of them in the family, a mother and father, three daughters and little Jimmy, the only boy, and each morning, before they officially awake, all four kids sluggishly head for the parents’ bedroom to what they call the Start/Finish bed for the daily Benedicts Family Team Huddle. It’s a scramble to see who can get into the bed first and secure themselves the warmest spot, even if it means stepping on mom’s head or jabbing dad in the stomach in the process. The show always begins with somebody falling out of the bed and ends with mom hysterically dragging everybody, sometimes even dad, out of the room! Of course that kind of stuff only happens on TV. In real life people have to go to work.
I call this symphony ‘Unfinished’ because that is the only word I remember being able to pronounce when I read the title on the back of the CD cover. Tshepo once danced to this piece at one of his ballet concerts at the clubhouse. This is the only CD Daddy has ever bought and the one that perpetually howls in his car when he is not listening to the news. I find this kind of music invasive and not a taste I think I would like to acquire, as Daddy describes it. I wonder if it is really a taste in classical music that Daddy acquired or rather a taste of money that has led to his desire for all things that insinuate wealth and stability.
Mama does not like to be touched. I personally have never seen it happen but she tells me that her skin is sensitive and breaks out in rashes if it is in contact with human flesh for a prolonged period of time. Children’s hands are especially lethal and cause her a ghastly amount of discomfort when and after she comes into contact with them. Mama suspects it is because children by nature are filthy and thus exacerbate her fussy skin’s response to touch.
Mama appears to be content with her creation. She puts her sunglasses on and sits back in the seat. I am impressed. With a few handbag essentials and the help of the vehicle side mirror and front-seat visor, Mama has within minutes transformed herself from unassuming proud mother of two and grateful housewife to cosmopolitan woman-on-the-move. She will be in the house only long enough to swiftly change out of her pure white Sunday dress. Then she will be on the road again, off to swap scandals with the ladies over crushed ice and olives.
I wish I could have danced for Mama, but Lady Gertrude would not have me in her class. I was all angles: elbows and knees prodding out of every corner of my pre-pubescent square-shaped body. I should have been Tshepo and Tshepo me. Mama’s Tshepi. I don’t know if Tshepo ever really enjoyed the Pliés and Pas de Chats, or the baby-blue leotard and white lace on the satin slippers. I suppose it made no difference whether he did or not.
Tshepo was magnificent. His slight frame, sustained arms and legs, deft chin, precise nose, easy shoulders and delicate manner in which he swirled all across the portable stage and behind the curtains had the audience of doting mothers, envious sisters and well-meaning neighbours mesmerised. Tshepo had everything that made Mama beautiful and the one thing that would have made her perfect: Daddy’s fair skin. Tshepo always knew how to make Mama gleeful.
I had thought back then that if I could give my nose a name, then it would be easier to combat. At the end of grade five we went on a three-day school camp to Pilanesberg. On our first night we played a game called Mud Wars. I remember it was Bush Babies against The Dolphins. I was one of The Dolphins, but do not remember having anything to do with the inappropriate name of the group. We had been told to pack old clothing prior to our departure, and that is what we were wearing when our camp leaders collected us from our dormitories to direct us to the lake where the game would be held. Each team member was instructed to fetch a long stick from a pile that had been previously assembled by the camp leaders.
I call this symphony ‘Unfinished’ because that is the only word I remember being able to pronounce when I read the title on the back of the CD cover. Tshepo once danced to this piece at one of his ballet concerts at the clubhouse. This is the only CD Daddy has ever bought and the one that perpetually howls in his car when he is not listening to the news. I find this kind of music invasive and not a taste I think I would like to acquire, as Daddy describes it. I wonder if it is really a taste in classical music that Daddy acquired or rather a taste of money that has led to his desire for all things that insinuate wealth and stability.
Mama does not like to be touched. I personally have never seen it happen but she tells me that her skin is sensitive and breaks out in rashes if it is in contact with human flesh for a prolonged period of time. Children’s hands are especially lethal and cause her a ghastly amount of discomfort when and after she comes into contact with them. Mama suspects it is because children by nature are filthy and thus exacerbate her fussy skin’s response to touch.
Mama appears to be content with her creation. She puts her sunglasses on and sits back in the seat. I am impressed. With a few handbag essentials and the help of the vehicle side mirror and front-seat visor, Mama has within minutes transformed herself from unassuming proud mother of two and grateful housewife to cosmopolitan woman-on-the-move. She will be in the house only long enough to swiftly change out of her pure white Sunday dress. Then she will be on the road again, off to swap scandals with the ladies over crushed ice and olives.
I wish I could have danced for Mama, but Lady Gertrude would not have me in her class. I was all angles: elbows and knees prodding out of every corner of my pre-pubescent square-shaped body. I should have been Tshepo and Tshepo me. Mama’s Tshepi. I don’t know if Tshepo ever really enjoyed the Pliés and Pas de Chats, or the baby-blue leotard and white lace on the satin slippers. I suppose it made no difference whether he did or not.
Tshepo was magnificent. His slight frame, sustained arms and legs, deft chin, precise nose, easy shoulders and delicate manner in which he swirled all across the portable stage and behind the curtains had the audience of doting mothers, envious sisters and well-meaning neighbours mesmerised. Tshepo had everything that made Mama beautiful and the one thing that would have made her perfect: Daddy’s fair skin. Tshepo always knew how to make Mama gleeful.
I had thought back then that if I could give my nose a name, then it would be easier to combat. At the end of grade five we went on a three-day school camp to Pilanesberg. On our first night we played a game called Mud Wars. I remember it was Bush Babies against The Dolphins. I was one of The Dolphins, but do not remember having anything to do with the inappropriate name of the group. We had been told to pack old clothing prior to our departure, and that is what we were wearing when our camp leaders collected us from our dormitories to direct us to the lake where the game would be held. Each team member was instructed to fetch a long stick from a pile that had been previously assembled by the camp leaders.
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