A mother-in-law is supposed to be your second mother here on earth who should treat you like a daughter she never had – right?
But what happens when this relationship goes sour before you even walk down the aisle? Do you end things with your spouse or stay in the heated kitchen for the rest of your life and bear the smoke?
Oh well, let’s go to the very beginning of the cause of this bitterness. First things first. Mothers-in-law (mamezala as we call them in Zulu) need to know that we are not here to replace them, neither are we there to steal the shine in their son’s life.
We are there because of a common interest and that is loving their son and building a future as one family. Nothing more. Secondly, we are not their maids. We are nobody’s maid. We are not there to clean up after them, we do a lot of that for their sluggish sons (yes I’m complaining in silence). Thirdly, we are more than capable of earning our own money, hence we are not after their son’s money and finally, we are not baby-making machines.
My encounters with the monster-in-law date a couple of years back. We have been in this love-and-hate relationship for years now, I have even lost count. She used to wake up late, but ever since I arrived she sets her alarm for 3am so that she can start cleaning way before dawn and by the time I wake up which is around 7am, she’s normally just sitting there on her favourite sofa with a devilish look that says “is this the time to wake up?”
The lazy me greets and gets on with my business and waits for her to throw a tantrum as she always does. Minutes later, to my surprise, she hasn’t uttered a word, until I offer to make her a cup of tea and then the drama unfolds… “I woke up at three, cleaned the house, swept the yard and took out the washing and I’ve had four cups already!” She could have just said thanks (I mumble to myself).
She never makes small talk with me but I’m fine with that. As I don’t want to know the gossip of the town, we can sit for hours watching the telly without a word until my partner comes to rescue me. I spend time with her because she once told my brother-in-law that I don’t ever spend time with her, so I decided to dedicate my Saturday mornings feeding into her loneliness by sitting with her as we have breakfast and that is the last of me she’ll see all weekend.
I use to feel sheepish whenever my friends would speak of their mamezala, as they always spoke so fondly of them. All I could say is she hasn’t died yet.
They would laugh and say, “she can’t be that bad, is she?” and I brush them off by saying, “we have tried over the years to mend our relationship but we just don’t gel. We are like oil and water that can’t be filtered and I’m fine with that. At least we are not always out to kill each other. Sometimes she would throw in a compliment if I’m wearing a blouse, but her compliments always end up with a displeasing comment like “you should try wearing red. It would look much better than that colour.” I just roll my eyes and utter an awkward ‘thanks’.
Some ask how I put up with my mamezala and my simple answer is that I love my boyfriend who loves his mum. Blood is thicker than water and I will never make him choose because I don’t want to put anyone in that position. Hence we will endure this love-and-hate relationship.
