I'm obsessed... again...with Pharoah Monche's "The Light". I happen to think it's one of the most legendary love/lust/mack hip-hop tracks in history!
"no cock-blocking please, this one's mine" LOL!!!!!!!
"She could serve me pain all night...And I could tolerate....I'm her horizon, right...But in the night, though...Night glow type shit"
Ha ha ha!!!!
Killa killa lines....
Monday, April 23, 2007
Remembering Koko…
Remembering Koko…
I remember her very vividly. I remember her scent...a mixture of onion and cocoa butter. She was a large woman, full of warmth. I remember how I used to lie on her bed, resting my head on her big arms. It was damn nice.
I remember how she woke up at the crack of dawn, every single morning, to do whatever it was she thought she was supposed to do. Sweep, make porridge, make lunchboxes, sweep some more, get on her knees and scrub the floors. I always wondered where she found the energy. I guess it kept her going, even though, we told her numerous times that we had in us enough energy to get all the chores done without her. Despite how tiny that one-bedroomed apartheid structure of a house was, there was always at least a dozen pair of hands at any given time. But she never wanted to relax, she didn’t see why she should. I don’t think she knew how.
I remember how she called oranges, oronjes. We always used to laugh at the way she said things. She didn’t like that.
I could get the whole idea of keeping chickens. There were the eggs and of course, a chicken for those Sunday lunches just before payday. But pigeons? Who in the world keeps pigeons? Well, she did. They went off during the day to do their own business and came back at night to sleep. Weird, my grandmother was.
I remember her stories. I remember how she told us about the days of Marabastad and how they were eventually bulldozed to Atteridgeville. I remember eventually reading E’skia Mphahlele’s ‘Down Second Avenue’ and literally being able to smell her off the pages. I could see her chilling somewhere on the street corner right in the middle of the story. I remember how she told us about the various boogie men that terrorized them in Atteridgeville. I always found it weird that all the boogie men came before any of her grandchildren were born. I felt cheated that I would never be able to tell my grandchildren about the boogie men of my time.
I remember how she told us about her children’s shenanigans, about how my mother, in her heydays, was the diva of the hood. There are loads of pictures of her Afro donned fineness. I remember the stories of the ghost ridden village she came from. And of her two sisters that did not live to meet us or our parents.
I remember how she loved cooking for us. My grandmother made the best ‘dibeibi’ (some call them magwenya) in the entire world. I’ve never come across better, and believe me, I’ve searched. I remember her gemmer. Dope ass fermented brew best served ice cold. She made it even when there was no special occasion, all because we loved it so much. And then she’d make cake, cookies, milk tart, everything! And then we’d eat and shower her with compliments. She loved that a lot. I remember her curried fish! Damn! That was nice. It had a thing to it! I’ve searched and searched, and have still not tasted such. My mother tries, my aunt tries, it does not come close. And her mageu…okay, I’m getting really hungry.
I remember how everything had to be done in moderation. When there was all this food and drink, it could be enjoyed, but one day at a time. When there was a sack of “oronjes”, we’d never get one each. She’d slice it in four and distribute the pieces amongst us. If there were six of us, same story, but six pieces. We’d savor the taste and get on with the day. We never questioned it because like she always said, or sang rather, “Tomorrow is another day”. That was her mantra. The food would still be there tomorrow. There was absolutely no need to indulge today, and have nothing tomorrow.
I remember how she loved singing her favourite song with everything she had. “Kgabo Mokgatla” Ha ha…We used to laugh at that too. There was a special jig that went with that song. But she also loved Whitney Houston. She dug the Bodyguard soundtrack deeply. And with every trend that my aunts got into, she joined in. When Boom Shaka was big, she was right there doing her jig. Who can ever forget the New Year’s parties and my aunt’s annual kitchen parties? My very with-the-times grandmother took her groove out and got down with the young ones. We laughed at that too. She liked us laughing at that.
