and said, ‘Sorry madam, please don’t use words like that around me, ne?’ It was obvious she was being genuine. ‘The only people who have been really good to me are black people. I even voted for the ANC in the last election and would have done the same in the last two elections if I hadn’t been in prison.’ Siz, who was watching from the sidelines, playing with Hintsa and pretending not to pay attention, laughed.
Siz knows how I dislike it when white people try too hard to show that they are liberal; I find it insincere. How did Marita even know I was pro-ANC since we had never talked politics? (Although it would be difficult to find any middle-class black person who is strongly anti-ANC at this moment in time.)
What the heck though, at least I would have a maid who had passed Standard Nine, had passable English and would be able to read Hintsa Aesop’s Fables when I stayed late at the office. She would also be able to help him with his alphabet and other little pre-school homeworks. And since my knowledge of Afrikaans was, as I had told the coordinator, almost non-existent, she would definitely be handy to have around should Afrikaans become one of the eleven official languages the little man wants to learn. ‘Okay then. Consider yourself hired,’ I told her.
I arranged to come and pick Marita up the following Saturday. This would, hopefully, give her sufficient time to pack.
‘Ag, sorry to bother you madam, but I don’t have any bags,’ Marita said meekly. ‘Can you mos lend me some?’
Here was my chance to get my future maid to think I was the greatest person on earth, while getting Mandla to think I had actually consulted him on a ready-made decision about the maid. ‘I can do better than that,’ I told her. ‘I’ll go buy some and my husband will bring them to you tomorrow, is that all right?’
‘Baie dankie, madam. Oh thank you so much,’ she gushed.
Hintsa, Siz and I immediately made tracks to Eastgate to test the power of plastic. By mid-afternoon, we had amassed loads of bags full of shoes and the little man was complaining that he was tired. ‘That’s why I never want to come with you and Aunt Siz, mommy!’ They grow up so fast these children – now when did this boy learn to talk in absolutes? ‘How dare you say never to your mummy, boy?’ I playfully spanked his bum.
Siz smiled and said I should celebrate the joys of motherhood. Hers was a sad, longing, smile. I knew she wanted children judging from the way she spoilt her godson, nephew, and Lauren’s children – not to mention the Vuyos 2 and 3, who she didn’t even like – but the gods had not been so kind to her. And the mothers of her stepchildren showed her absolutely no respect or gratitude for all she was doing for their offspring.
Munchies led us to Ocean Basket because I was craving mussels. ‘Girl you know I hate all that pretentious black people eating seafood crap, but just this once, since we are celebrating your madamhood, I will put up with it.’ Unlike me, Siz is seriously lacking in adventure as far as food is concerned. If it’s not beef, chicken or fish, she ain’t having it. The food was good, the wine was better and the conversation was, as usual, highly controversial. I think Siz and I probably talk too much politics because more than once Hintsa has chipped in with his little opinion about the land question, white people or BEE, and I know it was not really a five-year old’s opinion but something he had overheard. Siz was, naturally, impressed, ‘I wish the junior Vuyos could be more like your boy.’
‘Nu-uh. Siz, I think we are talking too much politics around this boy. I don’t want him expelled from pre-school for airing our prejudices. Besides, Hintsa would probably be more subdued if he had an evil stepmother like you,’ I teased.
I called Mandla to check in. ‘Whatcha doing?’ I asked.
‘Some boys from Soweto just dropped by and we’re having a few beers. Can you grab us some food, babes?’
Now I was not too anxious to get home. Unfortunately, Siz had to leave and I could not stay at the mall indefinitely, so I suggested to Hintsa that we go video-shopping at Game and thereafter lock ourselves in mommy and daddy’s room with home-made buttered popcorn, liquorice and juice and watch some great cartoons.
As we walk to the parking lot my son looks up at me and tugs my hand.
‘You know the nursery rhymes that I have at school?’ I nod. He continues, ‘Well, I have been thinking, if Jack Sprat’s wife ate no lean, and Jack Sprat ate no fat, that would mean they did not eat well, right?’
‘Yes baby. I am sure Jack Sprat and his wife did not have a balanced diet.’ I laughed to myself: is the child a future psychiatrist or philosopher, or maybe just a really insightful head of state?
‘Does this mean that Jack was really skinny and his wife was really fat?’ he asks.
‘Sweetie, it’s rude to say skinny and fat. You are supposed to say a little overweight and a little underweight.’ Why do I preach the kind of political correctness I do not exercise?
‘So, are they like Auntie Lauren and Uncle Mike?’
I cannot laugh, but I tell myself that I’ll save it to tell Siz. Meanwhile, I have to protect my friend’s honour and her weight from my TV-addled, perfect-looking-cartoon-chicks-watching son.
‘You see baby, Jack Sprat and his wife are not real people. They are made up and they did not eat right. You know Auntie Lauren and Uncle Mike eat right because you eat at their house all the time, so you cannot compare them to Jack Sprat and his wife,’ I lecture.
On our way home, I drove to Ivory Park and picked up some braaied meat for the drunks, along with some pap and atchar, to ensure they would not interrupt Hintsa and my video session.
On arriving home Mandla, aka daddy, and his friends Nathi and What’s-his-face were drunk as skunks. How could that be possible in the few hours that we had been away? And they kept drinking.
‘Daddy, mommy was telling Auntie Siz that you would be drunk when we got home. Are you drunk?’ my big-mouthed son asked.
His drunken father responded, ‘Boy, I told you not to pay attention to the senseless words of women. Of course I am not drunk. Real men can handle their alcohol.’ He was rewarded with a withering look from me which seemed to penetrate his drunken mind because he apologised. Mandla knew I hated it when he made sexist statements, particularly in the presence of our son – I wanted to raise a man who respected and cherished women.
In a huff, I took Hintsa into our room and locked the door. Thank God our bedroom has a fridge (for ‘mommy and daddy’ reasons I will not go into right now), an entertainment centre and an en suite bathroom. The drunken men were really annoying, but the plus side was that I got time to bond with this boy via something we both love greatly: watching Shrek and Antz. Hintsa fell asleep during the second movie so I carried him to his room and tucked him in.
Fortunately the guys decided not to sleep on the floor of my living room. It appears Mandla and his pals had yet another of their drunken fights, which normally result in mental kisses and all being forgotten next time they see each other. The good news for me was that there was only one semi-drunk fool I would have to make breakfast for the next morning. The bad news, alas, was that I was regaled with, ‘I don’t want to deal with these miscreants anymore. Let them eff off. They just want to mooch from me. . .’ This, in typical drunken Mandla fashion, would go on until he fell asleep – because, should I nod off first, he would keep on waking me up to ask me what I thought and giving me sloppy, beer-soaked kisses.
When I woke up, I knew why the man said he was easy like a Sunday morning. Sunday is such a laid-back day – if it weren’t for the rugrat who was knocking on his parents’ door asking whether he could go next door to play with Lauren’s kids. There was always more than enough food at Lauren’s house, but I called Lauren anyway to warn her that my ‘little Hoover’ would be there in a mo. The kids were going to swim, and I would warm up the grill later on so Lauren, Mike, Siz, Vuyo and the kids could join us for a braai – after Mandla had completed his errand of taking the bags to Marita.
I played the sweet housewife and brought Mandla breakfast in bed (a ham and mushroom omelette, his regular five slices