Tea, Scones, and Malaria: A memoir of growing up in Africa by Katlynn Brooke

Author:Katlynn Brooke [Brooke, Katlynn]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Karen L. Brooke
Published: 2021-03-16T04:00:00+00:00

Chapter 27

The Hansens

While Lotte Hansen seems normal, it doesn't take long for me to discover she is a religious fanatic who wants to control everything and everyone. A statuesque woman with a leathery face and booming voice, she tolerates very little from other church members that appears, in her eyes, "sinful." Her generous bosoms, like the cowcatcher on a locomotive, lead the way as she plows her way through life. Dad calls her his "bosom buddy," and he doesn't mean it positively. Lotte and her husband, Lars Hansen, are initially from Holland. I rarely see Uncle Lars. He spends most of his time outdoors, taking care of his dairy cattle, and only returning home for dinner. A jolly man with a sunburned face and a ready laugh, his Dutch accent is strong, whereas Auntie Lotte reveals only a small trace of an accent. One would think she had been born in England, but the Dutch décor in her house disabuses me of this notion.

Their daughter, Sophie, is a good friend. She is fiercely independent and speaks fluent Shona. On the weekends, when I am invited, we rise early in the morning to head out, barefoot, onto the farm. We enjoy plundering the guava and kumquat fruit trees growing around the house. Never bothering to wash anything first, we pop them into our mouth straight from the tree. We sample cattle feed directly from the bin or jump into the giant pit where it is stored to nibble on the brown, molasses-soaked ears of corn. For some reason, we find the aromatic, sweetish corn-mix tasty. The cows thrive on it, growing fat and producing creamy milk. I am uncertain what it does for us, though. I remain as skinny as a starved rat.

Like those at Ouma's house or my great-grandfather's farm, evenings are spent in the living room, praying and reading the Bible. Uncle Lars sits in his overstuffed chair, the only comfortable piece of furniture in the austere home, puffing on his pipe. His expression remains a mix of tolerance and impatience. He accepts his wife's sincere devotion to her religion but steadfastly refuses to become a church member. Somehow, they remain married.

One day when I am around twelve, Butch and I, and Sophie, who is staying at our home for the day, decide to play dress-up. We get into Mom's makeup, perfume, and clothing. We can do that since she is at work. We are enjoying ourselves so much we don't hear Auntie Lotte's car pulling into the driveway or the front door opening. In Rhodesia, no one ever knocks; visitors walk in, and sometimes they may also ask what’s for dinner. But Auntie Lotte isn’t here for dinner. It isn't until I feel a firm hand on my neck and turn to face a wrathful Auntie Lotte that I realize we've been busted.

"What is that on your face?" she honks, her Dutch accent more pronounced than usual. Her nose twitches like an African hunting dog that has caught the scent.

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