Eastern Cape farmers…..


I’m suffering from a bit of end of term fatigue.

Thank goodness it’s one more week. I feel like I  have my fat ass glued permanently in a car seat. It’s the traveling and the childish chattering that makes me tired. God knows, my one child doesn’t speak words, so I appreciate every word that gets uttered from Aidan’s lips, but fok, it’s tiring.

And….the other mommies small talk. Jong, sometimes I don’t want to. And I know sometimes they don’t want to either. But you’re there, thrown together for two hours at tennis, or half an hour at swimming, or cricket, and well you do……coz, as John always says: “What must I do. Roll snot balls?” No, I don’t want to be accused of rolling snot balls. God forbid. Gah!

So you chat about school. And you chat about husbands and you chat about living on a farm as a woman.

 About how sometimes you feel emasculated. (I know emasculated is a phrase for men…but you know what I mean.) by emasculated I mean…Eastern Cape boys are very chauvinistic.

 If you gasp at this and say: “I’m from the Eastern Cape and I’m not chauvinistic!”, then darl, I’m afraid you’re gay. Because they all are. They may try to think they’re not. But you see, their mamma’s train them from little. Thy shalt expect lunch at 1pm sharp. Thy shall have sandwiches and cold cool drink waiting for you next to the flask of hot coffee at 3am when you go and hunt. Thy shall drop thine clothes onto the floor and someone will pick it up after you. It’s the unspoken law here in these here parts.

At braai’s, the women sit on one side and the men on the other. I don’t know why. It’s an unconcious shift. It begins all mingled and ends all segregated. I’m one of those that are happy in the sisterhood coz I have sisters and girl cousins. I’m used to it. But I know it drives others insane.

There’s something hot about an Eastern Cape farmer. All that masculine testosterone. No apologising for their masculinity. Mud and dip/doses spilled on their shorts and farm shirts. The smell of lanolin from wool on their hands. Masculine and no apology for it. No contrition for who they are and regret for the kind, honourable men they’ve become.

Because as much as you run the house coz you the woman…… they make you feel cherished, and pretty, and dainty and honoured. They stand back at doors for you, they offer all the women a drink, they pay for your meal, they apologise for swearing in your company, they hold you in the palm of their hands.

and you know what?……it feels nice…


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