Day 165: The Tshabalalas

My first mlungu impression of Ma Tshabalala, when I’m dropped off by one of the local teachers, is that she must be the house help. She is sweeping the intricately patterned paving outside the double garage when she is introduced to me as the lady of the house. She shows me to my room, points out which bathroom is mine to use and gives me some time to freshen up before we have tea in the sun. I can sense that she’s a little unsure of me. Our uneasy conversation includes lots of polite questions. Ma Tshabalala says I can call her Mahloni. Her full name is Malehlohonolo.

Then she asks me if I can cook and we move into the kitchen. It is there, while we prepare a meal together, that the conversation starts to flow. By the time her husband, Simon, comes home, Mahloni and I are very much attuned to one another.

My first impression of Simon is that of a man who is easy on himself. Like there is nothing that he needs to prove to anyone any more. While Mahloni adds the finishing touches to our dinner I learn more about him. Since he retired, Simon has time to exercise his passion, which is farming his piece of land on the other side of town. He used to work as a supervisor in a factory. When I hear this, I ask whether that was a difficult achievement under the apartheid regime. I mean, how did he get promotions? Wasn’t it quite uncommon for a black man at the time?

Simon is slight of build, his voice gentle, kind and patient. When I hear his answers to my questions I understand that he has had to show much grit and persistence in the face of adversity. He explains how he earned the respect of his white colleagues by being better than the best. One of his many promotion interviews was conducted by a panel of forty-one people. ‘Forty-one! Can you imagine that?’ he asks. ‘They had to satisfy themselves that a black man could operate a chemical plant.’

He remembers how some of his black colleagues were intimidated by his success. When I ask him whether he made any white friends in the workplace, he says, ‘Absolutely. A lot. A lot of them.’

We have our dinner in front of the television so that Mahloni can watch her soapies. Simon just shakes his head. ‘These soapies have been running for years! And nothing changes. What exactly is the point of them?’

Mahloni gives him a sweet look and retorts, ‘What’s the point of this WWF that you like so much?’

The next day she wants to visit an old friend and asks me to come with her. We find the old lady sitting in front of a television that isn’t quite in focus. It has a snowy background. It is the same with the little radio in the kitchen. Not quite tuned to the channel.

Mama is not feeling well. It’s her knees. They bother her. She looks tired. She offers tea or water. ‘Sorry, I did not know I’d have guests, so I have no cooldrink’.

The thought of this old lady feeling put out in her own home makes me want to comfort her. ‘Mama, please don’t apologise. I come into your home with nothing to give.’

At that she jerks with indignation. ‘You NEVER come with nothing!’

She must see my discomfort and softens her voice, still tsking under her breath, ‘You cannot come 
with nothing.’

My head is spinning. Okay, I had better come up with something fast then. I’m mentally rummaging through my backpack. There are many goodies in there. Surely I’ll find something suitable for her?

Then the Mama speaks again. Shaking her head, she says, ‘It is just not possible to come with nothing. You come with all that you are.’

Mahloni gets up and switches the kettle on. I sit and look at this wise woman. She sees that I get it and it is as if she knows that I will be a better uBuntu Girl now.