MY CHRISTMAS SHOPPING WOES

After spending three consecutive days finalising my Christmas shopping, I can safely say I’ve had my fair share.  Here are some of the things I hate about shopping:

·    The endless process of looking for parking.

·   Too many people...like I’m not one of them.

·   Queues at pay points.

·   Queues at restaurants.

·   Queues at gift wrapping stations.

·  .Queues in the ladies rooms.

·   Ok...queues.

·   People who jump queues. That’s just ghetto.

·   Noisy unruly kids.

·   Worse still, kids who scream while rolling on the floor.

·    Kids.

·    Thin Santa Clause in a worn-out costume. Not cool.

·    Mistaking a shopper for a shop assistant. Oops, my mistake.

·    Shop assistants who follow you around, giving a commentary for every item you touch.

·   People who blatantly bump your ankles with trolleys and think that a lousy “sorry” will take away the crippling pain.

·         People who snatch parking that you've patiently been waiting for while the other car takes it’s time pulling out of the parking bay.

·         People who fill up the elevators when they don’t have a pram, trolley or heavy parcels. Take the escalators or stairs!

·         People who find you waiting for the elevator and press the already illuminated button. Your special touch won’t make the elevator come faster, stupid!

·         Worse still, people who find you waiting for the elevators and be the first ones to push inside, not even allowing other people to get off.

·         People who wait in the queue to pay for parking and only scratch for coins when they've inserted their parking ticket in the machine. How about sorting out your coins while you wait!

·         Too many tempting specials.

·         Security guards who insist on checking your bags and purchased goods when the shop has a detection system. Do I look like a thieve?!

·         Couples who walk around holding hands, blocking the way.

·         Couples who fondle and kiss. Public indecency, get a room!

·         Bad service. It’s not my problem that you’ve been working long strenuous hours. 

·         Too much Boney M.

·         People who drop clothing items on the floor and leave them there. Do the decent thing and pick up after yourself.

·         People who snatch the last item on the shelf that you've also been eyeing.

·         Trolley attendants who insist on pushing your trolley no matter how much you explain that you don’t need help. 

·         When shopping is finally done, spending time looking for your car and reporting it stolen only to discover you were looking for it at the wrong place. 

HOLIDAYS ARE AROUND THE CORNER!

ECHOES OF MY MOLESTED CHILDHOOD

In commemoration of 16 Days of activism against women and children, I share this essay...

I hear the sound of his car pulling into the driveway. There’s a loud bang as it comes to a stop. It must have hit the bucket and mop that stood against the wall. He is drunk.

A cloud of fear suddenly envelops the house, intoxicating the warm atmosphere. I feel my limbs weakening. My younger sister goes mute. My mother shudders across the room, getting the tray ready to serve dinner. Fear is silently shared among us.

He staggers through the kitchen door with bloodshot eyes, without acknowledging my mother standing by the table; he walks through to the living room and collapses on the couch next to the TV. He mumbles senseless things in slurred speech. I can’t tell what he’s saying and I don’t care. I look at him with loathing, wishing he was dead. I hate him, I hate the fact that he is my father and I hate his blood that runs in my veins.

I stare at the TV and all I see are moving images. I just stare, trying not to look at him, trying to make him fade away.

He changes the channel without even considering that my sister and I are watching and immediately drifts to sleep. I sit and wonder what he thinks of us, if he has any care in the world for his kids.

My mother walks in with a tray of food and places it in front of him. She gives him a gentle pat on the shoulder. He opens his big red eyes and lowers them to the tray. He hardly looks at her. She tells him that his supper is ready in a soft voice like she’s begging for approval. She leaves to collect our plates. He stares at his food, digs one scoop into it, chews slowly and sinks back into his couch.

I struggle to eat. I tell my mother I’m full and she instructs me to finish my plate. I pretend to eat and my sister does the same. I tell my mother I’m off to bath and sleep. She asks my father to switch back to the channel we were watching but he ignores her. My sister and I leave the room.

I later notice that all he ate was that one scoop of food. My mother takes his plate back to the kitchen and places it in the microwave, saying that maybe he’ll want to eat it the next day.

I lie in bed angry, hating my life and hating the fact that my mother won’t stop loving this man. I eventually drift to sleep.

I’m later woken up by sounds of my mother screaming for help. I hear bangs against the wall. Is he hitting her head against it? What has she done wrong? He repeatedly shouts that he will kill her. She begs for mercy. I run to their door and shout for him to open it but he won’t. I know that neighbours can hear this commotion but they won’t intervene. They never do. We’re on our own. I keep banging the door. She won’t stop screaming and the claps and bangs from inside their bedroom won’t stop.

