Zim has had its problems with food, so whenever I’m fortunate enough to visit Checkers, Shoprite or Spar in South Africa, or across the fence in Francistown, Botswana, I load the trolleys and send boxes back home to my wife. On one such excursion, I thought my purchasing was modest, but when I got home my wife asked if there had been a closing-down sale in South Africa because I’d bought enough groceries to open a spaza shop.
Then there was the time I went grocery shopping in the morning and called my wife to say: ”Honey, I’ve bought a car.” And not long ago I went AWOL from a gender-reporting workshop in Randburg for a bit of what my friend Mercedes calls ”gender activity”. I generally have 100-plus items on my shopping shortlist and that day I had my eye on leather jackets, one for me and one for my wife, which duly made it on to my roll of honour.
Okay, I confess: I’m a shopaholic. I have been diagnosed with an acute propensity to shop beyond the word ”drop”. My wife knows about my condition and I’ve been trying to atone for my shopping sins. But many people may not be aware that Shopaholics Anonymous has failed to take off in Africa.
On the same AWOL excursion from my Randburg gender workshop, I visited a lingerie shop — a minefield for novices. A lady who wore a veil attended to me without batting an eyelid, asking what it was my wife needed. I only had one item on my list — bras.
Of course, I knew the size but it is always advisable to be doubly sure, so I SMSed her: ”By the way, what is the actual size of your bra?” She confirmed what I thought — 34 — and I selected a white bra. But my friend Mercedes said white is boring, so I chose some red, black and white numbers.
Then the saleslady asked: ”Sorry, what size of 34 — B or C?” So I fingered my Nokia again and got the reply ”C” — plus an unsolicited one: ”I know you do not know my size. Try to imagine my breasts and if you cannot I wouldn’t blame you.”
So as an avid shopper, I’ve learned one lesson: always know your spouse’s vital statistics. And I do not mean merely her age and birthday. You should have the underwear size, shoe size, hat size, identity number, favourite colours, preference for perfume with alcohol or non-alcohol content, shorts size, blouse size, passport number, trouser size and blood group memorised well enough to chant them in your sleep. Make sure you recite the correct sizes or you will have to explain from the hospital bed whom you used to get the size.
Another weakness I’m trying to overcome is suitcases. It started in 1997 when I was returning from the United States and bought an extra bag for my books. But on the stopover in London I bought another fancy case, a Westmount, and so eventually landed home with three cases.
My reasons for having more than one case each time I return home from a trip abroad are valid. You see, I travel like the Queen of England, who has a set of clothes for different occasions. I have one case with wedding clothes, another for funeral clothes and another for shoes.
In December last year I bought a set of Safari travelling cases, both on wheels, and recently I could not resist buying an upright case, also from the Safari stable, with three combination locks. It is black and is my favourite — until I find something sexier.
Well, I do need to increase the brand list to include a Samsonite and Louis Vuitton. That’s when my wife gives me a bit more cash because my swipe card was withdrawn as part of the shopaholic therapy. I have promised to seek help and make financial confessions to our local banker about my desperate situation. My shopping mentor, Imelda Marcos, agrees.
Busani Bafana is a journalist who lives in Bulawayo
