‘The Hypotheticals’

‘Because black people don’t raise rabbits!’

And there it was, after years of back-and-forth nagging and evading, the reason I could never convince my mother to buy me one.

‘What will people think seeing a rabbit running around in the yard?!’ She asked.

‘They’ll think we have a pet,’ my gangly 8-year-old self genuinely replied, oblivious to what she was insinuating.

‘Sure, amongst other things,’ she sneered, and continued vacuuming the curtains.

My mother is the kindest, most generous and truly industrious person I know. When she arrives, things fall into place. Therefore, people are naturally drawn to her. I can’t seem to figure out if it’s a direct correlation with the above or just an innate character flaw, but she is very meticulous about her image and how she presents that image to the world, and its ‘people’.

The PEOPLE, my mother’s favourite kind of hypotheticals. Once the damned people are invited into a conversation or argument, it’s over, finished, klaar, done. I mean, how could you possibly win against imaginary people and their imagined opinions? They live in the arguer’s head and are therefore not bound by space, time or logic. They just crush your spirit and drain your energy unnecessarily; it’s what they do. And I know these things because I am a physicist and my mother’s daughter, for better or for worse.

When I was 18, I moved 481.5 km away from home to go to university. A lot more graceful but drunk on youth and freedom, I figured there was no better time to finally have a pet of my own. But a pet rabbit eluded me even then, not because of my mother’s transcendent ability to kill dreams. No, my dream was thwarted by an obstinate rule: ‘No pets allowed.’ Naturally, I found a technicality and ended up with a goldfish, a second-hand fish tank and a matron who probably waited for her pickled fish dinner invite long after the next Good Friday. If no good deed goes unpunished, then all bad deeds go through a tribulation, and mine was served to me hot. Not long after my rebellious spree came winter break, and I had to travel on a bus, for six hours, with a fish in a second-hand fish tank. Needless to say, ‘fish don’t belong on a bus, dead or alive.’

When I was 25, I went home for Heritage Day with Sunshine, a cute dog I got as a balm to salve the wounds left by unmet expectations and unfulfilled desires. I had my life all planned out. Not the kiddie pool type of planning; I am talking PERT Chart, with a critical path and all.

23: Marry a tall, dark and handsome musical prodigy.

24–25: Travel the world.

27: Graduate with a PhD.

28–30–32: Baby 1,2 and 3.

55: Buy a pecan nut farm and retire.

75: Sit on the veranda and watch the grandkids play hide-and-seek under the moonlight … Alas! If wishes were horses, beggars would ride, right?

‘Because black people don’t keep dogs in the house.’ My mother shooed Sunshine off the couch.

‘Which black people?’ I asked, respectfully frustrated.

‘All black people.’ She gestured for emphasis.

‘Here we go again with the stereotypes. On Heritage Day, nogal.’ I followed Sunshine outside, but not fast enough to miss overhearing her ‘woe is me’ session.

‘Nothing! I said nothing about the fish and my charred mango tree … complain this one time about a wee little dog and suddenly you are a horrible monster …’

The rest of the weekend, Sunshine followed her in and out of the house as if trying to weaken her resolve. Given a day more, they would have been the best of buddies. She even joked about resorting to making him her first grandchild since I was taking my sweet time. ‘Sweet time that you don’t have,’ she added.

When I was 28, I went home with a toddler. I could see my mother’s ashen face trying to maths out the problem. She had last seen me 6 months ago, and save for a miracle, there was no way the child was mine. Either way, I should have prepared her, but in my defence, he was also sprung on me. The children’s home where I volunteered once a month was suddenly hit by a storm that blew part of their roof off. Satisfied with my explanation, she snatched the toddler from me, as if I were incapable of caring for a child and urged me not to go flaunting him in the neighbourhood lest people get the wrong idea.

When I was 32, I went home with a present for my parents’ 32nd anniversary party. It was on that fateful day I realised I had crossed over to the older side of life. I, unprompted and unprovoked, initiated a conversation about the weather. The weather! To my aunt’s delight. She launched into her favourite subject: her great gift of predicting the weather and the African science she employed. Apparently, it was in the colour of the clouds, the shape and position of the moon, and finally, the taste, smell and feel of the air. Surprisingly, her predictions were consistently reliable.

Unfortunately, her great gift was limited to predicting natural disasters and did not extend to predicting manmade disasters. I am sure she would have warned me of a great disaster that was to come into my life. A disaster by the name of Matewu, invited by none other than my dearest interloping mother. Matewu was my sister’s husband’s cousin’s friend. I blamed those s’s for setting me up on the world’s worst blind date, though I couldn’t completely absolve myself of any blame, as I willingly agreed to go on a second date, knowing he was the worst of the worst. OK, maybe the second ‘worst’ was a bit unwarranted. We were simply not compatible. Just like oil and water, fine on their own or with other pairings, but dreadfully disastrous together. We had what the bougie call ‘irreconcilable differences’. Although that major detail didn’t deter Matewu; he remained determined to forge ahead regardless. He reeked of desperation and self-absorbment. Yes, self-absorbment. It is the stench you give off after engaging in self-absorbed behaviour. If the topic was not about him, related to him, from him or leading back to him in some way, he became a shell of a person, and you were the one deemed responsible for sucking the life out of him. How do you reconcile that behaviour?

