I am not a mother. Yet. I am on the homestretch to being one. I am 8 months pregnant when I write this. 33 weeks and 6 days to be precise. I realize I cannot call myself a mother yet because there’s this 7-week stretch where anything could happen. Anything
0It started with a question over a cup of tea. It always starts with a question over a cup of tea, doesn’t it? Or any drink in your hand for that matter. Questions we imagine are sober in the moment but whose consequences, months later, will come back to bite
0There’s a sewing machine we’ve been moving house with ever since I first saw it creep up into our living room in late 1990. It has simply refused to go away. Even OLX can’t catalogue it. Weeks before its arrival, I imagine there was flurry in the household with my
0Our mothers raise us with the best of what they know about being mums. Nobody is taught to be a mum. It’s a watch-and-learn as they grow up themselves. They pick up tools and tips and tricks and titbits from every conceivable corner as they mature in the ways of
0Kale women don’t scream. No, we don’t. We never scream. Decorum dictates that we approach intense situations with a quiet passion. A culturally silenced one. A tamed one. This quiet is our personal brand – it’s consistent, handed down, refined. Public displays in screams and tears are considered too messy
0Before I became a writer, I worked with a global professional services firm in the Assurance line of service. (Ha, I just lifted that straight from my defunct CV.) In one word, I was an auditor. And to some degree, an accountant. Auditor and accountant now a writer. Fancy that.
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