The Culture of Children

Theo and Carina Truyts, Nomsa and Thandi Macholeka. We were neighbours in rural Lesotho. Over the years spanning our childhood our lives were weaved into a complex web of Basotho, English, Afrikaans and the simple language of children- play time.

I didn’t realise how different we were until their father bought home a sheep and slaughtered it on their stoep. Nomsa and Thandi danced a jig, but I cried as I watched Ntate Chanty hang the skin over the fence dividing our gardens. On another occasion, it was a chicken, beheaded. This time I tasted the chicken stew and I began to understand. To this day I have a fundamental respect for meat and where it comes from, mindful of the unrealistic presentation of meat in its sterile, plastic wrapped form.

The sisters would come to our house to play games on the computer, build with our Lego blocks, drink Nesquik and eat Tinky bars. They loved to listen to our Mango Groove CD, and the girls would sing along, playing guitar on the tennis racquets. At their house we played with a ball made with newspaper stuffed into the toe of an old stocking. Other children in the community would join in as we played “tamatie sauce” and “mokong,” games where we would dance and sing in Sotho; or kick our makeshift ball around.  Their cousin let us cook mielies and pap. I really loved those mielies.

Their father was a prominent man in the village on top of the mountain where we lived. He owned a tavern at the very tip. In the morning, his sister would hail from the tavern; projecting her voice so that it would rumble down the hill- a reminder to order more beer or contact the chief. My mother wasn’t too pleased with us when we started shouting across hillsides, but it was much more fun than the conventional broken telephone game.

The Macholeka family set-up was very different to ours. Their older cousins, who sometimes lived with them, were called their sisters and brothers. We barely knew our relatives; while they had their grandparents live in their house when they were ill. Their father ran the family, fetching and taking members to and from Maseru, providing support to those who needed it, unconditionally.

Nomsa and Thandi shared a room. In fact, they shared everything. Their birthdays were 2 days apart, and the gifts they received were given to them both. We never witnessed a single dispute between them, they were a team. Theo and I would bicker, sulk and act up. After a while we got the cue from them and we realised it was frowned upon to be so silly. Ashamed, we would try to sort out our quarrels peaceably. The friendship between my brother and I improved drastically, thanks to the subtle example set by our friends.

There were children from other denominations and cultures all along our street. We celebrated The Jewish Sabbath on Friday with the Anderson twins, and ate Yugoslavian soup with Dejan Stojanovic. We learnt to respect religion after a failed attempt to convert the Andersons to Christendom by tempting them with bacon and viennas. Valeria Onasko was the step daughter of “Mr Bogdan”- a Polish man whose new and unknown bride and daughter had arrived by aeroplane. She couldn’t speak English, but showed us her mother’s intricate hand- painted willow plates and pictures of Moscow that we secretly thought weren’t real, they were that magnificent.

Nomsa  was the leader of our little group. When I was eight years old she passed away of pneumonia. I cried then for the loss of a playmate, but I realise now that we lost a teacher, whose lessons were acceptance and fairness. She was the judge and decision maker, the director of our affairs in a beautiful bubble where the children had no concept of apartheid or cultural segregation.

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