Smoke Tears and Onion Tears

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Tears when chopping onions are not real. They are an appetizer for real tears in this journey called life.

The feel of smoke never changes. ‘Feel’ because I’m reluctant to say smoke smell or smoke aroma. It doesn’t sound right. Anyway, I owe no allegiance to the English language. I just need it to get from here to there, ask for service and buy something to eat.

I have first and second hand experience about the feel of smoke. First one is khulu (grandmother). We made fire outside so that she could boil water in a 3-legged pot, add sorghum flour and make isiZulu, beer for the ancestors. The second experience was when a couple bought a house in an area apartheid designated white. It had a fireplace, a sign of wealth. She made a fire because it was raining (in Africa, rain is regarded as cold weather). The smoke felt like the smoke from the 3-legged pot.

Khulu used to laugh when tears came from my eyes, from crouching down and blowing the fire. Ha! Ha! The city-bred grand daughter. Water also came from my eyes when mama told me to cut onions, so that she could prepare dinner.

I sometimes think about those ‘tears’ when I see yet another online chef, dropping onions and tomatoes in a machine and press the button. I don’t have those gadgets because cooking is a vacation. It’s 10 or 15 minutes away from tears of life. Real tears, not loving tears from khulu and her child, my mother.

Nonqaba waka Msimang

Executive Blogger

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