Sitting inside

The Seniors' Club increased in members exponentially at the beginning of the year. The move from eight to about 25 women--and the odd man--has put a capacity strain on the little bungalow in H-Section. The upshot of it all: the bungalow has become a bit of an access-controlled site, with only 2011 members allowed to sit inside. The newer members are free to settle under the canopy, or in the grassy patch to the left of the bungalow, or on the plastic orange chairs that Champ, the gardener, packs away in his tool shed when it rains. But not inside. No-no.

'So what?' you might muse to yourself. Well, so many things. The bungalow, previously a space of loud calling and shouts, is now also home to whispered conversations, primarily to decide on the distribution of spinach and beetroot from the little farm-garden, but sometimes the hushed voices are directed at one of the orange-chair-Ma's. The Club has a distinct Secret-Society air to it now. That isn't to say that the 2011 women aren't all incredibly welcoming and sympathetic to their new members; sighing 'Nkosi-yam'* when they tell of teenage-grandchild troubles, offering a piece of thread or pair of scissors when the need arises, and greeting them all warmly everyday. It's just that the subtleties of authority are a little less subtle these days.

The colour of your chair, its proximity to the small basin and sink, what side of the door you're on: it all suddenly means a whole lot more than it used to. Frustratingly, one of the results of this new hierarchy is that I can't spend time with the 2012 members. It's one thing to greet them as I arrive, but my chair is inside, my space--nestled somewhere between the fridge and the wall--is inside. My conversations therefore, are inside. On the odd occasion that I've found myself meandering between the 2012 members, it's not been without a few eye-brow raises, and a 'come here' hand-crimping crescendo from one of the inside Ma's.

Ever-weary of committing an irreparable faux pas, I err on the side caution these days; offering just a small smile and a bit of wave at most, from my fridge-backed throne inside the bungalow.

*Oh my God/goodness