I remember my grandfather's house as a place where all the relatives would come through, either for a visit, to sleep over or because well, you need a place to stay for a little while.

This was a three bedroom house with two outdoor rooms at the back.

This house was not very big but during the weekend, my cousins and I would call each other, saying we are all going to Phahameng were my grandparents lived. We would all pack up our bags, me, Tiisetso, Motla, Dintle, Pamela, Mpuse and the others who were a bit older and visit a house that had already close to seven people living in it.

Coming through there was such a joy. We would arrive almost in the night, already in pajamas on a Friday night, after school and have a sleepover. There would be us kids, running around, my aunt Ous Joyce screaming at us, hoping we don’t break down the house and then my grandfather's sister, Matlaka, who would be washing dishes all day long because of us. My grandmother, who they call Sipu, would shout at us the entire day, saying we make the house dirty. I remember how she would scold us and say our parents will pay for everything we broke. This house was more than just a home for us. It was certainly a place where everybody gravitated towards.

Different kinds of individuals would pass through there, some to buy from my grandfather’s small market, while others would go into the living room and watch TV.

My mother used to say that her house was the first home to have the first ever television set in the street. I’m not sure which year that was, as she was born in 1959. What I do remember is that the first cell phones were introduced after Nelson Mandela was released from prison but I highly suspect they were only used by an elite few.

In any case, we are just in awe of how time has flown but we are certainly surprised how different life was for our parents.

This was the life for them and I remember vividly the old metal iron that my grandmother used to use. She would put it on an old metal stove that was sitting in the kitchen and iron clothes from there. That stove was so warm. They would insert some wood and it would burn the entire kitchen up. Nobody left that small kitchen.

Everything we knew about them was through the little things. My grandfather kept it all just for us. Unfortunately everything went to ashes when the storeroom out back burnt to ashes. He would keep old spoons, old monies from his days and show them to us when we visited.

I don’t know where those things are now but I know the old spoons are still being used in the house. Ever since my uncle renovated the house, everything is brand new.

It’s almost as if he erased some of the past memories when he renovated the house. The people no longer go there and in addition to that, the deaths of so many people I have mentioned just put a damper on everything that was beautiful about the house.

We however do remember them and remember the wild memories that were shared at that brown house that my grandfather built ground up with his bare hands, using bricks made of clay soil.

You see, even if the house was falling apart, the roof leaking when it rained, we all flocked there.

We would place buckets all over the house so the floors don’t get soaking wet but best believe, someone is bound to kick that bucket down.

During the rainy season, one would scream to be heard but one thing for certain, sleeping during the rain was a bliss. The rain would fall on that tin roof so beautifully and put us into a slumber. Nights were wonderful under the tin roof. The sound of the rain was splendid.

Did I mention the sleeping arrangements? My father would mock us and say we sleep like sardines and best believe, that’s how we slept over there.

In one of the rooms, you’d find us with a mountain of blankets placed all over the floor and any pillows we could find, the four of us cousins. Then on the double bed, my aunt with her child, my other aunt on the single bed and just everyone in the room, jumping over each other’s heads just to visit the bathroom.

Squeezing into the blankets after you have left for the bathroom is a struggle. You’d find Mpuse’s elbow pointing onto Pamela’s face, Dintle snoring and them clinging onto each other. Trying to enter into that space was surely a remarkable adventure.

One thing for sure, morning’s promised to be an absolute excitement at my grandfather’s house.

You’ll hear people talking in the kitchen…I surely remember my aunt waking up very early to make tea and porridge for the elderly.

This was her early morning routine but the sound of people talking in the kitchen and even the sound of us whispering about last night's activities is something to hold dear.

There were no geysers at the time and ever so often a kettle needed to be put on.

“Who didn’t fill up the kettle!” asked Aunt Joyce, an argument she fought the whole entire day.

This was certainly messy, come to think of it.

What we did to my aunt, come to think of it, was torturous.

To think someone must also feed all those mouths. We however understood that this was not our mother’s house, so bread with plain butter and tea would suffice.

For me, I would just remember home at breakfast. I think that was the only time I would miss my egg and sausage breakfasts and even miss having my dad cook pork in the mornings.

But we adjusted quickly, ate whatever was available, bathed and outdoors we went.

Ever so often, Dibecho would come over. Dibecho has been old for as long as I can remember. He’s never been young in my eyes. He once hit a bird with a rock and organised a feast for us.

I could never cook, wash and eat a bird. Well sometimes he would kill the little birds and other times the bigger ones but best believe, there was never any meat on that damn thing.

He would ignite a fire, get a metal grill and place it above two bricks on either side and start cooking the birds.

He would round up all the boys and sometimes girls, take a slingshot and start killing the creatures. I never thought he was well in the head. He played with little children way too much.

My grandfather loved him because he was handy.

He would help my grandfather beat a tree with an axe.

My aunt hated the bulky tree.

When the church next door removed the old tree to upgrade the building, my grandfather was the first on the scene. At age 90, he mustered the energy, together with Dibecho, to carry that thing into the yard.

They would be seen hitting it.

“It’s for wood during the winter season,” said grandpa Pelo.

“We have electricity now, there’s no need for all of that wood,” said aunt Joyce.

This was however how busy it was at my grandfather's house.

He was ever so enterprising with his ideas.

I remember how he took the old tar road from the street after the municipality demolished the old road and built another. He took whatever he could master and plastered it all over the front yard.

“What is it again?” my aunt would ask.

“It’s grandpa again, he fetched the tar road,” laughed my mother who never took grandpa to heart.

“You know he fills this yard with all junk and somebody must come and pack it all up,” said Joyce.

“I know. He’s old, just leave him be,” my mother would say, laughing secretly.

You see, this was how my grandfather was and everything beautiful about that house was because of his spirit and the spirit of those around him.

Within those very walls was love and stories about everything and everyone who would pass there.

I sometimes wish my children would have felt the feeling of that house and experienced the togetherness we shared in that home.

One thing for sure, when we do get together, we remember the memories and remember how beautiful it was and we remember the moments that made us cringe and break out in laughter.

This was certainly a childhood well experienced, even if I could say so myself.

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