I remember her fahfee days. I remember how we woke up every morning to the question, “O lorileng maabane?” (“What did you dream of last night?) I always felt bad because those days I could never remember my dreams, no matter how much I tried. All my other cousins would have an answer. I never did. I always wondered if they made these dreams up. And so she betted, sometimes won, sometimes didn’t. I remember how our alcoholic neighbour who had become the designated fahfee runner, tried to cheat her out of her winnings. My grandmother knew a lot of fahfee players so sooner or later, word of the winning number would reach her. It turned out that that particular day, my grandmother’s dreams were aligned with that of the MoChina and our not so trusted neighbour decided to claim that another number had come up. As my grandmother would say: “There was hell to pay”! It was hilarious, to say the least.
But mostly, I remember how one day, I woke up and remembered dreaming that I was on a plane to somewhere, I don’t know where. The first thing I did was tell my grandmother, not thinking it would help, but ecstatic that I too could dream. And so she placed a bet on a “big bird”. And what do you know, SHE WON!!! Ha ha! I was the star of that day and many more to come. She bought us something nice with the money, I don’t remember what it was. Unfortunately, such a lucky dream never came my way again, despite constant pestering from my grandmother and our alcoholic neighbour who had also caught wind of my ‘gift’.
I remember how there were so many people at our house, all the time. If it wasn’t her sweets and ice-cream customers, it was the ones coming to buy cold-drink. She had great business acumen. I guess it’s because she had so much warmth. They kept coming back, some so often, they practically became family. I have many many uncles and aunts to prove it. I remember when she used to sell beer. Most of her clients bought and took ‘take-away’, but the most privileged got proper VIP, restaurant type service on our garden furniture under our big big tree. I could never understand why they didn’t just go to their own homes. The spot under the tree was our favourite, so on these days, we could never play there. We were always being sent for something…an opener, glasses, cigarettes, wallets that people had forgotten at home, and things that were totally unrelated to the beer drinking session. “Here are some children. They look bored. I guess, I can send them to go pay the rent that I was supposed to pay, while I chill here under this cool shade and have a cold one.” It had its perks, I guess. We got to leave the yard for a while and often got a 50 cent coin or two out of it. These became my uncles too.
I remember how she cried when my grandfather died. In her heartbroken state, she woke up early the next morning, to collect his pension. It was money much needed for the funeral, she was the only one who was allowed to do it and she knew that if word of his passing got around, it would be months until she’d see that money. It just had to be done. And so she stood in that long queue, straight-faced, pretending that it was just another normal pension-collection day. I was astounded at her strength. But I also remember, how happy she was, when we unveiled his tombstone the following year. Her jig had returned, we’ve got the video footage to prove it.
But these days, I remember her death, mostly. I remember how helpless she looked on that hospital bed. I remember how she hated it so much she no longer wanted to be of this world. She was not used to being helpless. I remember how I cried for her even through my mother’s friend telling me never to cry for the living. I couldn’t help it. I knew, for sure, that she had died. I cried and cried and cried until I couldn’t cry anymore. I just knew. I knew when I was with my mother and we were driving past Kalafong Hospital where she had been admitted. I remember the gigantic chimneys on top of the ugly building. I remember the light, white smoke churning out of them. I remember imagining her spirit floating out of the ugly, terrible building where she didn’t belong, right into the air and all the way up to heaven. I remember not wanting to tell my mother that I had just seen my grandmother go to heaven. I knew it would upset her. We got to the house that day, and found out she had indeed passed away. I didn’t have much crying left in me.
All the hundreds of uncles and aunts were there, filling our tiny house, heartbroken. Some heard the news months later, and they came. I remember one particular afternoon when a woman, I did not remember, knocked on the door saying that she had come to see “Mama”. When we told her that Mama hadn’t been around for a while, she broke down in tears. I was amazed at how many people my grandmother had touched.
