New life
Dad's the word
Zenga Longmore
Last Friday at Boko's, Iceline, the mother of a noisy eight-month-old boy, gave us all quite a jar. With a bleary look in her eye, she announced that watching Neighbours has recently become too diffi- cult a task. `Why have they started making the plot too complicated for anyone to understand?'
Boko explained, very slowly and careful- ly, that the plot of Neighbours is not complicated. It is, she continued, so un- complicated as to be non-existent.
The problem is, Iceline, that since giving birth you have acquired the fluffy- headed syndrome. After a baby, your brain ceases to function for months, even years. That's why maternity leave should last for no less than eight years — on full pay, of course.'
Iceline and I nodded in agreement. Since having a baby, I have found that it is not so much fluff that blocks up my brain, but cement, so difficult is the act of concentra- tion. All of a sudden, Omalara murmured a soft `Da-da', and as if by magic the cement-mixer in my head ground to a halt. An uncanny idea had struck me.
When Omalara said `Da-da' she looked me full in the face, a direct, level expres- sion emanating from her clear brown eyes. Studying her, it suddenly became quite plain that a baby's first word, `Da-da', is meant for the mother. 'Mama', the baby's second word, which is first uttered between the ages of six and seven months, must surely be directed at the father, who naturally takes second place in the child's affections. So why have fathers, in their infinite conceit, always assumed that the very first word a child ever says is meant for them? I concluded that from the dawn of time men have stolen the title of `Da-da'. We mothers of the world must unite to reclaim what is rightfully ours.
On hearing my theory on da-daism, Iceline looked as if she wanted to cry, and Boko pursed her lips as if to say, 'That proves my point about new mothers going slightly doolally.' But next minute she became as brisk as ever, and told me I was to take care of her five-year-old daughter Kuba for die week. Kuba's school roof has bloWn off, blessing the lucky child with no lessons for a week. Because of the recent gusts and gales, I was pleased to leave my rickety flat and spend a few days at Boko's abode.
'I'm so happy I don't have to go to school this week!' enthused Kuba over a Chicken McNugget. (At Kuba's insistence, her entire week has been spent in the confines of Harlesden's McDonalds.) 'Miss told me off last Friday, you see, and she'll have forgotten all about it by next week.'
`Why, what terrible thing did you do?' Kuba took a crafty draw on her chocolate McM ilkshake.
'We-ell . . .' she said after a long pause, `What happened was, I was being too good. Miss Bennet said to me, "Kuba! How dare you be so good! Be more naughty!"' 'Kuba, look into my eyes and say that again.' Gazing into my eyes, she sheepishly admitted the truth.
'Well, I put Donna in Miss Bennet's glasses case — but only to keep her warm!'
Donna, Kuba's pet snail, leads a life of unenviable excitement. Even as we spoke she was slithering dangerously close to my Egg McMuffin.
'Kuba, you must understand that, that But I was lost for words. The delicious realisation that I was not and never will be a teacher had suddenly hit me and ren- dered me speechless.
Previous page
