As we celebrate Independence...

GALE NGAKANE
Correspondent | Monday October 4, 2010 00:00

The question that refuses to go away is, 'Could this be the Botswana I grew up in?'

I cannot help gasping at the differences - some positive and others negative - that occurred over the years from my cradle to 2010.

Back then, together with my friends, we ran the length and breadth of my village, sometimes barefooted, throwing nxaii, or playing morabaraba, fishing in the river and trapping birds to be given to elders as seshabo.

We made vehicles out of wire straps with beverage cans crafted into wheels for ease of motion.  When it rained, we would collect clay mud with which we would mould cattle, cars and figurines.

As for the girls, they made their own rag-dolls using rags from the clothing mother bought to tailor their dresses, makgabe or khiba. 

When we came together with the girls, we played house with the females building shelters like the ones made by Basarwa in the Central Kgalagadi Game Reserve (CKGR).

For those suffering from permanent nausea, please skip these following paragraphs.  One day, we concocted a plan to make condensed milk, a delicacy loved by us youngsters.  We would sneak into Mama's kitchen and furtively grab a tin of the phlegmatic substance and sip it from where it had been cut open.

But one day, one of my friends came up with a plan that we must have our own 'khondase'.  It was winter time and our nostrils were full to the brim with yellow phlegm.

He brought an open can and blew his nose into it.  From there we took turns to blow our share of yellow phlegm into the can until it was half full.  He had been resourceful enough to bring sugar, which he had stolen from his mother's cupboard.

He then stirred the sugar in and we took turns gulping the salty and sugary substance.  To this day, when I think about it, it ruins my supper.

At home, we would sit on our haunches while chairs were for elders, waiting for instructions, which we followed without question.  There were no questions of why, when, how and what.

If you were sent to the shops, you were expected to run fast to buy whatever you were sent to buy and rush back home.

Mother would say : 'Ngwanake o a romega tota. O tla a nna motho fa a gola (my child is a good errand boy.  He will grow into a good man).

One of the errands we were expected to perform was pound the maize, sorghum or millet. Pounding of these grains was a rigorous task that involved exerting oneself.

If it is maize, it starts with 'go thobola', which is actually 'de-coating' the stuff.  The coarse chaff, is usually given to donkeys and goats, but there is the smooth chaff which is given to youngsters to cook and its saltiness lends it some delicacy.

The 'de-coated' maize is then soaked and left in a container overnight.  The following morning it is back to the mortar and pestle.  This time, the grain has softened so much that when it is pounded, it produces a pure white substance, which makes porridge.

The porridge can be eaten with meat relish or sour milk.  In fact, I prefer it with sour milk.

During dinner, we would sit like the Buddha statute and eat with our hands, dipping fingers into a dish of bogobe and seswaa as relish.

Spoons were for the elders, and woe-be-tied a child seen licking the receptacle with his or her tongue!

Around the village, you would never see a woman in a dress that goes above her knees.  It was said a woman's beauty was the preserve of her husband or lover alone, and not to be admired by lecherous on-lookers in the streets.

A woman was not called out by her name, but by the name of her eldest offspring.  For instance, she was 'Mma-Keloilwe' if her daughter or son was called 'Keloilwe'.

Likewise, a man was called by the name of his eldest offspring.  As the head of the house, the man came up with laws and regulations that governed the household.  All including the wife obeyed him.

Along the way as I was growing up, I became an adolescent, and became initiated in matters of romance by older boys.  They told me that to get a girlfriend I had to propose to her and tell her that I loved her.

It happened one day when I was 17 years that there was a girl I fancied in the village.  Of course, I used to exchange banter with the girl who appeared to be my age or even younger.

So that day, I went to her home determined that I was going to tell her how much I loved her and wanted her to accept my love.  I rehearsed before I left for her home, which was just across the street.

She was sitting with some friends when I entered, and I called her aside making her aware there was something I wanted to tell her.

'What is it you want to tell me?' she asked cheekily.

'Something,' I said, not raising my eyes to meet hers.

'What?'

'Something.'

'Ooh please what is it that you want to tell me?' she demanded exasperatedly.

'Something,' I stuck to my guns.

In the end she told me she had no time for games and walked away.  I slunk away mortified with shame and regret.

But it came to a point where I became a professional in matters of romance as the older boys initiated me.One of the boys had a harrowing experience of how he found himself sleeping with another boy in his girlfriend's bedroom.

He told us how when he got to his girlfriend's place, he climbed into her bedroom through the window as usual, but there was no one inside.  He decided that the girl was still in the sitting room helping her elders.  The boy said he then dozed off only to wake up with a start after he felt a strong groping on his loins. 

Apparently, as word got around about what happened, another boy who had convinced the girl that he loved her, had informed the girl that he was visiting her that night.  The timid girl showed him the window that he could use to jump into her bedroom.  When the boy arrived, he found someone snoring contentedly on the bed and he presumed it was the girl.

After a while he started touching the person sleeping next to him and the person responded with mutual fervour. It was when the two went for each other's  private parts that they realised this was no woman.

Both boys jumped up and screamed their lungs out waking the occupants of the house in the process.  The patriarch came armed with a whip and gave the boys a good beating.

That was then.  Now is a different kettle of fish. Boys and girls walk hand in hand kissing in public.

As for the females, it is not possible to know if the person you are looking at is a grandmother or a chick.  In tight fitting slacks, high heels, with flowing hairpieces and facial make up, it is hard to tell the difference.

When you meet the obviously aged woman and offer a greeting, it is met with suspicion because people have been known to lose their money in mysterious ways.  After withdrawing their money from the bank, when they get home, they have found only papers instead of bank notes.

Children and even adults have been disappearing - never again to be seen - in such large numbers that people have become just too suspicious of each other to observe the rules of the olden days. It is a tough call, but I still hanker after days gone by.