Mommyisms: tight slaps and tender words

IN OUR communities, fathers were off working double shifts, saving for school shoes and the light bill. Which left the mothers in charge. And make no mistake, these women didn’t need bodyguards or lawyers. They had two deadly weapons: a slipper and a vocabulary that could stop traffic.

Take Exhibit A: “Make sure the sink is clean and the dishes are packed in case someone dies in the middle of the night and visitors come home and see how dirty you are.”

Picture it: 2 am, Uncle Johnny drops dead. Before the body’s cold, visitors pour in, not to mourn, but to inspect your sink. Forget grief, the real scandal was a greasy pot left unwashed.

Exhibit B: “Make sure you don’t wear dirty briefs, in case you get into an accident and people see it.” You could be half-dead on the pavement, ambulance sirens screaming, but all anyone cares about is whether your underpants have a hole. “Doctor, never mind the head wound. Just Look at this child’s elastic, finished!”

And then came the mother of all scams: “Come here, I’m not going to hit you.”

If you believed that, you probably also believed Santa Claus came down the chimney in Shallcross. The slap came quicker than a speeding taxi jumping the robot.

Some mothers didn’t even need to talk. They had the look. That laser-beam stare that could silence a stadium. I’ve seen hardened uncles, men who fought with landlords and wrestled with debt collectors, crumble under that look.

The regular soundtrack of childhood included: “You think money grows on trees?” (If it did, half of Chatsworth would be in forestry.)

“Stop your nonsense before I break your back.” (Mothers had medical degrees in spinal adjustment.)

And the death sentence: “Wait, I’ll see you when we get home.”

That wasn’t discipline. That was psychological torture. You’d spend the whole outing preparing your last will and testament.

But between the threats, there were life lessons:

“Wash your hands before you eat.” 

“Wear your jersey, you’ll catch your death of cold.” 

“Finish your food, children in India are starving.” (As if we could personally courier our leftovers

to Chennai.)

"If you fall down and break your leg, don’t come running to me.” (Basic physics was no match

for Mommy logic).

“Eh, don’t climb that tree! When you fall, don’t shout my name.” (Motherhood with disclaimers.)

And then, just when you thought she was heartless, she’d whisper: “Eat, my child, otherwise you’ll have no strength.” Or “Come here, my lamb, let me see your face.”

That was the genius of Durban mothers. One moment the executioner, next moment Mother Teresa.

Somehow, through slaps, scares, and suspicious love, they raised us into halfway decent adults.

And to this day, if I see an unwashed dish at night, I feel like someone in the family might die.

Vedan is an attorney, community leader, and social commentator based in KwaZulu-Natal. 

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