rondavels, one the private room of my grandparents and the other for Koko Tsheola, and a three-roomed thatched mud house which belonged to one of my father’s brothers. A one-roomed flat on one wing of the central house belonged to my father, and this we used during our visits. The size of the homestead signified my grandfather’s success as a patriarch, blessed as he was with sons and grandchildren, and with the material means to sustain a coherent extended family.
My grandfather was a tall, strikingly handsome man, strongly built with a well-proportioned body. He was generally a stern man with strong views on many matters. His face would, however, light up when he was in a good mood. He was fond of telling us stories of his youth heavily peppered with jokes, which he told at his own or other people’s expense. As he told them he would literally roll around in fits of laughter on a goatskin under a large shady tree. This served as a gathering place for the family’s midday meals and afternoon rest away from the blistering summer heat.
Like most of his contemporaries, my grandfather was an authoritarian patriarch. He ruled his family with a firm hand. To underline his control over his descendants, he issued an edict that all his grandchildren were to refer to him as Papa and his wife as Mma, whereas their own parents were to be called Brother and Sister. This was a major symbolic statement about the lines of authority within the family. But my mother would have none of it. As a compromise, my father suggested the use of Daddy and Mommy – an interesting way of diverting patriarchal tensions through flight into another language. But my mother stood her ground. We thus grew up calling my grandfather Papa, my grandmother Mma-o-mogolo (Big mother), and my father Daddy. Having been successfully challenged by my mother, the edict was sufficiently weakened to allow my father’s younger brothers flexibility in their own family relations.
My mother fought many battles within this patriarchal family system. She walked a tightrope as she carved out space for herself to live with dignity within the extended family She established a delicate balance between challenging those aspects of the many rigid rules about gender roles, lines of authority and the conduct of relations that violated her dignity, and avoiding actions that would undermine the system and create anxiety and instability. She faithfully fulfilled her responsibilities as a ngwetsi and a lethari (newly married and young woman in the village) – no mean feat – but she would not be bullied by anyone. Young married women were often reminded that mosadi ke tšhwene o lewa mabogo, a woman’s only real value lies in the fruits of her labour, including her reproductive labour.
Newly married women had to establish their credentials as hard workers from the very first day after their wedding. The luxuries of a honeymoon were not for them. But even an authoritarian system as tough as this patriarchy recognised the limits of human endurance – a wise step in ensuring its perpetuation. It was customary for the newly married woman to go back to her natal home after two weeks, go tsholla bongwetši (literally, to pour out one’s newly married status). This was an opportunity for her to have a break from the hard work, to share experiences with her old friends and relatives, and to get useful advice about how to tackle some of the challenges of her new life. You could look at it as a retreat of sorts.
Upon her return to her in-laws, the bride was expected to fit into the routine of her new family, and demonstrate her capacity to produce goods and services for her new family, as well as to reproduce. Any undue delay in falling pregnant set tongues wagging about possible infertility. Given the level of physical exertion, one wonders how the newlyweds ever managed to make love, let alone conceive. Most women did.
My mother survived the punishing schedule of a young married woman through a combination of creativity, hard work and courage in standing up for her rights. She established boundaries beyond which she would not allow anyone to go. She tackled her brothers-in-law on many levels to let them know that she was not at their beck and call, but should be treated with respect if they expected respect from her. They were quick to blame her attitude on her professional status, for none of them had married a professional woman.
A major bone of contention was the holy of holies – slaughtering of animals, from which women were excluded because their potential for pollution was thought to pose a threat to the generative capacity of livestock. When a beast was slaughtered, the men were in the habit of delaying the process – keeping women waiting being part of the whole exercise of power by men over women. Slaughtering after sunset was quite common. This caused enormous frustration among the women, who had to wait for the meat which was to be prepared for supper. The men had little incentive to change this practice. They chose certain tender parts such as the liver, heart and spleen to cook for themselves on a makeshift fireplace, thus ensuring that their needs were catered for. They had scant concern for the children falling asleep before food was ready – it was the women’s responsibility to feed the children.
On one occasion my mother decided that the critical boundary had been crossed. She calmly walked up to the men’s fireplace and carried away the pot containing the meat with tender portions which was ready for consumption. She dished it out together with the porridge which the women had prepared. My father was placed in an invidious position – he was torn between loyalty to his brothers and the compelling logic of his wife’s actions. In the end he decided to stay out of it. His brothers were stunned! No woman had ever dared to touch a pot cooked by men. The other women, including my grandmother, were jubilant that the spell had been broken. From then on there was greater cooperation between men and women with the slaughtering. The men were still allowed to roast some liver over open coals, but gave the women more control over the rest of the meat. My mother’s transgressive act had liberated both men and women in the extended family from an archaic custom.
My mother also challenged the iniquitous practice of compelling daughters-in-law to return to domestic chores three days after delivery of their babies. After delivering her second child, she simply told her mother-in-law that she was going to stay put in her bedroom for the next ten days. My grandmother was appalled by the prospect of being laughed at by her friends in the village, who would notice that she was fetching water, cooking and doing other domestic chores, while her daughter-in-law enjoyed the luxury of postnatal recuperation. Grudgingly, the older woman came to terms with it and even defended her daughter-in-law’s position in the village.
My mother was a survivor. She endeared herself to everyone through her hard work, skilled housekeeping and, above all, her delicious cooking. Her father-in-law was particularly proud of her in this regard, denigrating other daughters-in-law who were less competent. The way into my grandfather’s heart was through special attention to his palate – a truism my mother always kept in mind. My grandfather’s favourite treats were freshly baked bread, vetkoek (deep-fried cakes) and piping hot tea, or mafisa-molomo (burner of lips). He would sing my mother’s praises as he drank one cup after another and munched the accompaniments. Because of her special culinary skills my mother was spared the discomfort of working in the fields.
* * *
Our visits to Uitkyk were mixed blessings. While we enjoyed catching up with family and the novelty of visiting the area, we found the extended family arrangements very taxing. The rigid boundaries between male and female separated me from my younger brothers during our vacations. I missed them terribly, and they in turn missed the warmth of the nuclear family.
Water had to be carried from a windmill about a kilometre away by female members of the household for all domestic purposes. This was hard water, which took some getting accustomed to for those of us used to fresh water from sparkling mountain streams. My mother spent most of her time with the other women in the household cooking and feeding the multitudes, including villagers who took advantage of our presence as visitors to share in the windfall. There is a saying in Northern Sotho, Moeng etla ka gešo, re je ka wena (Visitor, come to our home so that we can eat through you). And how! It was not unusual for my mother to feed up to twenty-five people at each meal. We found the custom of feeding men first, elderly women next and children last, very frustrating, because sometimes food would run out. We were also not used to eating out of a communal dish with so many other children, who were quite adept at
