Proud to be South African

Last week was the 20th anniversary of Nelson Mandelas release from prison. The media teemed with individuals who were sharing their experiences about that historic event. It made me remember how my family was feeling at the time. My parents are immigrants from Mozambique so the mood was ambivalent when we heard about the unbanning of the ANC.

My father being the eternal optimist had stayed in Lourenco Marques always hoping that things would get better. The social dynamic in Mozambique had been very different to that in South Africa in the 1970’s there was more of a class system, my father had gone to university with future President Chisano, so he believed that sanity would prevail. He was wrong. Mobs were going through middle class neighbourhoods looting and killing. When they got to our house my parents manservant, Orlando lied and told them that there wasn’t anyone home. We had hidden in the crawl space between the ceiling and the roof tiles. I was three and my father never let me forget that a black man had saved our lives.

We fled the country in 1975 and arrived in Johannesburg with whatever belongings fit into a white Mini Minor, the guards at the border having taken whatever they felt was the property of ‘the people’. My earliest memory is driving through into South Africa that night and it raining so much that the water seeped into the red interior of the car. The civil war started very soon after that.

We were lucky, God and fate conspired and our meagre savings, like the forty fishes, stretched. I know that the apartheid regime favoured my white father in finding a job but what you must remember is that the Afrikaners saw all other cultures besides their own as being lower. He worked late all the time and most weekends but when he was around, he spent all that time with us, and I was privileged enough to have a mother that didn’t work.

I remember watching an episode of The Cosby Show in which a poster saying Free Mandela was on the inside of one of the kid’s bedroom doors. I turned to my Dad and commented proudly that we were being noticed, he told me not to be too happy things could so easily go the wrong way.

The images of Nelson and Winnie Mandela walking hand in hand down the dusty road are ingrained in my 19-year-old brain, Alex Jay on Radio 5 talking with admiration about meeting Mr Mandela who was humble, stately and forgiving. We were filled with excitement at the prospect of a new freer multi coloured future.

I feel that South Africa has been incredibly lucky to be in the position we are in now without going through the horrific transition of war. The conspiracy theorist in me says that the ANC’s armed struggle and the National Party’s realisation that the path that our country was taking could not be sustained for much longer were not enough of a catalyst to bring about the changes in the early nineties. Huge amounts of cash must have changed hands. We all have our price, I wonder what Mr de Klerks was, he and his new wife bought an island in Greece after he left SA politics with plenty of money left over I’m sure. If someone’s money bought us a ‘Get out of war free card’ then I’m eternally grateful.

Terminally late.

My friends organised a picnic at the Walter Sisulu Botanical Gardens, we were all supposed to meet at 1pm at the usual spot. A well shaded area that’s close enough to the toilets so that we don’t have to schlep too far with the kids when they need to go and to the restaurant if we need to buy extra drinks or ice cream.

I tried to be on time, I really did. Ok so I got up later than I normally do at 9am and then cooked a large breakfast for the gardener and ourselves. Hubby had asked me the night before to give him a haircut, and because he had it done the boys got theirs cut too. I could have sent them to the Barber but being a cheapskate I do it myself, they look all right, they don’t have that ‘I put a bowl on the head and cut around it’ look or the ‘military brat’ look, but then I’m biased. By the time I’d finished it was 12:30 and I still had to make us all lunch and pack the picnic. Well, we only got to the Botanical Gardens at 2pm.

Now, I didn’t go through the above just to get sympathy about how busy my life is or that I’m terrible at time management (my Dad insists I am). The point I was trying to make is that I’m always late and there is always a valid excuse. What I want to try to figure out is why? Before I had the kids I was always early, my watch was set ten minutes ahead and I so whenever I had a meeting I was there on time. After the kids and the pudding brains it all went south.

My watch is still set five minutes ahead but all I do is minus that off the time to get the actual time and there goes that contingency. I could blame the kids, anyone who is a mom will understand how much nagging and whining and ‘wait I have to get the…’ before we even get to the car. If only it were that simple. I, in my personal capacity, childless and husbandless am always late. Kathy from the library book club knows if she gets a lift with me, she won’t be on time. We get to Karate with only seconds to spare and the kids will have to run to the class.

Oprah once told us how she was constantly late for her workout sessions and how her trainer said; ’When you are late you disrespect me and my time’. I don’t think I do that, I try, I really do!!! I have a theory, it’s the universe that’s conspiring against me, it wants me to appreciate the moments I’m in. To live in the now and not worry about the future and being on time. Well that’s my theory and I’m sticking to it.