I could have been 14 or so, Christmas day. My mother would shake me out of dreamland. My eyes would slowly open and for the 10th time, I'd hope to see a white blanket out the window with a snowman sitting on it, wearing a real scarf, carrot nose and green hat. I always hoped African Christmas snowed too and that's all thanks to a Miracle on 34th Street. We had to go for a visit, it was compulsory. I quite hated it, i always seen Christmas on TV and people generally stayed home, opened gifts and did the whole family thing. It just didn't make sense to be leaving the house on a 'being home day'.
We would pack the few groceries and go into the public buses heading west towards the suburbs. After a few lousy minutes sitting next to the few who made trips on Christmas day, we'd get off, walk a few metres in the beautiful streets of Marlborough, the trees seemed to all lean in creating a tent for the streets. The sun would sneak through where the leaves gaped, creating polka dots of light and dark patches where we walked.
Soon enough, he scurried towards us, arms held out waiting for an embrace. My mom walks faster towards him and we'd take a moment to take in the warm feeling around the air. The sun seemed to shine a little brighter, birds sang a little sweeter. A second later, he'd turn to me, it was my turn. I walked into his arms as my mum had and threw my hands around his waist as i was supposed to. He was after all my grandfather.
I don't know much about him as i sit here writing this, i don't know where he was born or how he grew up. His childhood was just but a mystery we never seemed to have come across. He was born George, well at least i imagine so, though i cant be entirely certain it wasn't a name given to him by the white family that he worked for from his late teenage years. i don't even know for sure what year he was born, in his late life he turned 18 a number of times, at least according to him (lol). Most of his life he lived under the white dominated regime, worked for a white family and did everything for this family. He gave them over 50 years of his life, waking up to clean, sometimes cook. They told him how hands had germs which seemingly wasn't the best of things to tell my grandfather. That day on, nothing was put in his mouth if it had touched his hands. I am talking about a man who ate everything, i mean everything, with a fork and knife!
He also vigorously adapted the British philosophy that "there is nothing a good cup of tea cannot fix". With a time table, nothing could go on if his tea wasn't served on time. I learnt this when he moved in with us. He wasn't particularly a fussy eater but if he was going to eat it, then it "better damn well taste good!" Liberal with a reckless tongue that dared to speak about the things many of his generation wouldn't ever mention. He found freedom in himself. Amazingly fluent in English, he'd hit half the crossword everyday, bet on horse racing, entered the lotto
and never left the house without his hat. My grandfather was an English-man. Groomed and bred in the English culture, i's dotted, t's crossed.
One day i heard he died. He just died. I don't know where, i don't know how. He just seemed to disappear from my life for a few weeks that turned to months, that turned to years. In the end, the last anyone has seen him. he was walking down the road his hat on, a newspaper in hand, like he'd done many times before. Now we are only left with that image of him heading into the shadows
RIP Gramps
George Matute
We would pack the few groceries and go into the public buses heading west towards the suburbs. After a few lousy minutes sitting next to the few who made trips on Christmas day, we'd get off, walk a few metres in the beautiful streets of Marlborough, the trees seemed to all lean in creating a tent for the streets. The sun would sneak through where the leaves gaped, creating polka dots of light and dark patches where we walked.
Soon enough, he scurried towards us, arms held out waiting for an embrace. My mom walks faster towards him and we'd take a moment to take in the warm feeling around the air. The sun seemed to shine a little brighter, birds sang a little sweeter. A second later, he'd turn to me, it was my turn. I walked into his arms as my mum had and threw my hands around his waist as i was supposed to. He was after all my grandfather.
I don't know much about him as i sit here writing this, i don't know where he was born or how he grew up. His childhood was just but a mystery we never seemed to have come across. He was born George, well at least i imagine so, though i cant be entirely certain it wasn't a name given to him by the white family that he worked for from his late teenage years. i don't even know for sure what year he was born, in his late life he turned 18 a number of times, at least according to him (lol). Most of his life he lived under the white dominated regime, worked for a white family and did everything for this family. He gave them over 50 years of his life, waking up to clean, sometimes cook. They told him how hands had germs which seemingly wasn't the best of things to tell my grandfather. That day on, nothing was put in his mouth if it had touched his hands. I am talking about a man who ate everything, i mean everything, with a fork and knife!
He also vigorously adapted the British philosophy that "there is nothing a good cup of tea cannot fix". With a time table, nothing could go on if his tea wasn't served on time. I learnt this when he moved in with us. He wasn't particularly a fussy eater but if he was going to eat it, then it "better damn well taste good!" Liberal with a reckless tongue that dared to speak about the things many of his generation wouldn't ever mention. He found freedom in himself. Amazingly fluent in English, he'd hit half the crossword everyday, bet on horse racing, entered the lotto
and never left the house without his hat. My grandfather was an English-man. Groomed and bred in the English culture, i's dotted, t's crossed.One day i heard he died. He just died. I don't know where, i don't know how. He just seemed to disappear from my life for a few weeks that turned to months, that turned to years. In the end, the last anyone has seen him. he was walking down the road his hat on, a newspaper in hand, like he'd done many times before. Now we are only left with that image of him heading into the shadows
RIP Gramps
George Matute
