Month End

My Grandfather told me about how when he was a boy, country folk used to dress up to go into town. His aunts and cousins could be spotted from a block away—country girls in dresses sewn in colors so loud they made a sound as they walked down the street. Going into town was an opportunity to shine and to be noticed; that is what I think of when I am in Lobatse at month end and I see the old ladies wearing dukis and german print dresses and young women wearing new dresses and outfits that can still be spotted on manikins in shop windows. Even I try to avoid my holey jeans at month end and I wear a new crisp top and try not to sweat stains into the armpits. I comb my hair out nicely because as much as I hate the crowds, I enjoy watching the people in them. Everyone with a job is paid at month end and so at the shops there are specials and the specials bring crowds and queues and thick aired koombies. I love it and hate it at the same time. There’s an excitement that month end generates for me. I stand in lines, long, long African style lines where people in front of you say “I’m here,” point out their spot and then go into the grocery store to buy something and stand in another line while you hold their place whether you want to or not. Naughty children abound. Men gawk and say “hey beybee,” as we walk by but I love that women get dressed up to go into town at month end. I run into people I know and we exchange pleasantries. Month end is usually when I get free rides from people I know who see me hiking into town. Although Lobatse is nothing special—its mostly grocery stores, pharmacies, practical places like that—I enjoy watching people flood in at month end, men in their nice clothes, women in dressy dresses, things I would almost never wear outside of Botswana. These are clothes that are beautiful but far out of context in America (think, puffy sleeved dresses and ruffles). I lament that Americans don’t dress up anymore, with the exception of black people and immigrants and we’re all gleefully flamboyant, what most may call tacky. Most Americans don’t even try anymore. My holey jeans wouldn’t elicit a second glance back home. I’m soaking in the last of Lobatse’s pageantry at month end. I think of my grandfather and all the lady relatives who I did not know, all of whom dressed up to go into town to fetch groceries, run errands, exchange pleasantries with other people on the road in flamboyant colored dresses made especially for going to church and going into town.