My two moms prepare dinner on a typical summer's evening.

Somblugu ambles up the driveway with a plastic bag tucked into her apron pocket. The sun is setting orange on a tropical afternoon, and I am six, seven, eight, nine, ten and waiting for her to call me to come along.
She sing-songs my name, and I run and clutch her dark brown, warm hand as we slowly walk up the hill to the field behind the new preschool and cookie-cutter housing development homes, glistening pink with new paint in the growing suburb. She hums rhythmically as we run our fingers through the long leaves in the waving grasses and weeds, searching for wild spinach and snapping the stems off. We slowly fill the plastic bag. I wander off and lie down in the grass, staring at the sky, inhaling the grassy heat, buzzing traffic and the gentle zulu song.
Then we head home, greeting all the neighborhood servants walking, sitting under trees, and heading to the bus stop.
Somblugu smiles and tells me we have picked a feast of greens. A little chili, potatoes, and the smell of a kerosene stove as the supper pot sizzles.

I head inside and look for my mother in her bedroom at dusk.
She is sitting at her dressing table, combing her glossy hair, frowning, and carefully paints on a coat of bright red lipstick. She squints at her reflection, sighs, and signals with a look of resignation that my bouncy arrival in her bedroom means it is almost dinner time. She gets up, picks up her wine glass and wafts upstairs to the kitchen. She peaks into the fridge to check that the salad is cling-wrapped and ready, dumps another ice cube into her wine glass, tops up the white wine, and heads into the living room to flip through a magazine and listen to the birds beyond the french doors congregating in the tropical trees.
She waits for her husband to arrive, and for her children to become impatient.