When my father passed away earlier this year, I am convinced he exited a very happy man. One of the reasons he would have been content, I imagine, is that he had lived long enough to observe me, his only married son, go through exactly what he had to, three decades before.
Sunday mornings at my house were dreadful for me. I hated every second. This was primarily because I looked forward to church about as much as Trump looks forward to those Pickfords trucks due to arrive at the White House in January.
My father was the Umndeni Oyingcwele Catholic parish choir conductor and, as a result, needed to get to church earlier than the average congregant. There were many Sunday mornings I heard him hiss under his breath, "MaGwala, can we leave already, for God's sake?", his melodica and conductor's baton under his armpit, while my mother stumbled from room to room in her petticoat, looking for this, that or the other, hair rollers being thrown all over the floor.
And there were just as many instances where my dad lost all patience and, with my mom still only half-dressed, got into his Mazda 626 and drove away to church. We would get a tongue lashing from her for delaying her - when we would have been ready to leave at least 15 minutes before the old man left.
My mother is a strong, resilient woman who has triumphed over many obstacles in her life, but Rosemary Ngcobo has never mastered the art of leaving her house. She just doesn't know how to do it. If she intends to attend the 8 o'clock Holy Mass at St Dominic's in Hillcrest, which is exactly 14 minutes from her house in the Valley, she will ultimately leave circa 08h03.
She never learnt how to operate an automobile and is entirely dependent on being driven. And when, between the missus, my brother and our firstborn, I draw the short stick to take her to church, I groan inwardly. At 07h15 I'll meet her in the corridor, in her famous petticoat, and gently tell her, "You're going to be late if we don't leave in 15 minutes." Her answer is standard, "No need to exaggerate. It's only a quarter past". She then proceeds to dish up soft porridge.
At 07h25 I'll nudge her again, "We best be leaving now." Same reaction, "OK, OK Dorothy, no need to get your drawers twisted." Usually, at this point I'm highly agitated and I go outside to wait for her there and perform Lamaze breathing exercises.
In his later years when it was my turn to get my mom to the church on time, my father would appear from nowhere with a smirk on his face and inquire sarcastically, "Ngcobo, are you still trying to make the 8 o'clock Mass or aiming for the 10 o'clock?"
Around 07h56 she will emerge from the house looking dishevelled, carrying what looks like three bags, shawls, mini blankets and a quarter of her entire wardrobe. This is not the time to declare victory. Before you actually drive through the gate at about 08h03, she will have gone back into the house at least three times to fetch items she forgot.
From what I have ascertained, my wife has a permanent blind spot when it comes to how long certain activities take
The love of my life, my moon and stars, has also never mastered the art of leaving the house at the time that she said she would. She. Just. Can't. Do. It. What is shocking about this is that she is a highly regarded project manager and an expert at generating and managing CPSes (critical pathway schedules).
From what I have ascertained, she has a permanent blind spot when it comes to how long certain activities take. I once asked her how long it takes her to take a bath, moisturise, apply skin toners and get dressed. She said half an hour. So I laughed for half an hour. She only forgave me when I surreptitiously set a timer from the time she got up to go to take a shower until she emerged, dressed. It was an impressive one hour and 13 minutes.
I have also learnt that I'm not as efficient at leaving as I've always thought. I thought it takes me 2-3 minutes. It doesn't. I look in the mirror to make sure I don't have spinach hanging between my teeth, refresh my cologne, grab my man bag and car keys, head for the car and get in. Only when I'm inside do I remember that I need my phone to switch on Waze. Back into the house. Back to the car. As I drive out it occurs to me that the world seems a tad blurry. Ah, my driving glasses. All of this takes up a good 5-7 minutes before I'm out of the gate.
But at least I know my leaving handicap. The cruel fruit of my loins think it's all so hilarious, of course. In 30 years, I'll have the last laugh.
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