Before Kleenex Were Handkerchiefs

Handkerchiefs remind me of my grandfather and mama’s brothers, who partly raised us. I found a handkerchief in one of the old handbags. I had gone fishing in there, looking for something. I knew it was somewhere around the house but couldn’t remember where I had put it for ‘safe keeping.’

This old handkerchief brought back memories of grandfather, hat cocked on the side and a newspaper under his arm and mama’s brother Uncle Mandla, who walked slowly, like the ground was a cake, which would crumble if he stepped on too hard.

Handkerchiefs were part of growing up. They ended up in the laundry and Khulu (grandmother) taught us how to secure them on the clothesline with wooden pegs. We ironed them with the coal iron and put them in neat piles for Khulu. I don’t know how she knew which handkerchief belonged to who.

Handkerchiefs were part of the love e-Nanda, my grandparents’ place. I call it a ‘place’ now because I’m all grown up and speak the Queen’s language, but to us it was just home.

Handkerchiefs relayed love because we cried, as grand children do. There was always a handkerchief from uncles or Khulu, a warm arm around the shoulder, hands wiping tears and a little tickle under the chin. The last thing was praise names of my father’s birth line.

My last name is Msimang, and it has subsidiary surnames (izithakazelo) that put me in context: my father, his father and ancestors before them.  It’s a wonderful part-of feeling, being part of a wider whole.

Handkerchiefs were part of the love because of the heat. Someone dabbed the sweat from our faces. We got flu, so someone would put a handkerchief under our noses and say “finya,” then we’ll blow.

Handkerchiefs were also banks where Khulu, mama and aunts kept money for bread and bus fare.

By: Nonqaba waka Msimang.