When I read in one edition of the Sunday magazine some time ago I was shocked to read that a local model was on the verge of great things but had hit a pothole. She could not speak a stitch of English and yet she had an O level certificate! I was tempted to hitch a lift to rural Plumtree to investigate before I had a serious rethink. What’s so particular about the English language after all?
In fact the people at Heads Modelling Agency had their priorities right. Why deny Julie an opportunity of a lifetime just because she can’t tala Engelsk? Beauty first, then communicate later, which is exactly what happened and to cap it all, the tall rural beauty is making very good progress.
With apologies to all English Language teachers, I will be the first to admit that English is indeed a foreign language to all of us. As they say in Shona, “Chakauya nengarava!” We try too hard sometimes. I mean thina amaZimbos. Have you heard what they say about our spoken skills? They say we speak English better than the English themselves!
Why are we so fussy about pronunciation, spelling grammar, pronouns, nouns, conjugating the verb and all that jazz? Life would still go on if we broke the Queen’s language here and there. Go to any other European country and you will discover that you are unlikely to be shot by firing squad if you did; decapitate the English language I mean. As long as you can get the message across it’s fine.
Just to show you that there is no stranger language that English, swallow these for size. These are signs that have been found throughout Africa;
In a restaurant in Zambia: "Open seven days a week and weekends."
On the grounds of a private school in South Africa: “No trespassing without permission."
On a window of a Nigerian shop: “Why go elsewhere to be cheated when you can come here?
On a poster in Ghana: "Are you an adult who cannot read? If so, we can help."
In a hotel in Mozambique: "Visitors are expected to complain at the office between the hours of 9.00 am and 11.00am daily."
On a river in the Democratic Republic of Congo: "Take note: When this sign is submerged, the river is impassable."
In a Zimbabwean restaurant: "Customers who find our waitresses rude ought to see the manager."
A sign seen on a hand dryer in a Lesotho public toilet: "Risk of electric shock. Do not activate with wet hands."
In a maternity ward of a clinic in Tanzania: "No children allowed!"
In a cemetery in Uganda: "Persons are prohibited from picking flowers from any but their graves."
In a Malawi hotel: "It is forbidden to steal towels please. If you are not a person to do such a thing, please don't read this notice."
A sign posted in an Algerian tourist camping park: "It is strictly forbidden on our camping site that people of different sex, for instance a man and woman, live together in one tent unless they are married to each other for that purpose."
In a Namibian nightclub: "Ladies are not allowed to have children in the bar."
And you thought Julie had a big problem with English, did you?
Monday, June 26
Thursday, June 15
No instruction manual for parenting
Last Sunday was Father’s Day and I thought about reflecting on the occupation called parenthood. A word of warning to those reckless characters that are intent on sowing their wild oats and becoming a parent; there is no instruction manual. You have to learn on the job. The worse thing is the fact that your own childhood is of little preparation to bringing up today’s generation. This makes things a bit trickier.
Wanting to be the good and caring father the other day, I decided to phone home and chat to the boys who were home back from school. As usual, our effervescent last born son Anele (8 years) picked up the phone. Stumped for what to say next I proceeded to ask him what I later discovered to be the most stupid question in living memory. The conversation went something like this:
“Yes Anele!”
“Hie, Dad!”
“How’s my son today?”
“I’m fine!”
“What did you do at school today?”
“Learn. Isn’t that what we are supposed to do at school, Dad?”
“Well, duh!”
I am convinced that after that conversation, my son has begun doubting my sanity.
For one, today’s children seem to mature faster, know more and are wont to claiming whatever rights are due to them. Even the stuff they play with as toys are high tech gizmos that will take a degree in electronics to master. Ever tried tackling Play station? If you suffer from technophobia, just forget it and stick to draughts. During our time the ultimate toy was the half brick which accompanied by the necessary grunts, squeals and shrieks was our sports car. We would drag it for hours on end, never mind the disastrous landscaping that we perpetrated. The full brick, by the way, represented a typical bus.
Whatever happened to the plastic World Cup? Today’ children either play with the real thing or are staging the World Wrestling Federation in their bedroom. No matter how many times they are warned, “Never to try this at home,’ be sure that they are body slamming, clothes lining and one-two-threeing on your very expensive furniture while you are at work.
If you thought that your maid can control them then you are in for a shock. They are capable of blackmailing and even terrorising the domestic. Ever wondered why they don’t last. It might not be because of the motor-mouth wife but try interrogating the little imps. You will be very surprised. During our time our parents hired maids straight from the Gestapo. They were very effective in mental and physical torture and better still, they knew how to put us in our proper place.
Today we know for a fact that the only reason why parents employ minders is to prevent their children from razing the house to the ground. It goes to show that parenting is something which parents would rather have someone else do the dirty work for them. Meaning that when next you are tempted to manufacture babies, just re read this article.
Wanting to be the good and caring father the other day, I decided to phone home and chat to the boys who were home back from school. As usual, our effervescent last born son Anele (8 years) picked up the phone. Stumped for what to say next I proceeded to ask him what I later discovered to be the most stupid question in living memory. The conversation went something like this:
“Yes Anele!”
“Hie, Dad!”
“How’s my son today?”
“I’m fine!”
“What did you do at school today?”
“Learn. Isn’t that what we are supposed to do at school, Dad?”
“Well, duh!”
I am convinced that after that conversation, my son has begun doubting my sanity.
For one, today’s children seem to mature faster, know more and are wont to claiming whatever rights are due to them. Even the stuff they play with as toys are high tech gizmos that will take a degree in electronics to master. Ever tried tackling Play station? If you suffer from technophobia, just forget it and stick to draughts. During our time the ultimate toy was the half brick which accompanied by the necessary grunts, squeals and shrieks was our sports car. We would drag it for hours on end, never mind the disastrous landscaping that we perpetrated. The full brick, by the way, represented a typical bus.
