Chapter Two: Different strokes, for different medical aids.

“You can’t put a price tag on love. But if you could, I’d wait for it to go on sale.” — Hussein Nishah

Shana, ko huistoe. Ek dink jou pa kry n stroke”.

The call came as I sat down at my desk around 6pm, my boss looking at me through his glass wall.

A stone’s throw away.

“Mommy, what do you mean?”

I knew exactly what she meant.

“Jou pa trek skief. “

I tried not to giggle, and avoided the urge to ask “since when is daddy gay?’…

My family isn’t very sensitive.

I jumped up and shouted across the office…

“I’m leaving. My dad is having a stroke”.

Post traumatic stress had me biet.

That means I was stressed about what to post during this trauma.. .

But there was no time for social me, dear.

I saw my boss mouth, “What more can happen to this girl?”

My bru. Jy mean.

I ran down the stairs and jumped into my car to anxiously… sit in traffic.

 You’d think after the 2015 I’ve had, I would have installed a siren and emergency light by now.

“fok.fok.fok.fok.fok.fok.”

I called my sister:

“Sonya, daddy is having a stroke. He’s gonna die”.

“You need to calm down, Shana”.

 Okay.

I called the crèche.

 

“Hey teacher, are the kids…….”

“Hey Shana, they with your mommy”.

 

Silence.

“What?”

Mid-stroke, my parents had made the joint decision to first fetch my children…

The logic, I believe was in the event of my father’s death or more inconveniently… his admittance to hospital… nobody had luss to still go back to Strandfontein and fetch the lighties.

 

My sister arrived at the hospital first.

Before my mommy and daddy.

By the time I had gotten there, my father was Jacob-Straight-up in the waiting room, my mother was in the car feeding my children, and my sister was lamming next to my daddy, chatting on Whatsapp.

[DO YOU MOTHERFUCKERS THINK THIS IS A GAME?]

“What’s happening?” [I decided against asking if they were all jus]

“Niksie, haai… hoeko is jy soe dramatic?”

I could feel that familiar poes-tingling that I get from baby-daddies and admin workers.

I went to my mother in the car:

“Mommy, what is going on? How could you fetch the kids first?”

 

And just like that, we went from zero to 120… “HOEKOM MOET JY ALTYD N FOKKEN SCENE MAAK?  [angry whisper] Ek try my fokken bes met jou fokken kinnesjy fokken…” I closed the car door.

I decided to rather go to my dad… before we were banned from another emergency unit, as a team.

“Ek is oraait my darling.”

I wanted to punch my father and induce something.

“Daddy… the people at work are gonna stop believing me. Are you having a stroke?”

The nurses had sent him back to the waiting room with a blood pressure of 214 over 90.

Pretty sure mine was higher.

They admitted my dad, and I sorted the kids, and dropped them off at family so that I could be at his side.

The doctors took him in for a CT scan and he remained somewhat conscious for the most part.

We sat in the waiting room, discussing how I couldn’t deal with death right now, and a woman who I had noticed in the corner since I arrived, and her ever so slightly ‘Milly Perkins’ sister approached my sister, my mother and I.

The universe had sent someone to help me put life into perspective.

“Hi there. I hope your dad is okay hey? God bless your family. I am waiting for my son’s results. He just slept and slept all weekend. We dunno what is wrong”.

Her son won’t wake up.

All the results for the tests came back clear.

There is no reason for him to be asleep.

But she continued, just in case I didn’t feel self absorbed enough.

And her eyes welled up.

“Sorry I seem so emotional… I don’t like September. Last year September I lost my daughter to cancer.”

And as we responded with awkward tears, she left.

“Mrs Genever… You can come through to your husband”.

 

My mother returned some minutes later… Looking almost shy…

“Die doctor wil met os almal saam praat”.

 

My father was diagnosed with Acute Nephritis back in 2005.

As a diabetic, he was not allowed to eat anything remotely fun or drink cool-drinks.

At the end of last year, he had a kidney transplant and was deemed ‘diabetes free’.

And for a man who had been deprived of all things delicious, he found himself on the wrong side  of temptation when we left him alone at home last week.

He sneakily drank a two litre Coca-Cola and by the time my mom had gotten home, the amount of sugar he had consumed had put him into a diabetic coma.

My mother assumed he was having a stroke, and instead of rushing him to hospital… packed  a lunchbox of supper for my children, and fetched them at school.

My father proceeded to have an out of body experience and walk himself down the stairs, to the car.

At this point, convinced he was about to die, he said “Phone vir Shana”..

I assume their conversation went something like this:

“Serie os moet ry. “

“Hou op vir my fokken aan jaa..”

 

My father was admitted for observation.

The next day I took the morning off to fetch him once he was discharged.

I walked in to work at 11am.