I go back to my bed and coil myself up into a ball. I hear his gun cocking. She apologizes and begs him not to shoot her. I try to close my ears, hoping against the sound of a gunshot that will take my mother away. Maybe this is the night that he will finally kill her.  

Then I remember my grandmother’s words that prayer can help in any situation and begin to pray. I pray for God to come and rescue us from this hell. I pray that He keeps my mother safe.

It’s 4am now and I’m still praying. My mother sounds like she doesn’t have enough breath left to scream. At least she’s still alive. I pray until I drift to sleep.

It’s 8am. I wake up to the smell of bacon, eggs and fries. I walk to the kitchen to find my mother making breakfast. Her face is swollen and her eyes are puffy from crying. She wears a pretence smile as she places the eggs perfectly on my father’s plate.

I fail to understand her position and wish I can shake her into reasoning. Anger builds up inside me. I walk to my parent’s bedroom. The door is slightly open and my father’s tall thin figure is thrown on the bed. He almost looks unconscious. I push the door open, slide in and push it back the way it was. The smell of alcohol and stale cigarettes fills the room. I wonder how my mother sleeps in here. He is topless. I wonder if he forced himself on her. I stare at him with complete utter hatred. His side drawer is slightly open. That’s where he keeps his gun, his weapon of power. I pull the drawer open and see the gun lying there.

I pick it up. It’s heavier than I thought. I aim it in his face. I want to fire countless shots to make sure he doesn’t survive. I imagine peace that would come thereafter. This man would be gone and we would not fear anymore. My mother would be safe and our pain would slowly begin to heal. My hands begin to shake and my arms get weak. At that moment I hear my mother calling from the kitchen, my father takes a deep breath and moves his shoulder like he is getting ready to wake. I quickly put the gun back in the drawer and leave the room.

My mother tells me breakfast is almost ready. I nod and walk out to the veranda. It’s a beautiful sunny Sunday morning. I watch people walk to church with bibles under their arms. Neighbours wave as they go about their day, like they don’t know the truth. Birds chirp, dogs bark and children play. All is back to normal until the sun sets, until my father’s next drink...

REMEMBERING MADIBA

Today marks a year after the passing of our beloved Madiba.  I still remember the day like it was yesterday.  I was in surfing the internet around 23h00 when I came across a friend’s Facebook post announcing his passing.  At first I thought it was just another false report as there had been many in the past. I then turned on the TV to seek confirmation and there it was, President Zuma was breaking the dreaded news to the nation.  The day had come, our Madiba had departed.

I sat and watched the whole world receive and react to this news until 03h00.  Tears were streaming down my face as I felt a deep sense of loss. 

As a parliamentary official I was soon engaged in activities that would form part of the country’s 10 days of mourning.  A Joint Sitting of Parliament was immediately called for Monday 09 December 2013. As Parliament had just gone on recess and parliamentarians were at their constituencies across the country, the weekend was spent getting all 454 of them back to Cape Town for the Sitting.  

After the Sitting I started to withdraw from the buzz to join the nation in mourning. I still remember how the country came to a standstill during that period. All media content was stalled, it was all about Madiba and I don’t remember hearing a single person complain. People gathered at public places to share their loss and messages of condolences flooded in from across the globe.

I remember the official memorial service at FNB Stadium that attracted at least 80 foreign heads of state, a record in history.  I remember thinking “Wow, who would have thought that this country of mine in this dark continent would someday be so significant?” Truth is, Madiba and many of our struggle heroes did believe that it would be someday.

I cannot forget the rain that poured down endlessly, symbolising a blessing.

Madiba lie in state at the Union Buildings in Pretoria where he was inaugurated as the first democratic president. Lying in state was a concept new to me but also welcomed as it afforded many South Africans an opportunity to bid farewell and find closure.  I was one of the thousands of people that viewed his mortal remains before they were taken to his ancestral village of Qunu for the burial.

Although I could have found an easier and quicker way to view his remains, I decided to humble myself and join other fellow compatriots in the endless queues. The day will remain memorable for as long as I live. I got to one of the parks at 06h00 and stood in the longest queue I’ve ever seen and only got to view him 10 hours later. The experience was mind-blowing. The people were representative of the rainbow nation; all ages, races and backgrounds. People kept remarking about how the day replayed the first democratic elections. I found it incredible that Madiba’s parting gathered people the same way it did at the beginning of democracy that he had sacrificed his life for.

After seeing Madiba for the last time, I found a sense of peace within myself and hoped for the same peace for the country.

Sadly as we remember him today, there a several reports of racist attacks and many societal challenges.  However, Rome wasn’t built in one day. Countries which were liberated long before us still struggle with similar issues. So long as we don’t forget the ideals taught by Madiba and commit to personally bringing about change, one day we will overcome.