So, I am helping him sort out his war zone of a house. I take off my prized t-shirt and designer jeans to wrap myself in a Zambian chitenge. Onto my knees, in one hand a hard bristle brush, the other a wet martin cloth while a bucket full of hot soapy water leads me, I am at it. An hour into it, I realize I am alone, where is he? In the kitchen, standing in perfect posture doing dishes, with his manicured hands well protected by the “yellow rubber gloves”. Uhu, kgaitsadi, o mo go ahe jaanong? I let it go.
We shift focus to the yard now, armed with a spade I grab my sunhat and attack the weeds in the dusty dry soil. I will bath, wash my hair later and no one would tell I ever resembled a pig. With that safely in mind, I get down to it. But where is he? It is his yard after all. He is a few meters behind, strategically positioned out of the dust’s way busy slopping sunscreen onto his chiseled gym body. He assures me he is about to rage war on the weeds but I am done anyway. I deduce that since he suffers from hay fever, he is just avoiding the dust and freshly cut weeds to avert an allergic reaction.
As we move on to the car, I am sure that he will completely take over. And take over he does. That man stripped that car of all dust speckles near it. But wait, the perfectionist in me spots the 17 inch BMW sports alloy rims, they are all but clean. So, with bucket in hand, brush and martin cloth in other, I get down, squatting to attack the grime on the rims. He is not bothered. I deduce that since he suffers from severe backache, he simply cannot reach that low. Poor thing!
The car is gleaming, the yard freshly raked and the house spotless. I relax on the stoep just under the main entrance then I notice the two-plate emergency stove “forgotten” outside. It is disgustingly caked in expensive olive oils from yesteryear splattered during the searing of expensive lean cuts meats from afar. I grab my ever trustworthy bucket, fresh hot soapy water, cleaned brush and aim for the two-plate stove before he startles me. I ask, “go rileng?”
“You can’t use the same bucket as you used on the floor and the rims.” Ao, why not, they’re clean, I made sure of it? He says it is disgusting. At this point I am disgusted by the theory. “Ija, rra, go ta a re o se thatswe e!” I let it go.
I jump into the shower, slip into my designer jeans and t-shirt, whip out my makeup kit and do my magic. He suggests while analyzing my makeup that I switch to a new brand because of its “soft-flex” properties and SPF rates. Ijoo! I shut up!
While in his car driving me home, it starts to pour and the lights go off . “Mathata?” He shrugs his shoulders while calling the quick response mechanics. I need to get away from this man and so I step out into the rain, open the bonnet, then the electrical box. I dry and re-connect the electrical points and voila, then there was light! I do not drive a BMW, in fact I do not have a car to drive at all, but I do know what makes the lights go on. He has been driving for 10 years! I am so done with this particular project!
Where on earth is the man that gets down and dirty to get the job done? Where is the man that knows HIS car and not MY makeup?
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