The Sunday News
WHAT triggers your mind to recall the past?
For Naison Dube, a friend of mine, it is the aroma thrown up by fresh cow dung. Whenever he encounters the aroma, he abruptly stops whatever he is doing, stands up or sits still, closes his eyes and slowly inhales. The aroma caresses his nostrils and memories of his childhood flood his mind.
In an instant, he is reminded that though he now drives a Mercedes-Benz, an old donkey was once his most advanced mode of transport. Though he now lives in a four-bedroom house in the western suburbs, he grew up living in a thatched hut. Though he now bathes in a sparkling bathtub with running hot and cold water, the river is the first bathing place he recalls.
Every year, Naison visits the Zimbabwe International Trade Fair and spends most of the time at the livestock area. Up and down he paces the area admiring the cattle, savouring the aroma and reliving his boyhood.
The past, Naison often tells me, is always with us. Thanks to this view, he and his wife Sarah have a running argument. This is in spite of Naison compromising. He has long conceded that much as he loves the aroma of fresh cow dung, he cannot enjoy it everyday.
Naison has suggested that to compensate for this deprivation, they rear makhaya chickens. He believes that the homely sight of makhaya chickens running in the yard will make up for lack of cow dung aroma.
For him, a home is not complete without road runners roaming in the yard. As he relaxes on his reclining chair at the veranda, he wants to see 10 or so chickens following their mother.
The sight of a hen clawing the ground for food and teaching its offsprings to fend for themselves soothes the mind and gives hope for tomorrow.
Naison also loves the sight of a cock overseeing its hens and chickens. When he wakes up in the morning, he longs for the sound of a crowing cock coming from within the yard.
Sarah will have none of this. For her, a civilised person wakes up to the sound of an alarm clock. An urbanite — which is what she is struggling to turn her husband into — delights in the sight of a paved driveway bordered by rows of flowers and a manicured lawn.
A makhaya chicken in the yard — goodness me! What will the neighbours say? Not to mention their sophisticated friends and associates. It is not as if Sarah has not compromised. She now sparingly sprays her expensive perfumes. Apparently, they make Naison sneeze and cough.
For my wife, her past is recalled by the rising fragrance from the scorched earth after insewula — the first rains. This delightful smell, she often tells me, is as pleasing as that of braaing steak. But, unlike the braai aroma, it is a forerunner of much more than an afternoon’s grub.
The fragrance sends her mind racing back to the small rural village she grew up in. These first rains marked the end of that strength-sapping heat and marked the rejuvenation of life.
Within an hour after the downpour, a fresh breeze blew and insects, beetles and frogs sprang to life. In a few days the vegetation flourished. The most memorable day of the rain season was Christmas. The entire family got to wear new clothes father had brought from the city.
Later the children salivated as they watched mother and her elder sisters cut bread and placed it in baskets. Sweet red jam was smeared on the inch-thick slices.
The bread was devoured and washed down with steaming milk-tea. The drink burnt their tongues but it was worth it. Who would not enjoy the rare treat of bread with jam and tea?
My wife clearly recalls the Christmas father brought home a special food that was to replace isitshwala that day. “It is called rice,” he proudly announced.
Mother was not impressed by this new delicacy. “Looks like the eggs of a grasshopper,” she frowned. “I will stick to my isitshwala.”
“A meal without isitshwala!” uncle exclaimed. “Impossible”.
However, my wife’s sister and the rest of the family were eager to try the new food. “Okay but not as filling as our isitshwala,” aunt observed after eating a bowl-full of rice.
The truth was they did not mind how the isitshwala or rice tasted. The tastes of these starch foods were secondary to that of the relish. Relish was a proper road runner, with the full original taste of the African chicken.
It is the sound of the penny whistle or flute, as we used to call it that brings back memories for me. The moment I hear it, I fly back to the township house I grew up in. I see myself standing at the gate listening to the penny whistle drifting along from across the street. I move my foot and nod my head in time with the string bass.
The sun goes down and I congregate with friends under the street light in front of the house dishing out the music. We hit the jit. The more dust you raise the better dancer you are. Aah, those were the days!
Well, dear reader, what triggers your mind to recall the past?
