a woman "full of life, to share life's great joyful moments with".
What am I to decipher from Hot Rod? That his wife has lost her interest in life? What would that be about? Has she perhaps become menopausal and therefore struggles to enjoy endless bouts of sex? Or that she has cancer? We will never know. Hot Rod, remains sizzling on the web. There are many more Hot Rods. They even tell me how many children they have. What their wives do/don't do. I guess it is the same as in real life really. So the fact that they put it out in cyberspace should not come as a shock. It is still amazing though to see them advertise their "availability" like that. Maybe their wives don't know how to access the internet, and or neither does anyone remotely connected to them.

Some of the profiles are quite amusing. Almost all the men I have met seem to be "athletic, sporty, enjoy hiking, the out-doors, gym, very fit". They are also very accomplished, as Jane Austen would say, they like classical music, reading, going to the theatre, and art. Wow! Mr Darcy lives! In Cyberland! So if these 59 and 76 year olds are so sporty, who then is dying of heart attacks and makes up the frightening global statistics of male mortality? By sporty do they mean rooting for Man-U on Saturday afternoons in front of their giant flat screens? I can do that, and in fact I do do that without fail each weekend, but I call myself a couch potato, and I don't go anywhere near stadiums. I support Liverpool, just for the record, not Man-U. I also support Jose Mourinho, not the team he coaches, just him, the man looks soooooooooooooo FIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIINEEE. So how do I put that on my profile in a way the guys would understand? I also find it hard to picture any of these very high income earners, very acccomplished men hiking up churu chomumunda maVaShine, (that means the small ant hill in my late grand aunty VaShine's maize field). By athletic I am pretty certain they mean their late blooming libido which is now out of control because of Viagra!

As for the love of the arts, mmm, let's see. Classical music? That is meant to be the height of sophistication is it? My repertoire in that department is rather limited. Actually more like zilch. Theatre? Do they mean ala Market Theatre kind? That I can relate to definitely. My son is studying dramatic arts and I love what we used to call "kuekita!" (Acting, not performing, that is new fancy language for the arts pages of the Mail and Guardian). I did my fair share of school plays from the nativity play, (ask my mum I was always Mary, I was never one of the little lambs in the manger, or goodness me, Joseph's donkey!), to the Merchant of Venice in Grade Six, (I was Shylock!), to Horatio, much later in life. I can relate to that. But then I don't think men of that age will be impressed to know that I played Shylock and Horatio because none of the boys in my class cut the mustard. Totally so not the kind of woman they envisage massaging their feet when the arthritis sets in.

The reading bit is fantastic if its true! There are men after my own heart! I can live with anyone of them from Jesus in Bolivia, to Dave in Randburg. Oh, come! Oh come! I mean that literally boys. We can spend all our days, and nights turning the pages. But wait, what would we be reading? That is what I want to know. It doesn't say on their profiles and there is no room to explain what kind of "literature" my suitors like. With one or two I can see they do read good serious literature. Useful stuff that actually teaches them something. The rest I am not convinced. Surely if they were serious readers why, oh why would they be such bad spellers! That is the bane of my internet dating. I know, Jesus and Rahman can not be expected to have perfect Anglaise given where they are coming from. But am sorry, if one is serious, then they owe it themselves, if not to me, to at least do a simple spell check. Surely every computer comes with a spell checker? There is just no excuse, and it is totally insufferable, (is that the right spelling? My excuse is that I can't find the spell checking device on this blogspot. Someone please help!). Eagerly seeking a mate as I am, I just can not bear the bad speller, the bad grammar man. No, somethings are just too important to ignore.
"Why are you QUITE?" asked Paul. "I am waiting for your respond", quoth Sipho.
"You are a very nice looking women. I am a one women kind of guy", bragged Thabo.
Ok you get where this is going. I should not be mean about my current hosts, but really, they are the pits! Woman, women, quite, borrow me your pen. The list is endless. I can not cope with this bad grammar and spelling. I just can't If I dated them for real I would end up taking my red pen and consistently editing them as they spoke. Bantu education or not, bad English is a date killer.

