Dying to Live

Extract from Chapter 1. Dying to Live. Copyright @Bhatupe Mhango-Chipanta, 2020. All rights reserved. Then there was my mom’s favourite Mozambican woman, a Xangani woman who was infatuated with Portuguese men and who drank Cerveja every waking day of her life probably. She was a lot of fun. It is her that I credit with my first taste of frog legs, in the creamiest soup one could ever have sipped on, and my first chew of the famous ocean-side batatas fritas (french fries) and camarao (prawns) as well as my elder sister’s first cornrows. I could go on and on about my mother and her groupies but point is this: she was vivacious and loved life! But she was methodical and cerebral in her doings, always admonishing us, always reminding us that everything must be in balance, that you can do everything and anything but that moderation is key. So yes, My mother drank a little, and danced, a little. She laughed, a little. And had some infrequent times of heavy, pensive moments whilst sank deep in her favourite couch in her living room. She enjoyed a little bit of cheddar cheese, cucumbers, and tomatoes and sipped occasionally on her red wine, beer or gin and tonic. I think it’s where I get my “everything in moderation” life slogan. My mother’s first name was Verity and we all got to know her as the soothsayer, cause she was the truth. She never did anything lightly, so best believe if she was getting us and her groupies on a road-trip from Maputo to South Africa that she had done her fair share of research and pre-planning, because here we were late that morning all bundled up in the minivan, sipping on Sparletta cream-sodas, playing card games and listening to the radio at real loud volumes and not caring. As we approached what appeared to be our first road block of sorts, my mother signalled to my sister seated at the back, asking her to bring forward a bag she had stashed behind a seat. It