shloboe boe
Mzana Mthimkhulu
I DON’T know about other Old Timers, but I vividly recall the clothes I wore on Christmas Day, 1964.
How can I forget that short-sleeved cream shirt with bright images of aeroplanes, bombs and parachutes?
Then there was that pair of shiny brown shorts I had never seen anyone in our township wearing. Finally, I got a pair of black, running shoes that climbed up to cover the ankles. We called the shoes amatenderfoot. Whenever we drove past that factory in Gwelo (Bata shoe factory in Gweru), my father used to proudly point out: “That is where all our footwear comes from.”
From head to toe, my attire was brand new. I had hardly slept a wink the previous night. My entire body craved for the touch of the new clothes and footwear. Except for school uniforms, being caressed by new clothes was a luxury I indulged in only once a year.
True, the shirt and shorts were oversize. But my visionary mother reassured me, ‘‘uzakhula lazo’’ (you’ll grow into them). There was no danger of the large shorts falling down. The magnetic buckle of my new blue, red and green belt firmly held the shorts on my waist. Have I mentioned that the shorts were ahead of their time? Instead of buttons, they had a zipper.
At sunrise, my brother and I strolled out of our house. Two years younger than me, my brother’s clothes would have fit me like a glove. “Not to worry,” Mother reasoned. “Give it two years, the clothes would fit the owner.”
As was the fashion then, I neatly folded a newspaper page and stuck it in my back pocket. There was a lilt in my step as we approached my friend’s house. His mother, an ever-smiling chubby lady welcomed us.
“Just look how smart you are!” She exclaimed, standing beside the Welcome Dover stove at the kitchen’s corner.
I shrugged. “We try Mother, we try.”
Those days, the word ‘‘smar’t’ had nothing to do with intelligence. It only referred to being neat, clean and well- dressed.
“Not bad,” Themba remarked, as he came out of the children’s bedroom. He was impressive in his new navy shorts and blue shirt.
“And what is this?” Mother asked, touching part of my shirt.
“A parachute,” I replied with the confidence of someone who had known this all his life. Father had told me the previous day. “It is to help you land safely after you jump out of an aeroplane.”
“What if you land on a lion’s head?” she asked.
My heart suddenly started beating faster and I stepped back as if I had spotted a snake. Themba came to my rescue. “He will be like Samson the Lion Heart. He will talk the language of the lion and it will walk away.”
“Just what I was about to say,” I said. Laughter filled the kitchen.
That year, the Block elders had arranged for Christmas to be celebrated in age groups. The four to 10 age group celebrated at Themba’s house.
By 8am all my age group members had arrived. Three goats had been bought for the Block. One was tethered at Themba’s house. Themba’s father taught the boys how to slaughter and skin a goat. The man enjoyed showing off his skills and knowledge. Using his Okapi knife, he demonstrated how to skin a goat without leaving an ounce of the precious meat on the skin. For every part of the carcass, he had a name for it.
“Call each part by the right name,” he told us, “you’ll never go wrong in life. Now, we come to the part of handing over our haul for cooking. Never surrender everything to the kitchen people. Keep something to reward yourselves for a job well done. For a man, roasted meat is tastier than the cooked one. So, keep a bit as an appetiser to the main meal.”
“Tell your father,” the Dark City Sisters sang from the gramophone, “Happy Christmas. And your mother, Happy New Year.”
The gramophone was there to rest our throats. Most of the time, we entertained ourselves by singing and playing various games.
That evening, a fierce debate raged at home. Each age group was convinced it had the best Christmas ever.
The cherry on the Christmas cake was when we threw our tired bodies to bed. For once, Mother agreed there was no need to wash our feet. Amatenderfoot had ensured that no dust soiled our feet.
Sadly, amatenderfoot went out of fashion in the coming years. Two decades later, they bounced back in a different form. Certain changes gave them a new life. First, they no longer were manufactured by a local company. They were flown in from abroad. Secondly, they no longer covered the ankles. To save material, the manufacturers sliced out the top sides of the sportswear. Thirdly, they no longer came in one colour but in all seven. Fourthly, they were endorsed by popular world athletes and had fancy brand names.
I admit, there was a time when the promotion got to me and I tried them. Except for the high price, the new wonder footwear was not different from the tried and tested Bata Brand.
Oh, one more update. Decades later, I often wake up at night shivering. What would I do if I landed on a lion’s head?