Whatever happened to the plastic World Cup? Today’ children either play with the real thing or are staging the World Wrestling Federation in their bedroom. No matter how many times they are warned, “Never to try this at home,’ be sure that they are body slamming, clothes lining and one-two-threeing on your very expensive furniture while you are at work.
If you thought that your maid can control them then you are in for a shock. They are capable of blackmailing and even terrorising the domestic. Ever wondered why they don’t last. It might not be because of the motor-mouth wife but try interrogating the little imps. You will be very surprised. During our time our parents hired maids straight from the Gestapo. They were very effective in mental and physical torture and better still, they knew how to put us in our proper place.
Today we know for a fact that the only reason why parents employ minders is to prevent their children from razing the house to the ground. It goes to show that parenting is something which parents would rather have someone else do the dirty work for them. Meaning that when next you are tempted to manufacture babies, just re read this article.
Friday, June 9
That crazy event they call the World Cup
Women the world over will agree that they were created to bear the brunt of the fanatical excesses of men. When one is referring to the passion that accompanies the world’s most beautiful game, any full-bloodied male would find this accusation very incredulous indeed, especially when it’s another man who is laying it on the line. Let us wait until the World Cup in Germany is over, and then you will understand what I am trying to say.
Its because that’s only when a negligible minority would have realised that women would have had to go through many long and lonely nights as their mates sit transfixed in front of the television set. And that includes absentee husbands glued to the big screen at the pub. Count the “Christian” better half among this breed. After all what’s wrong with being in a pub when does not take a single drop of alcohol? In fact what better excuse is there besides the World Cup?
“Honey, I was at the pub.”
“Evangelising the sinners, my dear husband?”
“Well sort of. I dropped a few verses and advised them not to swear too much when Ronaldinho misses.”
“What about the beer?”
“At least they poured their pints over me instead of drinking them. Alleluiah!”
It takes a degree in psychology to understand man’s fixation with football. There is no greater crime than not showing interest in the sport. It’s as if it were eminently normal to like it. Is it truly sensible to spend huge amounts of one’s essential rather short life watching 22 grown ups kicking a spherical object around a piece of turf? What other human activity allows people to lose their heads without the fear of them being carted off to a mental institution? And we are just talking about celebrating a goal here, kuphela! Even football mad bosses are expected to turn a blind eye to bleary eyed workers stumbling in several hours late at work.
Let’s call it World Cup Fever. A disease that leaves a trail of destruction in homes as football widows multiply. Are there any solutions for the millions of long suffering women who will be tearing their hair out in frustration? All because of that ludicrous month-long sporting event taking place in Germany?
Most attempts at recreating the pub/club environment at home have failed to keep men within those four walls. Women are known then to have invested in digital satellite systems or even gone on to declare an amnesty by allowing their husbands to bring their noisy and annoying friends along the games. Others have employed to good effect the adage that face powder might catch a man but it’s the baking powder that keeps him.
For those who go the extra mile, it’s hard enough for them to understand the rules of the game. It’s even worse to pretend you like it. Like the poor woman who decided to accompany her hubby to the first soccer match in her whole life. After what was a thrilling match (for the husband of course) he asked his wife how it felt like.
“Well, alright I guess. But I really felt pity for the guy in black. He ran so hard through out the game and yet they never passed the ball to him even once!”
She was referring to the referee! Enjoy the World Cup guys, while you can.
Its because that’s only when a negligible minority would have realised that women would have had to go through many long and lonely nights as their mates sit transfixed in front of the television set. And that includes absentee husbands glued to the big screen at the pub. Count the “Christian” better half among this breed. After all what’s wrong with being in a pub when does not take a single drop of alcohol? In fact what better excuse is there besides the World Cup?
“Honey, I was at the pub.”
“Evangelising the sinners, my dear husband?”
“Well sort of. I dropped a few verses and advised them not to swear too much when Ronaldinho misses.”
“What about the beer?”
“At least they poured their pints over me instead of drinking them. Alleluiah!”
It takes a degree in psychology to understand man’s fixation with football. There is no greater crime than not showing interest in the sport. It’s as if it were eminently normal to like it. Is it truly sensible to spend huge amounts of one’s essential rather short life watching 22 grown ups kicking a spherical object around a piece of turf? What other human activity allows people to lose their heads without the fear of them being carted off to a mental institution? And we are just talking about celebrating a goal here, kuphela! Even football mad bosses are expected to turn a blind eye to bleary eyed workers stumbling in several hours late at work.
Let’s call it World Cup Fever. A disease that leaves a trail of destruction in homes as football widows multiply. Are there any solutions for the millions of long suffering women who will be tearing their hair out in frustration? All because of that ludicrous month-long sporting event taking place in Germany?
Most attempts at recreating the pub/club environment at home have failed to keep men within those four walls. Women are known then to have invested in digital satellite systems or even gone on to declare an amnesty by allowing their husbands to bring their noisy and annoying friends along the games. Others have employed to good effect the adage that face powder might catch a man but it’s the baking powder that keeps him.
For those who go the extra mile, it’s hard enough for them to understand the rules of the game. It’s even worse to pretend you like it. Like the poor woman who decided to accompany her hubby to the first soccer match in her whole life. After what was a thrilling match (for the husband of course) he asked his wife how it felt like.
“Well, alright I guess. But I really felt pity for the guy in black. He ran so hard through out the game and yet they never passed the ball to him even once!”
She was referring to the referee! Enjoy the World Cup guys, while you can.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)