Back in the 90s…
You know that supersonic frequency that brothers and sisters reserve only for exhalation during sibling warfare because they know that it will burst their parents’ eardrums if they do not abide its call with immediate effect? One day, it was too much; they infuriated her so much she kicked them out of the car. For reals. Not like, “If you don’t stop, I’ll drop you on the side of the road!”—And then not do it. Nope. When mom blew a fuse, you could trust her to follow through with any form of irrational plan that made sense in the moment.
So, she booted the boys onto the side of the road, ordered them to walk home and sped off in a fury.
World War 3 came to an abrupt end as Chrisie and Ali realised it was sink or swim time; they put their heads together to figure out a route home, which was pretty far away from the point of exile.
We were somewhere near the Kensington Golf Course—Royal Oak Street, most likely. Had they turned the right direction, they may have found some familiar landmarks and made their way home. But they turned the wrong way and meandered into Bedfordview instead of Kensington… and did the only sensible thing, which was to walk. They walked and walked whilst mom’s rage slowly abated, and she started to worry. Her little sons roaming suburban Johannesburg, alone.
She went looking for them.
They’d made their way to the Bedfordview Fire Station. Not intentionally or anything.
Here is a record of the conversation between Alastair and Christopher Huntingford and one station official (as stated by Alastair, the younger of the two menaces):
“Do you know where you live?” – No.
“Do you know your phone number?” – No.
“What school do you go to?” – uh…
“Your mom’s name?” – hmmm.
“Your names?” – Dunno.
(Big sister rolls eyes.)
No one quite recalls how my mom found out where they were but she did.
They got lost in Durban once, too. We were on holiday; staying in one of the high rises on the beachfront. There was a shop at the bottom of the block of flats but you had to go out onto the street and back in again to get there. The boys were given permission to go and spend their cents at the shop as long as they stayed together but somehow, they managed to lose their way.
This time, they remembered who they were.
“Hello” said the man on the phone. “This is Hot Spot Furnishers—469 Mahatma Gandhi Road. We have your sons. Would you like to collect them?”
“What? Is this a ransom?”
“No.”
So my mom went to get them, free of charge.
Author & Storyteller: Andrea Zanin
Andrea is a writer, wife, mother and dreamer; also the author of this website. She moved to London in 2006 to earn £s, travel, see bands and buy 24-up Dr Martens—which she did, and then ended up staying. Andrea lives in North London with her husband (also a Saffa) and five children. She loves this grand old city but misses her home and wishes her children could say “lekker” (like a South African) and knew what a “khoki” is.
