Anecdotes of a town girl in the village

I recently had an interesting discussion with a few acquitances about whether denying our children a taste of traditional Setswana life is unfair. I argued that some of us are products of urban migration and so are “victims” of circumstances beyond our control. I have often been referred to as a ‘coconut’ but I think it is mere perception. Most of us millennials are urbane. Many people argue that being detached from rural life - cattle posts, lands and so forth - signifies us being “lost.” I find the assumption that being ‘black enough’ should be identified with an understanding and experience of rural life quite archaic. I think it does if you were ever exposed to that life. I cannot yearn for something I never experienced. I have always been a town girl, raised in the “hood” and I’m proud of it. Growing up as a little girl, I disliked the village. I still do. I recall as a little girl during school holidays, my mother would tell me that we were visiting my grandmother for the day. But in the evening she would disappear on me and I sulked until I went to bed. There was no electricity and television. We had few “luxuries” such as a standpipe in the yard and a telephone line. We listened to an Omega 3 radio. The nights were always dark and long. My grandmother had lived alone since my grandfather died and she was comfortable with her life. The poor old woman tried to make me enjoy my stay but I just did not like the damn place. I preferred it when she visited us in town, and many years later, I was happy when she moved in with us because I could not stand the village. It wasn’t necessarily the slow place and the environment that I disliked but also the duties. In town, we had a helper and there was convenience. In the village, there was a lot of work to do and some of the tasks were no walk in the park. Firstly, I was expected to bring water into the house from the standpipe daily. I would wobble and shake that by the time I got to the house, the bucket was half empty. The other task was feeding the chickens, which was easier. The nightmare was collecting the eggs. On some days it was simple. But on other days, like on this one particular occasion when I had a stroke of bad luck, there was nothing to smile about. My grandmother told me to collect eggs from the chicken coop. I saw two hens and chicks idling about. I tip-toed towards the coop and there were four eggs. Little did I know that there was a hen near the outside toilet adjacent to the coop. As soon as I stretched out my hand to take the first egg, I had a loud cuckling. I looked up and there was a hen charging at me. I turned on my heels but it chased me down the stoned pathway to the house. I was a chubby child and could not outrun the chicken. By the time I wobbled into the kitchen, it had given me four sharp pecks. On another occasion, cows entered the yard. My grandmother asked me to chase them out. I was scared of them (I still am) so I stood at the front stoep, picked up stones and threw them towards the cows shouting: “Shoo cow, shoo!” They did not budge. My grandmother stormed out of the house and berated me: ‘Wa re shoo, gatwe tlhaa!’