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FEEDER AND FEEDEE

His face lights up when I stumble into the kitchen. “Would you My husband is a Feeder. And I am his favourite Feedee. The
like a niggerball?” Chosen One who must taste his food and applaud his culinary
choices.
I cast my weary eyes towards the clock on the wall. “It’s only ten
to six.” And the cat kept me up all night. I don’t have to add that Which is weird, illogical, when you think about it. Because my
part – he too, suffers from insomnia. So does the cat. husband is not a discerning eater. Like most Afrikaner men, his
preferred diet consists of red meat, rice, potatoes and bread.
“And please don’t use that word. It’s offensive. We now call them
blackballs.” According to him, poultry is an insult to the meat trade, and he
refuses to eat food which is ‘off-colour’ – meaning any shade of
“They’re only black on the outside.” He sees the look on my face green, orange or red. I, on the other hand, thrive on roast chick-
and changes tack. “Maybe you need something more substantial en, salads and veggies. He loves sweets. I adore salty cracks.
this morning. Can I burn you some toast?” I like my toast well
done. But not this early in the morning. This does not prevent him from trying to feed me off his
plate. Sometimes he gets lucky and his darting fork finds the
I part my lips to decline and he promptly pops one half of a mark. But his overall success rate is not good. I’ve learnt to keep
peeled banana in my mouth. my pie hole shut at all times. Only sometimes, I lose concen-
tration and find myself chewing on a piece of banana or toast
Banana between my unbrushed teeth and murderous rage in my spread with apricot jam. I hate apricot jam. I love bananas, but
heart. not before six in the morning.

This time he interprets my facial expression correctly and re- Only when eating in a restaurant, will I allow him to feed to me
treats into the lounge. morsels from his plate. The other patrons seem to think this is
cute. Quite often, we switch plates during the meal. The other

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