I shall stick to the Sultan over in Bahrain. At least he impresses me with his bling in cyberspace. There is also always Jose the poetic one. I forgive him the grammatical errors, he is after all a sexy Latina. "I am truly loving you. When will you meeting me my love. My angel. My mouth is wait your sweeet kiss. My body is paining your soft touch. Fly, fly, for me here in Buenos Aires".
I could happily produce sextuplets for this man. If only I still had a uterus. Put up your photo on your profile Jose, I will fly for you in Buenos Aires. I have the wings.

21 March

The weather was exactly the same as it was today. It was 10 years ago. Not very cold. Not very hot. It kept threatening to rain. Then by 11am it started raining. A blinding torrent that just went on and on for a few hours. I was cold. I could not get out of bed. Just like I couldn't today. My feet felt like lead. My head felt like someone else's log. Thankfully it was South Africa's human rights day. So I could sleep all day if I wanted. Hunger pangs finally pushed me out of bed though.
As we ate brunch, my aunt Phiso, my brother Derek and I, the phone rang. A loud piercing ring, as if it needed to ring louder that day. Nobody stood to pick it up. We were all too scared to pick it up. We all knew what that call was announcing. I looked at the clock on the wall, as my aunt rose to get the call. It was already after 12 noon. I could still catch the evening flight to Harare, then my brother Bruce would drive us to Bulawayo. I stood up, and walked past my crying aunt who wanted to hand me the phone. I went into the kitchen, washed my hands, wiped them nicely and even rubbed some nice lotion as if I was getting ready to go on a date.
My aunt kept holding out the phone. I took it from her. My mum was on the phone, wailing so badly she didn't need to say anything. I don't think she ever said anything. I don't remember if she did. I calmly said, "It's ok mum. We knew this day was coming. What can we do? We did what we could. That is how life is. I will try to get on a plane tonight. I will see you later ok? Don't cry now. I am coming".
As if I was the one who would come and wake my brother Happiness up from the dead, and make my mother happy again. Make us all happy. Like the short-cut for his name. Happy, we called my second elder brother.

It was a good name, Happy. For that was how he always was. Our parents were very optimistic. They had given us all very similar....happy....names. Gloria. Jabulani (which means be happy or rejoice), Happiness, Gladys...Everjoice....They must have been on a high for many decades. A high which vanished as the decade from 1990 wore on, losing their children, one after the other. Still it was a lovely touch. We all had names that must have made them very happy, positive, and glad to have us. That was as life should be. Bright and full of promise, possibilities. Happiness.

I don't remember what Happy was like as a child because we didn't grow up together. He was living with (my cousin in English), Bruce's mum and dad. Bruce and I lived in the village with our grandparents and my mum.
The few occassions that I saw him at Christmas, Easter, or some family gathering, I just remember that he was always laughing, a loud racuous laugh that always reverbarated throughout the house, or vlei, or wherever we were.
I knew him more when he became an adult.
He still had the booming laugh. Made louder by drinking. He could laugh, and laugh, and laugh. Much to my grandmother's annoyance. She didn't think it appropriate for anyone to laugh like that. At every function, or holiday Happy would get thoroughly sozzled. And laugh. And laugh. Then he would fall asleep in the middle of an argument or conversation. Snore very loudly. Completely lights out.
Then suddenly he would wake up, as if he had been with us all along and ask, "saka mati toita sei?" (So what are we going to do?). We would all laugh, and laugh.
In 1993 he fell dead asleep in the middle of an argument about how to conduct our eldest sister Gloria's funeral. We argued and debated. Happy continued to snore. Strangely he continued to perch very comfortably on an upturned crate of coca-cola.
No rocking, no falling face down into the fire. No. Just snored in a perfectly upright position.Then calm as an April afternoon, he opened his eyes. Yawned loudly. Stretched himself and announced, "yes, definitely we just go to Doves Morgan tomorrow morning, have the service at the chapel there and bury her soon after. I don't think anyone disagrees with that, do they?" He stood up, dusted off his Pierre Cardin pants and strolled off in search of a beer.

