Written By Makgosi Letimile
When my editor contacted me about writing something about pleasure, she gave me free latitude. I could write about the theme and my feelings towards it, whether big or small. I spent many weeks trying to do things to inspire pleasure so great, it just wrote about itself.
I thought I was going to make it a light column, with a bit of whimsy, because we are living in hard times and we are trying to remember our whimsy, but nothing came up. A night under the stars on my sleeper couch on the balcony didn’t do anything to inspire. Even my newly gifted coffee maker, which is usually fodder for commentary, didn’t provoke a conversation in my head (at least not one I thought was worth sharing). Times were looking tough; writer’s block is hell.
And then this morning, as I woke up and took my morning shower, warmed my coffee for the third time and listened to Sunday radio, I remembered that my paternal Grandmother used to be a maid in Durban many, many years ago. I felt a flash of ancestral inspiration wash over me.
For context, I was named after my paternal Grandmother and I grew up knowing that my father couldn’t shout at me because I was considered “his” mother in my culture. Any of the personality traits that mimic hers have been credited to my name. I remember my Grandmother as the first feminist I saw in action. She would wake up at 4 o’clock in the morning and feed her chickens and milk her cattle. After my grandfather passed, she had to make sure she did not die in poverty. She started a small business in my village and it sustained my cousins and me in her home.
She was a religious woman who hated latecomers (same girl, same). Her reputation was so widely known that in school, I’d get teased about my short, angry grandmother. And now years later, I think back and say, “I get the girl!” It really does take a lived experience.
My Grandmother had an incredible gift of foresight and knack for preparation. When I passed matric and my father broke his promise to send me to school, my grandmother lifted her mattress and pulled out R3000. Back in the 2000s, R3000 was A LOT of money. Her gift is how I managed to get my post-matric certificate.
Hold on, there is a point to the story.
I’m not religious, nor am I cultural. I debate a lot about things we were raised to believe. However, I’m always open to changing my mind when presented with new information.
In the later years of my life, I relocated to Cape Town. I remember the first night I arrived in this city. I sat up watching the glorious golden sun that wouldn’t set and I knew I’d never leave this place again, come rain or shine.
I will be the first to admit that it hasn’t been an easy ride, with more downs than ups and through all the tension of uncertainty and disruption and Disability and years in court over what seems insignificant but is bigger than it is believed to be, it’s been a ride and never once did I ever think of leaving this city. I get physically ill if I’m out of the city for more than 2 weeks, so this is my home.
Cape Town, for those who do not know, is a beautiful oceanside city. It offers many unique delights and curiosities. Take my latest obsession. In the past seven years, I’ve developed a curiosity and a love for ships, so much so that I have an app that tracks these ships and follow accounts that share details about everything that can be found online about ships. It’s such a love that my friends send me recordings of ships whenever they can. One of the best dates I went on was watching a ship while eating freshly made fish and chips under an umbrella by the docks. I had the time of my life reading all about it and watching the people on it.
I’ve never been on one, but I had a friend who said they imagined me being on a yacht in my 40s with hot naked people in 2013 and I remember laughing at the thought during the ride home. (very funny)
Then this morning, I remembered how my namesake used to work as a maid in Durban during apartheid and she would tell me about how her nice Madam would let her watch the kids while she was at the beach and she could smell the sand… the white people’s sand.
As I was having my third cup of coffee, I realised that my love for ships isn’t just a curiosity or childlike wonder borne from a lack of exposure, but a love inherited from an ancestor I was named after. It has taken me many years to realise it, but every time I went outside and looked at ships in the water at night, I was fulfilling what was possibly a dream my Grandmother had and died without ever experiencing.
She eventually left her job in Durban and relocated to the North West with my grandfather and built herself the house of her dreams, filling it with all her life’s work and proof of life. She owned herself and her time. When TVs were introduced in the country, we would sit in front of the TV together and she would translate the conversation to me, depending on her spoons on the day. She would answer what she could and entertain my curious mind.
So to answer the question, “What is a small pleasure to me?”, it’s ship-watching. Every time a ship docks, I can see it from my balcony and the squeal of delight never gets old. I hope my next home gives me an even closer look so I can honour my namesake and really take to the pleasure of watching ships come and go.
It’s her birthday next month and I thank her for reminding me that even if we die with our dreams in our hands, somebody in the future with our bloodlines will remember us and make our dreams come true. It’s a necessary but timely reminder we all need, seeing the times we live in.
I hope she is resting in peace and next time I go to watch a ship lighting up the water at night, I will make one more wish and I hope she grants me what I ask.
To ancestral pleasure.
