Daddy's Little Carpenter

Being the first born child is a full-blown privilege. You heard me right. My parents taught me how to read and write, wash, iron, sew, cook, clean, braid hair, handle money, travel to grandparents’ house, take the bus to uncle’s office where he was the newspaper editor, harvest grandma’s beans and sweet potatoes and recite the family’s praise poetry (izibongo).

Parents also funnel survival skills to the first born child. My father was a carpenter. That is why I know a little bit about wood, hinges, nails, hand saws, sand paper, paints and brushes. It’s a good thing daddy used to say fetch that, put it there, careful with that hammer, because I find myself ‘aisle shopping’ in hardware stores. It’s partly amusement because despite this digital age, they still carry tools daddy had in his tool box. No. He did not have a whole workshop in the basement like some of the houses I see online. I even know what DIY means. Caught you! You don’t.

I’m writing about this because of the internet. I’ve seen a lot of complaints about being the first born child, about the responsibility heaped upon us, especially girls. Granted, we took care of younger brothers, sisters and cousins, which diminished play time, but they gave us unconditional love. First born children also have the advantage of being closer to the source: mom, dad or both.

I’m the living proof of that. Daddy never saw me as a girl child. Even his nickname for me was gender-neutral. I was just a little carpenter.

Question: What was the nickname? Get lost! Certain things are sacrosanct.

Nonqaba waka Msimang

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