Before making the trek to Blighty in 2013,
I’d spent a total of 32 years in South Africa. From teeny tiny to fully-grown - with a few teeny tiny ones of my own. I can close my eyes and root around in the
old memory bank and pull out a sight, a sound, a smell. It’s all there. And it
takes me straight back. To a purple rain of Jacaranda trees, the feel of a coastal-bound berg
wind as it blows down from the Great Escarpment, the distinctive drone
of vuvuzelas and the smell of boerewors on a wood braai.
Our children don’t have the same privilege.
Their resource library for recollection is somewhat limited. It was abandoned
before it could be built, really. The foundations are there. But it’s empty. No
one’s home. They’ve moved.
Despite having spent most of their young lives here. And despite how they speak. My children are not British. Obvs. They’re South Africans who happen to
live in Britain. To keep their heritage alive, I try very hard to reinforce as
many of our cultures and traditions from down south as I possibly can. I win
some. I lose some. But I always try.
- Food matters. We braai all year round, regardless
of the weather. We enjoy a multi-cultural diet. From milktert, malva and
mieliebread to biltong, bobotie and koeksusters, we flavour our food with
tomato sauce and dip homemade rusks into our tea.
- Rain does not stop play. Ok so there’s no
swimming pool in our backyard. But there is a backyard. And we spend a lot of
time in it. Whether it’s raining. Freezing. Or both. We simply wrap up. And get
on with it. We visit parks when it’s pouring and trek to tourist sites when
it’s two degrees. Simply to be outdoors and underneath a sky. Any sky. Even one that’s ghastly grey and as
miserable as moer.
- A picture is worth a thousand words. My
children love to see photos of South Africa. They’re fascinated by the life we once
lived. How we had a sprawling one-storey home with a pair of dogs and a troop of monkeys with shongololos, snakes and a swimming pool. Always the pool.
- A story shared. In the car before school, I’ll often share memories of my childhood. I recount the
adventures I enjoyed with my sister and our cousins who were like brothers. Pelting each other with over-ripe guavas at the bottom of their garden. Bike rides through sugarcane. Long walks to the quarry with my granddad and his dog Heidi, noshing on his illicit stash of Wilson's toffees. Seaside holidays with dripping orange lollies, sunburnt noses and mad-dashes across scorching yellow sand. Encounters with snakes in the garden. Lazy pool days with watermelon and lilos.
- The power of ubuntu. We socialise with other South African families. We braai. We camp. We run around
parks chasing our kids. And most importantly we share. Not just our food, drink and our homes. We do that too. We share about our experiences living in the UK. From the good bits to the gory bits. And everything in between. It’s refreshing to contrast the nonsensical nuances of our foreign existence with people who get it. People who understand exactly what it's like to pack up a life, move to another country and build a new life.
- Heed health and safety by half. Jislaaik
so while I appreciate that young children are vulnerable to injury and prone to
catastrophe on account of them being…er young children. I don’t appreciate the
insane levels of logic-defying, namby pamby over-protectiveness. To me it
breeds wussy little whiners. Who’re afraid of everything. Who can’t stand on
their own two feet. Or can’t get up when they fall down. Literally. To me that
is unhealthy. That’s unsafe. Way more so than a barefoot child playing
outdoors, eating a little sand when the mood strikes and god forbid without a
sunhat. Who doesn’t need to see their mum-may every five seconds - or more to the point, whose mum-may doesn't need to see them. Who is happy to
explore. Climb trees. Run wild. Now to me, that's a healthy child.
- Music makes the world go round. From The
Parlotones and Jeremy Loops to Ladysmith Black Mambaza and Mango Groove, while
I’m cooking dinner I blast heartwarming harmonies from my homeland. I dance around the kitchen like a loon to shrieks of delight from my youngest, shimmying booty shakes from my little girl and 'you're-so-embarassing' eye-rolls from my eldest.
- Pause for the past. Without delving too deeply into the detailed complexities of South Africa's history and politics (because that's a blady deep pool) I think it's appropriate that my eldest has a general understanding. He knows about apartheid. The how and the what. Not necessary the why. I'm not sure I even know the why. Madiba is his hero. He sings Nkosi
Sikelel' iAfrika in the shower. He and his siblings will slowly learn the history of their heritage and it shapes their future.
I’m fiercely proud of being South African. It's a pride that comes through in the way I think. The way I live. The way I mother
my children. I'll never forget where I came from. And I'm determined that my children won't either.
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| A little mud makes for many happy childhood memories. |
