Of Love In The Time Of Chocolate Cake

Guest Post

Love in the time of chocolate

Chocolate Cake

The rich chocolatey smell of the cake overwhelms my nostrils, coating the fine hairs with thoughts of warm crushed cocoa beans. I savour the heft of the slice in my hand, marvelling at the glossy, delicate swirls of chocolate butter cream. My mouth is heavy with saliva. I close my eyes and lean in for that first eager bite.
A bright shaft of light pierces my eyelids and a voice drills into my head: vasikana havasweri vakarara. Confused I open my eyes. Where is my cake? Where is the chocolatey goodness that was meant to transport me to confectionery seventh heaven? As my mother continues to bustle around the room, the clouds lift. It was all a dream. A beautiful tantalising dream cruelly snatched away by another person’s intervention. I was too young at the time to know that it would be a recurring theme, though sadly too often it was my dreams being snatched away in real life, with no warm bed to snuggle back into.
As a black girl growing up in Harare, I learnt early on that I did not have the luxury of sleeping in during the school holidays. By 6am my mother would have woken me up to get about my industrious day. Because my training to be the perfect wife could not be left to chance and circumstance and sleeping in after 6am.

Zimbabwean society places a very high value on a woman being married. As a young girl, your waking moments are devoted to furthering the cause of your future marriage. A family does not just raise a daughter, their combined efforts are preparing a wife. A woman who will not only be an excellent cook and homekeeper, but one whose focus is on keeping her husband happy. And if she can issue forth from her loins strong strapping sons to carry on his family life, she has fulfilled her God-given purpose. She has earned her title of A Real Woman. But A Real Woman training takes time and sacrifice. When you are younger, the unfairness of watching your brothers play outside, with their ball made from the brightly-coloured sacks the potatoes you spent hours peeling came in, becomes something of a permanent friend. You don’t yet possess the sophisticated lexis to describe the unfairness, but you feel it deeply. You feel it when you are the one to pluck that live chicken. Smell it when you need to clean and squeeze out its intestines. Bleed it as you cut deftly through the bones to make sure there is enough chicken to go around at dinner time, in the hope that no unexpected visitors drop by as dinner is to be served. Season that tomato and onion chicken stew with a large dollop of unfairness and as you suckle the marrow of those bones and lick the juices dripping down your arms, unfairness cuts off your contented burps because the mountain of dishes still awaits you. To be a good young black girl is to know service and unfairness intimately.

  • Zimbabwean society raises us to be perfect wives for imperfect men

A girl born into a relatively traditional Zimbabwean family is a potential return on investment in the bride price that can be charged for her. For those lucky enough to be blessed with natural good looks and child-bearing hips, their value increases exponentially. As early as when you are a chubby-cheeked toddler, aunts are already exclaiming what a pretty wife you will make one day. Before you even have full command of your own bowels, plans are already underfoot to offload you for a few beasts and healthy wad of cash. Because your beauty is not your own, your beauty belongs to the family to financially maximise on, at hopefully not too distant a point in the future.

So now it’s 6.01am. You have lifted your head off the pillow. And you groan inwardly at the thought of pillows because today is a laundry day and all the sheets need to be washed. Six pairs of sheets and pillowcases that need to be washed by hand, hung out to dry, ironed and then beds remade. All before 3pm because the evening meal needs to be prepared and ready by 6pm. You don’t want to miss the start of wrestling on tv by not getting your timings right. You trudge to the bathroom and complete a cursory ablution. You will bath once the laundry’s done and the house swept and floors polished and breakfast and lunch dishes put away and the meat simmering on the stove. 12 years old and you already have the house running like clockwork.

As you proceed to scrub the kitchen floor on hands and knees, your older brother trudges in from outside, trailing muddy footprints to the fridge. Sadly, you don’t yet know any expletives to tell him what a fucking cunt he is for dirtying your floor. But the anger is real and hot and burns in your throat. For all he knows about clean floors, there is a Floor Elf that whizzes in every afternoon and abracadabraes all the dirt away. You don’t hate your brother exactly, but you swallow the unfairness each time he walks into the house dragging in smells of sunshine and rolling around in the grass and the happy dampness of hosing each other down in water fights.

You go back to clean up his muddy footprints and look on the floor with a kind of grim satisfaction. You are confident you have done enough to ensure not being made to re-do it as your mother’s opprobrium rains down on you, warning you that uchatinyadzisa wadzoswa. What could be more humiliating than your future husband returning you to your family because you could not scrub a floor properly. How would you ever live down the shame of being a slatternly wife who could not maintain hearth and home? There wouldn’t be enough earth to swallow you whole!

To be an average Zimbabwean woman is to know the fear of never getting married. To be one of those women looked down upon with a certain degree of contempt and pity, with a side of What If She Steals Our Men fear for good measure. So you learn early on to comport yourself in a manner that makes people remark kuti mwana ane tsika iyeye. You sit with your legs tightly closed, and in lax moments where your legs betray you and fall open, one eagle eyed glare from your mother is enough to jam your legs back together, straining your muscles in abject fear of dropping your guard again.