I miss her, especially on very bad days. I miss feeling like in her death I lost a home. I miss the feeling of finding her in the kitchen. I miss her a lot.
I write to her sometimes. I’m also scared that she can see my shenanigans from up there wherever she is. I wonder what she thinks of me…
I remember her very vividly. I remember her scent...a mixture of onion and cocoa butter. She was a large woman, full of warmth. I remember how I used to lie on her bed, resting my head on her big arms. It was damn nice.
I remember how she woke up at the crack of dawn, every single morning, to do whatever it was she thought she was supposed to do. Sweep, make porridge, make lunchboxes, sweep some more, get on her knees and scrub the floors. I always wondered where she found the energy. I guess it kept her going, even though, we told her numerous times that we had in us enough energy to get all the chores done without her. Despite how tiny that one-bedroomed apartheid structure of a house was, there was always at least a dozen pair of hands at any given time. But she never wanted to relax, she didn’t see why she should. I don’t think she knew how.
I remember how she called oranges, oronjes. We always used to laugh at the way she said things. She didn’t like that.
I could get the whole idea of keeping chickens. There were the eggs and of course, a chicken for those Sunday lunches just before payday. But pigeons? Who in the world keeps pigeons? Well, she did. They went off during the day to do their own business and came back at night to sleep. Weird, my grandmother was.
I remember her stories. I remember how she told us about the days of Marabastad and how they were eventually bulldozed to Atteridgeville. I remember eventually reading E’skia Mphahlele’s ‘Down Second Avenue’ and literally being able to smell her off the pages. I could see her chilling somewhere on the street corner right in the middle of the story. I remember how she told us about the various boogie men that terrorized them in Atteridgeville. I always found it weird that all the boogie men came before any of her grandchildren were born. I felt cheated that I would never be able to tell my grandchildren about the boogie men of my time.
I remember how she told us about her children’s shenanigans, about how my mother, in her heydays, was the diva of the hood. There are loads of pictures of her Afro donned fineness. I remember the stories of the ghost ridden village she came from. And of her two sisters that did not live to meet us or our parents.
I remember how she loved cooking for us. My grandmother made the best ‘dibeibi’ (some call them magwenya) in the entire world. I’ve never come across better, and believe me, I’ve searched. I remember her gemmer. Dope ass fermented brew best served ice cold. She made it even when there was no special occasion, all because we loved it so much. And then she’d make cake, cookies, milk tart, everything! And then we’d eat and shower her with compliments. She loved that a lot. I remember her curried fish! Damn! That was nice. It had a thing to it! I’ve searched and searched, and have still not tasted such. My mother tries, my aunt tries, it does not come close. And her mageu…okay, I’m getting really hungry.
I remember how everything had to be done in moderation. When there was all this food and drink, it could be enjoyed, but one day at a time. When there was a sack of “oronjes”, we’d never get one each. She’d slice it in four and distribute the pieces amongst us. If there were six of us, same story, but six pieces. We’d savor the taste and get on with the day. We never questioned it because like she always said, or sang rather, “Tomorrow is another day”. That was her mantra. The food would still be there tomorrow. There was absolutely no need to indulge today, and have nothing tomorrow.
I remember how she loved singing her favourite song with everything she had. “Kgabo Mokgatla” Ha ha…We used to laugh at that too. There was a special jig that went with that song. But she also loved Whitney Houston. She dug the Bodyguard soundtrack deeply. And with every trend that my aunts got into, she joined in. When Boom Shaka was big, she was right there doing her jig. Who can ever forget the New Year’s parties and my aunt’s annual kitchen parties? My very with-the-times grandmother took her groove out and got down with the young ones. We laughed at that too. She liked us laughing at that.
