We were suru-lemon millionares

In case you’re privileged to have seen my mother driving around selling lemons, here is a bit of history of where they actually come from…😀

It was between 1993 to somewhere around 1998: I have never enquired from my parents or my sister; hence I concluded they have been growing them way before I was born. ”Nosang!” my father would command my brother and I to the daily ritual. You see, we were not keen on this ritual.

Occasionally, we would go up the steep rocky-road, just at the beginning of the hilly side of our neighbourhood, about 5 minutes journey. It was just opposite ”our church” Mafhikana SDA, but more closer to Pentecostal Holiness and Sione churches, all three buildings shaped the same; we were spoilt with a multi choice of synagogues. We would be ‘driving’ a greyish-steel wheelbarrow, which made a squeaky sound as soon as the wheel started rolling. A mini-greenish army- folding spade shovel, ”garawenyana” as my father admired it, complimented the greyish vehicle.

The mission was to collect manure compost, according to my parents, in reference to the dark smelly soil. My brother and I would later scatter the smelly soil around the various fruit trees in our jarata; after cultivating them with a sharp-steel garden fork, we were good at it, very. The journey to the smelly soil site was always fun, I would be narrating stories to my brother, as usual; who would be laughing tirelessly to my celebratory smile. The return leg somehow took us about 15 looong minutes; it took us couple of months to figure out why. ”We will soon be enjoying juicy fruits,” alternating, my parents would cheerfully preach. Within a few months the fruit trees would bloom, more watering will continue; with the assistance of a greenish hosepipe that just stretched the whole yard (2 hosepipes joined together). Finally! Fewer trips to the smelly soil sites.

Months later, they would set fruits and ripen within a few weeks. They tend to fall when overripe and their leaves would make a mess in the yard. We would pick the rotten ones and rake the leaves, then wheelbarrow the leafy rubbish outside to ‘our’ refuse heap (everybody had one); we preferred to water them. 
We then handpicked the ripe, slightly- glossy yellow ones. We used them to flavour motogo, or porridge, make lemonade, and rarely ate them whole; my parents would drink them with hot water every morning, insisting on the health benefits of the daily cup. The fact that my father’s eyes closed every time he took a sip, assured me the awful taste of this healthy mix. I hated the hot drink. Apart from the lemons, there were sweet and crispy red grapes, my favourite granadillas; the pear-shaped fruit pawpaw’s, my mother’s favourite figs, dinnaraki (tangerines), limes, the notoriously tricky to peel garenata (pomegranate)?and a variety of delicious peaches. We were constantly reminded not to give away or sell the fruits. Only them and peaches we could, give away to a selected few and sell; well, except for two peach trees, which understandably, were very tasty. 
I gave them to some of my classmates, friends and lucky passers-by. My brother and I would pack them up in orange fruit sacks, for my mother to sell to her work colleagues. Although prices did go up as we got older; we traded them for 10 thebe’s each and P2 for a bag. A significant number of people always walked in to buy them; well, apart from the time we got Burundi, a fiercely barking yellow of a spoiled milk dog. You see my brother believed Burundi was a German Shepherd (don’t tell him), maybe the puppy Burundi was! Because of Burundi’s threatening barks, we had to meet customers at the gates, usually the seherwana (back) gate; an order would be placed and regrettably, customers would not have the luxury of picking up their juicy items with a old lemon-yellow 2 teeth rake. Unfortunately, Burundi was not with us for long; although his successor, Bujumbura, continued the legacy honourably. 
We witnessed lots of testimonials during the transactions; ”ngwanake o tshwerwe ke sehuba” (my daughter has flu), some declared, ”my mother has a sore throat,” most reported and a few claimed ”we just like eating them.” Business was good. Sheleng’s were flowing in. 

We were Suru-Lemon Millionaires.

#disuru

#lemons

#botswana

#childhood

#ilovebotswana