I was born in 1974 and I grew up in a ‘whites only’ suburb, unknowingly living out the National Party government’s fantasy.
I cannot recall much of it.
At the time stuffing sand in my mouth was a bigger priority than pondering over political issues.What I do remember though, was the black woman whom my parents employed as a housekeeper in the late ’70s.
Her name was Emma. Just Emma. No surname.
She did the dishes, made the beds and cleaned the toilet.
Most middle and upper class whiteys had black house maids, so I guess lower back pain wasn’t a big problem.
I recall my mother having to get special permission for Emma to live and sleep in our outside room.
It was called a ‘Pass’, and she was not allowed out the yard come early evening.
She even cooked us ‘putu’, which she could do perfectly, making it light and fluffy.
Well, she got fired after my mother caught her ‘black-handed’ in the sinful act of drinking coffee from one of our cups, and not from the enamel tin cup she was given and which had to be washed and kept outside.
That was the end of Emma’s suburban fantasy, and the start of my cereal nightmare, because instant porridge was, at the time, not much tastier than the sand in our backyard.
Whatever infectious disease housemaids carried in those days have since been eradicated, because today my mom just love having coffee at Wimpy, and drinks it with reckless disregard to the many black people whom had used that very same cup before her.
Africa is harsh
Living the European dream in Africa was an expensive lifestyle, and in 1980 mom had to take a job as a bank teller.
Again a maid was employed to do the dirty work, and also to make me ‘putu’ when I came home mid-morning, having escaped from the horrible crèche on the other side of town and walked home.
Her name was Anna.
Her husband, Alfred, was on his hands and knees in our garden on Saturdays.
One of the boys at the crèche was also named Alfred and that I found very, very peculiar.
I asked the child how he can have a black name if he’s white, and he said he was named after his father.
In my six-year-old mind that made him our gardener’s son.
It was terribly confusing.
Confusing or not, life in suburbia was blooming, so dad bought a fancy electric lawnmower on a brand new credit card.
He said the Rolux Magnum will make the neighbour go green in the face while he’s sweating to start his old petrol machine.
Alfred, our gardener and my white friend at school’s father, could not afford to worry about envious white racial features because he had to concentrate very hard not to cut the Rolux’s cord.
But he did cut the cord and it happened on the same morning that his poor Anna accidentally left the cage door open that contained dad’s prize show budgie.
That night they were either jobless or homeless or both – Alfred, Anna and the bird.
Whether you’re white, black or colourful with feathers, somewhere in your harsh African existence you are bound to spend some time in the dark.
It’s just a matter of when your number is up.
