Based on a true story…
Dimo Wa Moraswi Sekele
Not for the faint hearted, that is all I can say for now. When my Girlfriend and I went home for the weekend I was really excited about it. My mom had been praying for the day that she gets to meet a prospective makoti. Little did I know that my girlfriend being a feminist she wasn’t gonna switch up ever in trying to blend in with new people; her feminism was not gonna be switched off as it may (to all feminist women keep at it sisters no matter what you face). So it was time to cook, somehow she volunteered to cook for us which was really great, I could sense the hidden smile on my father’s face and the speechless approvals of my mother (an impression of a good daughter in-law to-be)
So she dished up for everyone, and when she called ‘supper is ready’ the real challenge began… Normally or should I say traditionally the amount of food on a plate speaks volumes (especially the meat chana) so when everyone had their plate in their hands our eyes where somehow fixed at hers because she unconsciously broke one of those non stated ranks. So according to primitive principles she was not supposed to cook the first day she got there so she can observe family protocol. Yes so she can study who gets what but that wouldn’t stop her from dishing the amount she was satisfied with, this occurrence reminded me that the struggle is going to be a very long and hard one.
Everyone on the table could not ignore my father’s facial expression; poor old man could not believe what he was seeing… Firstly there was no water brought to the table so he could wash his hands, secondly his plate had one piece of chicken, only one!! I’ve been knowing my dad to be a 3 pieces of chicken type of guy. My mother had to intervene and all. Regardless of that, the whole night went well and this abovementioned unfortunate situation has thankfully now become a hilarious family joke whenever there is a family gathering.
The struggle in urban areas is different, down here primitive rule is still observed and the tummy of a women is smaller, she also must not eat a lot of meat; I guess that is why Pedi’s play far away from nguni speaking women lool. The question still remains, where does one draw the line between tradition and feminism? stuck in between a rock and a hard place it may seem.
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