Ah the designer clothes! That was another of Happy's trademarks. Any day of the week. Anywhere he was, my brother loved GOOOD clothes. We almost killed each other over who would inherit his beautiful shirts, trousers, shoes, jackets. I went to see him in Mater Dei hospital in February, before he died. As soon as he saw me he asked if I had a car. He told (told, not asked), me to go to his house and fetch half a dozen items of clothing. Each by its designer name. The man was not about to lie about in striped hospital jammies.
During the December holidays, he came home for Christmas. His last. Everyone of my mum's neighbours and church members who came to visit would come in, as they normally do, nicely and meekly. Looking very sad and sympathetic. They would shake everyone's hand and sit down. Then they would ask, looking around in wonder, "ko vakadii vagwere?" (How is the one who is unwell?). Their eyes darting around the whole family, wondering which one of us could possibly be ill. Happy would be sitting up, in his most beautiful clothes (and socks!)! So they could not imagine that this designer clad man was in any way ill. He would laugh and put them out of their discomfort, "hee hee, it's me! Ah, you saw the nice and clean clothes and wondered eh? Ah I am very sick. Very sick".

Happy passed away on the 21st of March, 2000. He was only 40. On a day just like this. South Africa's Human rights Day. How ironic. Or apt. Depending on how you see it. My brother like many of his generation, died of AIDS related complications. This was the year 2000. Access to treatment was not as easy as it has now become in Zimbabwe and in many parts of the world. The cheapest triple therapy at that time was close to R2 000 a month. A small fortune for any of us by any standards, nobody in the extended family could afford to sustain this expense for however long. We tried all options, it just looked and sounded grim. The public health system could not provide anything other than cotrimoxazole. Happy's medical aid could only pay for hospital stay, (private no less), and the same cotri, but not sustained triple therapy. We simply watched our brother die. The right to health-care a distant dream, a wish.

By the year 2000 my family had become experts at this watching and burying business. We even got on first name terms with the undertakers. Between 1993 and 2000 we had buried at least 8 members of the extended family. You would think that made the subsequent deaths easier, understandable. But nothing ever does. Each time it is different. Harder than the last time. Much more painful. That is why my legs felt like lead this morning. That is why the blog never got finished on the same day. So you are getting it on the 22nd.

Am glad I waited though. Because there is something to celebrate as well, and so besides remembering my brother on this day, I will remember that this is the day the (modest), healthcare reforms were passed in the United States!
I feel like a kindred soul to the American people, (the ones denied the right to health care that is, not the other lot!). Access to decent, affordable, nay, FREE healthcare, is a right billions of people do not have. In this sub-region, this has been made stark by the HIV & AIDS epidemic. The simple fact that millions of people died because they could not afford life saving drugs is a tragedy of mega proportions. Young, energetic, people, the future of our families and generations. It sounds so tiring saying it over and over again. In the United States, the seeming land of plenty, millions do not have access to health care. Most of them are poor black people. What I find unfathomable is how others, with money, privileges and access to healthcare which they take for granted, do not think that the right to health care is a universal one. They think it is theirs only because, they are the ones who "who work hard and deserve it" (their words). Like the rest of humanity doesn't? Modest as the changes in America today are, it is something to celebrate, and not take for granted.

In Zimbabwe and many other countries in the SADC region, access to free, or very cheap anti-retroviral therapy is now much much better than it was 10 years ago. It is now common to hear people on public transport in Gweru say, "Ah ari right sterek, ari pa-chirongwa"...(she is ok, she is now on the program! Meaning, anti retroviral program).The changes have not just come about though. Civil society movements, women and men living with HIV fought for the right to free anti-retrovirals. I am glad I have been on that front-line. In my own small way.

If only my brothers and sister had had accesss to treatment. If only our government/s hadn't waited so long. If only. My brother would be teaching my teenage son a thing or two about high fashion today.

RIP vaMawarire. May the angels enjoy those dazzling clothes and that great laugh.