Requests to bring more tea for the guests are a blessing in disguise as you can discreetly wipe away the sweat that has been pouring down your legs in superglued legs exertion. You are young, but the need to be nice in company has been drilled into you. Cautions of not running around like a wild animal chasing each other in your head. The burn marks from the carpet as you greeted each adult on your knees still stinging slightly. You answer questions politely, just enough information so they don’t think you are a bit slow, but not so much that they leave thinking that chimwana chiye chinoganhira. You serve guests with scalding cups of tea and chocolate cake, harnessing both your culinary skills and generosity. You clear cups and saucers quickly and quietly, making sure not to disrupt the adults. You know what it is to be a good girl. How then can you fail to be a good wife?

Through all this, the mud-trailing brother has come in and said a perfunctory hello and gone back to his outdoor games. You are told later on that boys don’t mature as quickly as girls do. You believe it because Mud Trailer can barely wash the skidmarks out of his own underwear, or make himself a decent toasted sandwich. Don’t even think about getting him to get that neat crease in his white long-sleeved school shirt. Somewhere else in Zimbabwe, your co-labourer is perfecting her skills so she can do all those things for him. She knows as well as you do, that a man doesn’t need to be able to not burn a hole in his shirt every time he picks up an iron. All these lessons in cooking and cleaning you have been learning have been for his benefit and for that of his family. Without a husband to validate those skills, really what is the point of having darkened your knees on so many floors and strained your neck hanging up those thick wet winter blankets?

CHOCOLATE CAKE

Ingredients

2/3 cup margarine

2 eggs

1 T vanilla

4 T cocoa

2 ½ cups sifted flour

1 ½ cups sugar

1 ¼ t soda

½ t salt

1 ¾ cup ice water

Method

  1. Cream butter, sugar, eggs and vanilla till fluffy for about 5 minutes (electric beater or by hand).
  2. Blend in chocolate (sifted if lumpy).
  3. Sift flour with soda and salt and add to creamed mixture alternately with iced water..
  4. Bake in a round tin in a moderately hot oven until done (approximately 30 mins)

 

Guest Post by Eleanor Madziva

Bio

Eleanor is an itinerant Zimbabwean with a passion for picking lint out of her navel, while trying to find the best ways of not turning into a charred mess in the desert heat. Less a writer, more a person who writes.

Eleanor Madziva

Twitter @Madziva_Eleanor

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Of Coffee grown from a teapot shaped country

If you were having coffee with me, I would tell you tell you that, it feels like I spoke too soon when I announced Spring is here yesterday because today is a cold day like we rewound time to the middle of winter. But everything works out perfectly, we wont need an excuse to light a fire and drink a liquid hug in a mug…..

My friend Josh, left a comment on my last post that had me thinking, my country is teapot shaped and that is not a bad thing, it could be anything really; Oneta mentioned her state looks like a pan handle… what is your country or state shaped like?

A teapot shaped country south of africa

A teapot shaped country

Today is day 2 of my blog everyday challenge; and if you were having coffee with me I would tell you to allow me to pour you tales grown from my teapot shaped country.

I am the second born child in a family of five siblings (and now we are 4). I grew up in an extremely large family because my dad rest his soul had a heart of gold and if any relation needed a place to stay he would agree quickly without a second thought.

The family.jpg

We didn’t have rules any rules in the house; if we did they we less than ten and they weren’t really rules they were more like I would rather you didnts

If there was one rule we had, it was that the word cousin never be used, we had no cousins, we had brothers and sisters. In our culture my uncles (my father’s brothers) are my fathers and my aunts (my mum’s sisters) are my mothers and so their children are my siblings. It’s a great way to keep the family united and when my dad passed away although I missed him I never felt the void of missing a father figure.

Every school holiday we went visiting, either the paternal or the maternal grandparents alternating each time..

grandmaGranma

That one was not a rule that was a commandment. It helped to keep us grounded, we knew where we came from.

Grandfather and grandchild

My Grandad and I

All the stories told, suddenly years later I realise they are so much more than stories and this is why I too am a storyteller, keeping wisdom alive in the embers of a story.

If you were having coffee with me; I would tell you I was born to tell stories

Baby Beaton

 

I could speak before I could walk, and I walked before I could stand. I am told people found that highly disturbing I wouldn’t know I don’t remember…. What I do remember is that once upon a time my dad and I snuck out the house to go to a barbecue with the guys, I was made to swear not to reveal where we had gone, what we had done and whom we had done it with and was bribed with an insane amount of soft drinks, kebabs, ice creams and sweets. As soon as I got out home the first words out of my mouth to my mum were:

I am not telling you that I am not supposed to tell you that I was given sweets to not tell you that…..

I am sure my dad was not amused at all.

I am a fairly decent cook and I am super modest about it, you might even find my picture right under the definition of Modesty. Growing up my mum didn’t differentiate chores for the boys and girls she would just suggest, I would rather you didn’t leave dirty dishes in the sink, I would rather you all helped each other cook….

African parents are known for their heavy handed justice but I never got beat up, ,maybe we were model children and growing up without a father we were forced to be mature kids we never needed disciplining or rules…..

Family

already reading newspapers, helping “kids” with homework

My older brother was off at boarding school and so suddenly  I become “the responsible child”

Prefect

The Prefect

I was a prefect in primary school, a dorm prefect in junior high, a table leader at the the dining and a senior prefect in high school…. I never became a government minister though…..😂😂

what was your childhood like?

#MyAfricaMyWords

~B

 

PS a rare picture of my mum and dad way before The Kids

A rare photo.jpg

A rare picture of me being a baby

me .jpg