Chapter 8 | The 'you just wait till we get home' spoon

Every day at roughly 4:30 Mama would start what we'd call her 'dressing up' routine. Off came the dingy kaftans and in minutes I had a whole new Mama.

I always thought Mama pretty. She was of average height and even after two kids still weighed a mere 48kg's.

She has a lovely complexion, an almost Olive tone, arched eyebrows, a nose long enough to mistaken her for a memon and perfectly shaped lips that she pursed whenever she was upset about something.

Mama never wore foundation, she never needed to. She would apply lipstick in maroon (or various shades of brown) and kajol. That was her make-up regime. Nothing more.

She'd then put on long earrings that dangled to and fro. I would sit on her bed and watched her, amazed.

In summer, she would bathe us, dress us in our pajama's and sit us on the stoep, to wait for Papa. Even then, we were never excited to see his return.

Every December holidays would be spent in Durban, by Nani. Papa didn't always join us, sometimes he would drop us off and come back when he was on leave. Even when Papa wasn't around, he would ensure that his rules were still followed through and every holidays we were given strict instructions of what NOT to do. Or else.

We never did have a TV in our house. This was Papa's decision, though it's not like any of us felt that we had missed out on life because of this.

Daddi lived in the semi right next door to us. In fact, the wall in our back yard had been broken down so we could easily pass through. When Papa was at work, I would go by Daddi's and watch TV with her. Daddi was a 'Bold & the Beautiful' fan and at the age of 4 I knew exactly who Ricke and Brooke were.

Whilst we were by Nani's, Papa would call every night to speak with Mama and sometimes us. We thought that the distance would mean we could watch cartoons guilt free. We were so wrong.

Papa had called the one night and during his conversation with me had simply said: 'I know you're watching TV there!'

After putting the phone down i burst into tears. 

Mama tried to placate me but to no avail.

'But you don't understand Mama, he's going to hit me with my mother-in-laws wooden spoon' I said.

The mother-in-law being my Daddi. 

Every Indian child knows that a wooden spoon has more than one use. Along with stirring food it doubled as the 'you just wait till we get home' spoon. No one really takes cognizance of the wooden spoon and secretly, wooden spoons relish in knowing that despite their arbitrary duties in general households, Indian families have provided them with the ultimate power tool, fear.  

Whilst other kids had to content to the likes of 'Oupa is watching' ; 'If you don't eat your food the Mielie lady will come for you' ; 'Just you stop that right now or else i'm going to call the dronkie down the road to take you away', I had that wretched spoon drooling over my bottom. 

The mere mention of the 'wooden spoon' was cause enough to wet our pants. Shamelessly.