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I've never seen my mother that pale before. Her skin turned even lighter as I tried to control my jelly-legs after nearly ramming into my grandfather's bakkie.
But let's backtrack first.
Long ago, before the PC-era was a thing, and you had to do a curtsy first before addressing a traffic officer, I admired my mother's driving style. Unwavering, undeterred, fearless, and quick. Damn it, she was quick.
We'd go on drives, and her movements behind the steering wheel were smooth, yet firm. Delicate, yet concise. She knew what she was doing, and I wanted to be like her. I wanted to have the confidence behind the wheel like my mother had. Whether in the front passenger seat or on the back-, I'd make sure I have a clear view of what she was doing.
The rhythm of her feet, how her left leg and left hand were working in tandem, which leg had to work and which one not. I was studying her every move.
'Going for a drive!'
I think I was about seven-years-old when my mom gave me my first shot at driving in her red Ford Meteor.
You know that smirk you get when you're about to do something that your little brother can't? Well, I had it. I was gloating that entire morning, psyching myself up, and rubbing it in my brother's face that our mother was going to teach me how to drive.
He didn't appreciate it and stared me down with death in his eyes. But I couldn't be bothered. I was about to get my drive on!
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Finally, the moment arrived. We lined up at the start of the driveway, with the car's nose pointing towards the garage. Then the 'how to' orders came, and it suddenly hit me that I was about to drive. My legs were just long enough, and I could just about see over the steering wheel. My driving position was obviously compromised, but I managed.
It was all going quite well until I had to compress the clutch. I swear I had never felt so much pressure on my left leg before! "Add more pressure," my mother said as I bit my bottom lip, trying to execute the action. But I managed.
"Now, put it in first gear."
Release slowly
Though I knew what my mother was getting at, I was reluctant to remove my left hand from the steering wheel. It was as if it was stuck to it! Suddenly, I began to shake. It was a nightmare. How on earth do you go from gloating to breaking out in a heavy sweat?
I somehow muster the courage to break my left hand away and latch it onto the gear lever. I push it a bit to the left and engage first gear. "Now," says my mother, "slowly release your left leg until you feel the car moving."
I swear I did what she said, but the kickback of the clutch pushed my left leg into my groin, I release a thin gasp and sit motionless as the car jerks forward like a cough preventing air from getting to your lungs.
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My mother shouted at me, asking what I did. But I'm just sitting there, clutching the steering wheel looking at her as the jerking action throws me forward and backward! I just did what you told me to do, Ma! She pulls up the handbrake, leans over, and switches off the car.
My grandparents, who were watching this movie unfold, each had a different take. My grandma, with her hands on the hips, was quick to resent the lesson. My grandfather… Well, he felt we should do it again because "I must learn." My mother refused, and it would be another four years before she'd give me my next lesson.
As I'm walking into the house with my pride heavily bruised, my brother looks up at me and grins from ear to ear. "You can't drive," he says before throwing up a finger and running away. I couldn't even chase him. I had pins and needles in my legs, and a battered waist to deal with!
