Back in the 90s…
We were playing on my bed. And eating cereal—it wasn’t morning. It was the middle of the day on a Saturday. Second breakfast. The sun was shining gloriously. Then IT appeared. A big, beating, green-and-brown-horror-of-the-garden. The monster bounded onto my bed. It wanted to eat us. No question. So I ran, leaving Kate in the wake of my spilled All Bran Flakes. I only stopped to look back when I was out. Far out. Kate didn’t run; she froze. And screamed. The grasshopper hopping happily all over my bedroom, excited by the odour of fresh meat.
It was the same with the praying mantis. It vaulted onto her face, its limbs clinging to her soft skin. One minute we were playing in the garden, the next Kate was shrieking blue murder. There was no way that I was going near those mandibles. (The females eat their mates—hello! Plus, the bulging eyes. And long pokey legs.) Hell.to.the.NO. I yelled for my dad, who carefully removed the creature, gave Kate a cuddle and me a stern talking to for a)being ridiculous, and b)being ridiculous. I didn’t know what he was on about. Sheesh.
If you’re that guy; the one who wants to stop and help people during the zombie apocalypse—know now, that I will leave you behind. I’m outa where-ever-I-might-be when shit gets real. I mean, I’ll tell my children to run (gotta be a good mom and all)—Amelia will roll her eyes at me and say its “so unfair”, Layla might stroll lackadaisically to the exit if there will be a movie as a reward (regardless who or what is chomping at her face—unless it’s a dog, then she’ll run), Jackson will definitely try to help people (as will his dad), Aiden will need to phone a friend for a chat first and Delilah will only come if the Pirates of the Caribbean score is the theme tune to her exit or I convince her Elsa and Anna will meet us on the other side—and when they don’t run, well, it’s every man for himself. Sorry guys. Run or die.
My aunty Shirley (my mom’s youngest sister) tells a story about a family holiday at Park Rynie near Scottburgh in Durban. My mom and her four siblings would pile into their Morris Minor (a very small car, so I’ve been told) – five children, two adults, canned food for two weeks, the primus stove, clothes, a table, tent, bedding and mattresses – and would proceed to holiday, squashed but excited. They went every year and looked forward to every minute of it. It was on one of these holidays, in the late 1950s, that my mom and Shirley went on an adventure; they crossed the railway track on their way into the village at Park Rynie but before they got very far, noticed two men fighting—beating the living daylights out of one another. So, they ran. Aunty Shirley remembers her big sister running ahead, fast, whilst she screamed for her to wait. But my mom kept on running…
…and running.
Until the sounds of the men killing each other faded away.
And then she looked to see where her little sister was.
Luckily there was no zombie apocalypse when I was a kid.
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.
I laugh when I imagine these shenanigans! Your writing brings it alive. Thank you.
These days, I’m fascinated by many creatures in our Ontario summer garden and have to admit that some make the A list, and others definitely do not! Iridescent butterflies, spotted spiders and pollen-heavy bees are captured on my camera stream. I snap images of unwanted creatures as well – magnolia aphids, gipsy-moth caterpillars, and tomato hornworms.
But then, in rural Natal, I was repulsed by grasshoppers (or were they locusts?). It was my 9th birthday. My siblings and I were outside, leaping around on freshly mowed grass. A surprise creature, scratchy and swift, landed on my nose. The sensation of its claws and brittle legs clinging to my skin remains vivid and immediate. Did I scream or run? I can’t remember.
Hahaha – on your nose! THE WORST! Gives me grils just thinking about it although I am pleased to know that I am not the only one with ‘killer bug’ stories 🙂 Thank you for reading and sharing your story. (And after telling children about these incidences I have sworn them off South Africa for life. There are no bugs in England that are remotely comparable!)