A cup of tea

It's not that I haven't blogged about my undying love for rooibos tea many times, I've just never published those blogs because the gushy passion overfloweth every teacup in the world. I'm a huge fan.  I drink tea like a chain-smoker lights up: continuously. I'm convinced that even the Zombie Apocalypse could be dealt with over a cup of rooibos. Nothing like a spot of tea to calm even the most dedicated of undead. Today, I was sitting there in the corner of the Seniors' Club bungalow, paging through the City Vision. My reputation as "lazy" has reached such an entrenched level that I no longer bother bringing my lame knitting attempts along on my visits, choosing instead to sigh "I know, I know" as the women's admonishments float over to me.

So, I'm paging through the City Vision with half an ear on the conversation around me. Ma'Sarah brought her neighbour's kids again today, and there is constant debate as to the cause and treatment of the little boy's eczema. Everyone from the nurse who delivers the club's medicines to the security guard at the main gate has an opinion. Today, Ma'Noms suggested rooibos. My ears pricked up like a hunting dog's when I heard that "r" roll out.
"Rooibos, ma? What were you saying?" I ask.
"Ewe, sisi, rooibos."
"Ok but what about it?"
She mimes rubbing on her face.
"Aaaah, rubbing it on skin. Is it good for you?"
She laughs. "Not for you, or maybe, but for the boy. For his eczema."
"Oh will it help?"
She nods in reply.
I turn to Ma'Sarah, she is rubbing, fairly aggressively, what looks like thick white paint onto the little boy. He stands with his hand in his mouth, not particularly bothered by the yanking and twisting and turning to which his pint-size body responds.

Almost a year ago now, in Spring of 2011, Champion, the garden monitor, explained to me how to make plant fertilizer with rooibos. All I needed was a two-litre Coke bottle in which to keep discarded teabags. "Liquid fertilizer," he said, "it'll make your plants grow green-green-green!" There is a bucket in the Wellness Centre kitchen for teabags, for every teabag. It took me a while to get used to and I fished bags out of the bin on numerous occasions at the beginning of my time here.

Oh, rooibos. It might not be a panacea for all the world's problems, but it's close enough.

"Thandeka!" someone shouts from across the bungalow, rousing me from me reverie.
"Yes, ma?" I offer a wide-eyed response.
"Are you going to make tea now?"
I put down the City Vision. "Yes, ma," I answer, and fold away the newspaper.