‘I don’t understand why you refuse to date the man.’ My mother replaced the empty canapé platters with new ones. ‘He has a good job. He is single, handsome, well-mannered, and he clearly likes you.’

‘We are not compatible, and you should have asked me firs–’

‘What is not compatible?’ She gave me a flat look. ‘So, no reason at all.’

I tried, with all the effort of a thousand misanthropes, to avoid interacting with him; but like an ominous black cat, he managed to cross my path. We exchanged pleasantries, albeit not very pleasant on my part, and then I ditched him for the welcomed guests. If you were the commiserating type, you would have started to feel sorry for him at that point. But then I would have reminded you that he was an ex, eating my food and using my toilet. Even so, he got a free plate of good food and had my cousin eating right out of his hand.

When I was 36, I went home for Christmas and handed my mother a letter:

Greetings Tindlopfu family,

We hope this letter finds you in good health and in good spirits.

Our son has seen a virtuous woman from your family and wishes to make her his wife.

We would like to request a date to meet with you and start the lobola negotiations.

We look forward to your favourable response.

Yours sincerely,

the van der Merwe family

My mother’s expression went from ‘It’s finally happening’ to ‘What on God’s green earth is happening?’

‘Where are these – the van der Merwes from?’ she asked finally, eyes still glued to the bottom of the page.

‘From the Karoo in the Northern Cape.’ I watched her carefully fold the letter and place it back in the envelope.

‘Your father and I will discuss this,’ she said, and then left the room.

When I was 35, I met Mr van der Merwe Junior. Turning 20 was exciting. Turning 30 was daunting. Turning 35 brought a reckoning, to the point where I had to take a solo trip to a farm estate outside the city to clear my head and hopefully figure my life out, before I turned 75.

‘Holstein-Friesian.’ A voice invaded my thoughts.

‘Whaaat the heck!’ I looked around and noticed I’d wandered to the far end of the estate, and that a lanky man was standing right next to me.

‘That beast over there.’ he pointed to a bored-looking black-and-white cow. ‘And over there, that’s an Ayrshire cattle, originally from Scotland.

‘Okay …?’ I said, still dazed.

‘That one running away from the herd is a Dexter.’ Clearly the man thought it was completely normal to talk about cows to a woman he didn’t know.

‘Let me guess, the one running after Dexter is Dee Dee, right?’ If you can’t beat the crazies, join them, and something about onlookers not being able to notice the difference anyway.

‘I see what you did there,’ he laughed. ‘Actually, that’s a Milk Shorthorn.’ His laugh was reserved but warm, and the aforementioned onlookers were only a screaming distance away, so I figured I was safe enough.

We ran into each other again at breakfast the next day and ended up exploring the rest of the estate together. And that was how I met Mr van der Merwe Junior.

When I was 36, the van der Merwes arrived for the first round of the lobola negotiations. Mr van der Merwe relayed the event as told by his side of the delegation, since neither of us was allowed to be part of the negotiation.

They arrived after driving 1449.3 km from the karoo. The gate was locked and three figures lay on the ground, covered with blankets, inside the gate. An elderly woman walked up to the gate and told the visitors what was expected. They gave the three figures, who turned out to be young women, a hundred rand each and were then led into the house, where they were served an English breakfast. After breakfast, the uncles and aunts came and sat down in silence for what felt like hours. The elderly woman appeared again to explain that the uncles needed gifts to help loosen their jaws and lubricate their throats, so the guests gave them a thousand rand and a bottle of Scotch.

The negotiation lasted three hours, and the agreed upon bride price was 12 and a half cows, deposited as rands through a bank. They shook hands and served lunch, consisting of tripe, African chicken and other traditional food. They were almost family after all. After lunch, they were finally let outside and introduced to a sea of relatives, then sent home with enough food to last them for a month. It was one of the best days of their lives.

When I was 36 and 6 months, after ululating relatives, bewildered white people and 12 and a half cows, I become Mrs van der Merwe Junior. The funniest memory right after getting married was when my new name was called at the doctor’s office, and I could see everyone’s silent thoughts: ‘Will the real Mrs van der Merwe please stand up?’

When I was 39, I drove 500 km back home with a set of terrible twos, a man from the Karoo, an anniversary present, a teenage boy, Sunshine, a goldfish and a pet rabbit. My life. It didn’t have to be this way, but I wouldn’t have it any other way. My mother and the PEOPLE also agree.