The Marvelous Properties of Freshly-Baked Bread

It’s funny where the little moments of redemption come in. Last night on my way home I was on a mission. Zinhle had called earlier in the afternoon as I was leaving work and asked me to pick up three loaves of bread at Shoprite. When I stepped inside the store, the checkout lines were much shorter and quieter than usual, and I was relieved that this Shoprite excursion wouldn’t involve the endless waiting and congestion and noise and jostling and harassment from random males standing in the queue behind me that I had come to expect of my typical Shoprite experience. But I was wrong.

There was an actual mob by the deli counter, stretching back into an endless queue as far as the refrigerated dairy products corner in the back. With a sinking feeling in my stomach I identified the empty bags being waved about as bread bags as people shoved and shouted. I decided that there was nothing for it but to dive in, because hey, my family needed that bread as much as anybody else waiting here. What would my siblings eat with their tea in the morning if I didn’t return with the bread?

So I took a deep breath and burrowed into the mass of warm bodies, heading for the empty rack where I saw the bags. I was going against the current and several times had tried to squeeze under someone’s elbow only to find someone else popping out from that exact spot, their fragrant, warm prizes tucked under their arms. I was finally able to snatch up three bags, and found myself in the line. As I had a moment to observe the system within the madness, I noticed that a man wearing thick gloves was ferrying the loaves from where two other employees were popping them out of the hot pans, straight from the oven, into the waiting hands of the consumers. I also observed that these things were going to be hot, so I grabbed a basket sitting on the floor. Immediately the woman behind me put up a fuss, and from the repeated use of the word “Wami!” (Mine!) and her grabbing at the basket, it didn’t take long to see that this basket had a prior claim on it. So I let it go, since by now I was at the front of the queue and the bread man was coming at me with three fat loaves. He was reluctant to give me all three, because other people were anxiously waiting for them, and as I scurried off with my piping hot load I could hear the man behind me complaining.

As soon as I emerged from the mob, I threw the loaves into an abandoned basket because they had already blistered my palms a bright, shiny pink. I squatted on the floor, bagging my bread as people pushed past above me. As I stood in line to pay, the delicious aroma of freshly baked bread kept wafting up to my nose, and once I was installed in the backseat of the kombi it only got more intense. I kept shifting the hot bread on my knees as we jounced up the hills, trying to keep my legs from getting burned, my head from hitting the ceiling, my shoulder from banging against the window on one side, and my elbow from jabbing into Nomphumelelo’s side, my neighbor who happened to be a bit too close for comfort on this particular ride. I failed on all accounts, and when I emerged from the kombi it was with blistered spots on my knees and a sore head.

When I stepped into the kitchen at home I immediately (and rudely, without even a greeting) launched into an account of my fight for the bread, regaling Gogo and my sisters with my valiant efforts, the scalding temperature of the bread, and the woman with her shopping basket. They all thought it was hilarious and laughed delightedly at my stream of English jumbled with Siswati. Gogo was chuckling about the “wami” lady long afterwards.

And this small saga changed the course of my day. Before it had been just a slow day at the office, but after the adrenaline rush that fighting for my bread gave me, I was energized. I joked and chatted with my siblings, cuddled with my little sister Tema and helped Make weave grass rope. I swallowed the bitter inkaka greens for supper and gratefully mixed in the scrambled egg my sister had added to my plate, knowing that I didn’t really care for the inkaka. I sang along wholeheartedly with the children’s choruses during prayer time, and when we prayed I found a whole litany of things to be thankful for that day – I had finished typing the marriage enrichment manual at work, my hair-braiding appointment for Saturday was set up, the History of South Africa book I was reading was compelling and inspiring, and Nomcebo had brought in umbila and sinkhwa sembila (corn on the cob and sweet cornbread) to the office as a treat. So as I counted my blessings I marveled at how my day had been transformed by as simple a thing as stopping to buy bread on the way home. And then it came to me in a flash why the incident had been so meaningful.

For a few minutes at Shoprite, I felt like I belonged. Like I was a part of things. Like I was just a person like anyone else here. No one treated me differently because I was a white foreigner. No men harassed me or yelled lewd comments at me. No one made excuses for me or tried to help me or spoke English just for me. No one asked me for money or tried to suck up to me. People pushed me. They shoved me. They stole back baskets from me and didn’t want to give me the bread I needed. But I was thrilled. Because for a few moments I forgot my skin color. I forgot my nationality. I forgot my deficiency in the language that everyone else speaks fluently. I felt like I was just another tired, hungry person eager to catch the kombi home, but willing to fight for food for my family first. I felt a certain bond with these people, even as I fought them for my place in line. I felt like we understood each other, and after all, what is more basic than competition for food? I felt like I belonged here, in this struggle. It felt right.