I remember her fahfee days. I remember how we woke up every morning to the question, “O lorileng maabane?” (“What did you dream of last night?) I always felt bad because those days I could never remember my dreams, no matter how much I tried. All my other cousins would have an answer. I never did. I always wondered if they made these dreams up. And so she betted, sometimes won, sometimes didn’t. I remember how our alcoholic neighbour who had become the designated fahfee runner, tried to cheat her out of her winnings. My grandmother knew a lot of fahfee players so sooner or later, word of the winning number would reach her. It turned out that that particular day, my grandmother’s dreams were aligned with that of the MoChina and our not so trusted neighbour decided to claim that another number had come up. As my grandmother would say: “There was hell to pay”! It was hilarious, to say the least.
But mostly, I remember how one day, I woke up and remembered dreaming that I was on a plane to somewhere, I don’t know where. The first thing I did was tell my grandmother, not thinking it would help, but ecstatic that I too could dream. And so she placed a bet on a “big bird”. And what do you know, SHE WON!!! Ha ha! I was the star of that day and many more to come. She bought us something nice with the money, I don’t remember what it was. Unfortunately, such a lucky dream never came my way again, despite constant pestering from my grandmother and our alcoholic neighbour who had also caught wind of my ‘gift’.
I remember how there were so many people at our house, all the time. If it wasn’t her sweets and ice-cream customers, it was the ones coming to buy cold-drink. She had great business acumen. I guess it’s because she had so much warmth. They kept coming back, some so often, they practically became family. I have many many uncles and aunts to prove it. I remember when she used to sell beer. Most of her clients bought and took ‘take-away’, but the most privileged got proper VIP, restaurant type service on our garden furniture under our big big tree. I could never understand why they didn’t just go to their own homes. The spot under the tree was our favourite, so on these days, we could never play there. We were always being sent for something…an opener, glasses, cigarettes, wallets that people had forgotten at home, and things that were totally unrelated to the beer drinking session. “Here are some children. They look bored. I guess, I can send them to go pay the rent that I was supposed to pay, while I chill here under this cool shade and have a cold one.” It had its perks, I guess. We got to leave the yard for a while and often got a 50 cent coin or two out of it. These became my uncles too.
I remember how she cried when my grandfather died. In her heartbroken state, she woke up early the next morning, to collect his pension. It was money much needed for the funeral, she was the only one who was allowed to do it and she knew that if word of his passing got around, it would be months until she’d see that money. It just had to be done. And so she stood in that long queue, straight-faced, pretending that it was just another normal pension-collection day. I was astounded at her strength. But I also remember, how happy she was, when we unveiled his tombstone the following year. Her jig had returned, we’ve got the video footage to prove it.
But these days, I remember her death, mostly. I remember how helpless she looked on that hospital bed. I remember how she hated it so much she no longer wanted to be of this world. She was not used to being helpless. I remember how I cried for her even through my mother’s friend telling me never to cry for the living. I couldn’t help it. I knew, for sure, that she had died. I cried and cried and cried until I couldn’t cry anymore. I just knew. I knew when I was with my mother and we were driving past Kalafong Hospital where she had been admitted. I remember the gigantic chimneys on top of the ugly building. I remember the light, white smoke churning out of them. I remember imagining her spirit floating out of the ugly, terrible building where she didn’t belong, right into the air and all the way up to heaven. I remember not wanting to tell my mother that I had just seen my grandmother go to heaven. I knew it would upset her. We got to the house that day, and found out she had indeed passed away. I didn’t have much crying left in me.
All the hundreds of uncles and aunts were there, filling our tiny house, heartbroken. Some heard the news months later, and they came. I remember one particular afternoon when a woman, I did not remember, knocked on the door saying that she had come to see “Mama”. When we told her that Mama hadn’t been around for a while, she broke down in tears. I was amazed at how many people my grandmother had touched.
I miss her, especially on very bad days. I miss feeling like in her death I lost a home. I miss the feeling of finding her in the kitchen. I miss her a lot.
I write to her sometimes. I’m also scared that she can see my shenanigans from up there wherever she is. I wonder what she thinks of me…
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