Through Thick and Thin

I love my husband. He is a loving, caring, supportive, funny, charming man. He's really good looking too. His stage name is Spice. Yes, Spice, as in the opposite of herbs. We met in the workplace in late 2010. Yes, at work. When we met, I was dragging my battered and broken heart into the 15th year of a dangerous and bloody crusade; the "looking for Mr Right" crusade. I had just left the relationship war zones of the Eastern Cape (Ground Zero), for the fertile lands of spears and honey – Kwa-Zulu Natal, the Zulu Kingdom.

Spice quickly became my BFF, party buddy and go-to-guy. I asked him to assist me in my quest to find Mr Right as I was new in town. He responded by bringing me fallen soldiers and rejects of war. When I decided to go on my own search, he simply blocked my view or chased away potential warriors, who were eager to soothe my weary heart. To cut a long story short, we eventually entered into a fat free "relationship lite" - casual, no strings type of thing.

I was fond of him, and fascinated by his “Zuluness”, but didn’t quite take him seriously until one particular day. On this day I woke up feeling rather thin, and decided to try on a pair of last season’s jeans. They must have shrunk, because they didn’t fit. My heart told me that the dampness in the walls of the house was responsible for the shrinkage, but a nasty voice sneered in my ear, “You are fat neh? One size up? Ja, neh!!!” I stood there for what must’ve been 20 minutes, jeans unbuttoned, whilst I came to terms with the fact that this had nothing to do with the damp in the walls. Spice came to the bedroom looking for me, and immediately noticed the cloud of self-pity hovering around my mid-section. He asked what was wrong. “I’m fat, that’s what’s wrong”, I said. “No baby, you’re not fat, ume kahle (you are well built)”, he said in a nonchalant tone.

The heavens opened up! A golden glow poured from above and fell upon his head, and ten Zulu angels descended from the sky, and circled us, singing hallelujah, hallelujah, hallelujah! “Yes! Yes! I will marry you!” I almost said. But I, decent Pedi Girl, managed to contain myself, and responded will a simple, “oh, okay, if you say so”. This was the turning point. Love was in the air! I was soon to discover that my type was generally considered "well built" in the land of spears and honey, and I almost lived happily ever after.

Fast forward to January 2014. Parts one and two of my four part wedding are complete, and I am now traditionally married. I am almost a year away from Part 3 – the white wedding. (I told you that I will explain the four part thing later, so be patient). After visiting 431 websites, buying 15 wedding magazines, downloading 3 wedding apps, and attending a large bridal expo; I realise that the only thing standing between me and looking like the wedding cake, is my well-built-ness. 

In desperation, I forget everything I have been taught about crash diets, potions, portion size and exercise. I race to Clicks, and casually hover around the “Slimming” shelves, as if I’m lost. I realise that I am not the first to arrive, the shelves are almost empty! I quickly select Herbex Tablets, Herbex Tea, and for good measure, Hoodia Tablets. Yes, I select Hlasela Mafutha.

My appetite is now under control. I don’t get hungry, I just get stomach cramps. This stuff really works neh?!  Hlasela ma-stomach for eeeeveryone! How can you eat when you have cramps? To ease the cramps, I dropped the hoodia – for now.

If this is my war, then I am Shaka Zulu! I shall be victorious! For Now…

Tough as Nails!

6 months ago, my inlaws and 300 other nearest and dearest descended upon my parent's quiet home in the east of Pretoria.  My inlaws travelled all the way from the battlefields region of KZN for umembeso - the second part of my four part wedding. I'll explain the four part thing another time.

It was a vibrant, colourful, and
extremely loud event which shook up the conservative leafy-green gated estate where my parents reside. 100 Zulus, 100 Pedis, 2 goats, 1 sheep and 200 of everyone else in between celebrated in song and dance all dressed in their finest traditional garb. The neighbours peered curiously from behind their dobermans and pitbulls whilst the caretaker added up the fines as we broke every rule in the estate's bible.

On that momentous occasion, all my uncles, aunts, and various elders gave me the same two pieces of advice. "Respect your husband, and take care of your mother in law." Taking care of your elder in my culture means cook for them, clean after them and watch your mouth. This can be tricky when like me you have an obsession with long, glossy, pimped out nails. For an acrylic soldier such as myself, gloves are not always practical (or makoti-like) when taking care of one's elders, resulting in some collateral damage.

For two weeks out of my 3 week "festive break", I took care of my parents, my mother-in-law (Ma), my granny, my Gogo (granny in law),and my cousins, and I respected my husband!

If you don't believe me, see attached "Exhibit A". Note how the thumb nail has sheared off completely leaving a ghastly stompie behind. If you look closely you can observe that the red colour on the index and swearing fingers are "fire red" and "hot-blooded red" instead of the original "Hollywood red" on the rest. If you are a "top-coat comrade", your trained eye will pick up that the two nails are repair work and were recently rouged.

The defense rests, your honour.