Seeing as how I am the only coloured in the building [and possibly the entire upper Milnerton, Table View and surrounds], tardiness and general stereotypes of our race hinder my growth in the company.

[I hear you, and let me emphasize that there are no coloureds in Milnerton. No, no… they only stay innie Militant. Vastly different.]

However, what we lack in BEE compliance, my boss makes up for in being a genuinely kind-hearted person.

“Morning sir. I mailed you, but thanks again for yesterday. My dad’s doing okay.”

“Great to hear, Shana! So was it a stroke?’

I hung my head in shame…

“No sir it wasn’t… he just overdosed on coke”.

……………

With any new beginnings, resolutions are inevitable.

I myself have found the last few weeks a daunting mess, and I have re-evaluated my stance on many a personal issue.

I have set myself certain goals, rules and of course limits.

But even on my strongest day, my resolution, “be less of a naai”, failed miserably, about ten seconds down my newsfeed.

“Anonymous post’, the admin declares… and in the same vein… “No negative comments”.

Brilliant.

A platform where no differing opinions will be allowed.

The definition of academic.

Let’s dive right in, shall we?:

“i like poking my husband in the bum, it makes him feel shy. it started out as me just being silly, but now i do it all the time, to the point where i feel like i didnt greet him properly if i didnt do that-worst part is, after im done poking him with my finger then i smell it, like i breath it in like its magic——-it pisses him off but i cant stop its become a habit now-it smells spicy sometimes, but i cant stop :-)/:-( help maybe”. (sic)

Sick indeed.

And this is the exact way all my ‘women’s group experiences have ended up.

Total strangers divulging their obsession with penetrating the anus of their husband, and inhaling it.

[Yes, male readers… this is what really goes down in our discussions.

Chances are if I see you in the road, I know… I know everything.]

Now, as someone with legitimate issues, I get frustrated when I am approached, directly or via social media with the type of person who feels the need to share made-up problems about ‘whether or not her sex life requires her husband to change his diet’.

But I bring this up because I think this type of attention seeking highlights exactly what is wrong with women, and why we need to stop watching Rom-Coms.

I entered most of these ladies groups for the same reasons, though.

I think that in your late 20’s, every girl who hasn’t forcibly hanged on tooth and nail to every high school friendship in the past ten years, finds herself at a crossroads where she really wants a ‘squad’.

I am 100% victim to this yearning.

I want to go to braais and suppers with people who love me, just the way I am.

I want to Skype conference call my girls, when something ridiculously fantastic happens to me.

I want to do monthly lunches with my ladies.

But then, someone oversteps a boundary and tells me about her significant other’s anus and its addictive tingle it leaves on her forefingers [Or God forbid, four fingers] and I am immediately grateful that people do not gravitate towards me.

The perks of not being a hol-smeller.

But, these ‘close’ relationships, from my observations inside and out are terribly superficial.

I am wholly convinced that we are taught as women to behave a certain way, even with our ‘girlfriends’ and wait all our lives to be old enough and disheveled enough to emulate our very own ‘Sex in the City’ remakes.

We proudly state first world problems to each other for:

  1. The social standing it brings[ that we too participate in womanly things]
  2. Fishing for compliments and acceptance.

Observe:

  • OMP my eyebrows haven’t been done please don’t judge me
  • My nails is still blue from last week. But now everyone have this colour on now I look like I copied them… make me jusssss.
  • I woke up like this… Don’t judge

Your “true friend” can know you penetrate your hubby, but not that you need bread money … and this to me is not friendship of any kind…

And this makes me cringe, as I more often than not find myself participating in the same kind of relationships with bitches.. but have recently actively decided to not be so common…..

But….

A very particular stance of mine has changed of late, and I find it big enough to share.

And I feel weird about this, though as my readers have gone along on my journey of self discovery, where else would I admit something this personal… If not to a couple of thousand people I have never met?

I would like to get married.

Not immediately, but there is a definite possibility that if I find someone tolerable enough that doesn’t want to fornicate with all my childhood friends, I am open to a pair-bond.

So, I took to Tinder to see what exactly I was missing out on.

And oh boy, have I missed being asked if I’m horny.

“Sorry babe, all my naked pics are on my ex’s memory card. Don’t think he will be releasing those to me any time soon. “

Men truly are fabulous.

And then, last night a good friend who happens to have a vagina in-boxed me a drunken: “Where you?’

I responded… and amidst the misspelling attributed to what I can only assume was a mouth full of Captain Morgan, I deciphered a distinctive…

“I dare you to come to Stargayzer.. I’m in love with you…”

[To be continued]                                 

 

I don’t have a PHD

Nobody even realizes that applications are now, open.

[Apply within.  Get it? Cos I’m spicy]

I am just Shana

I am just fertile

I am just a Hoe… With Babies

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