I often forget that Women’s Day is celebrated on August 9, because that day is also my father-in-law’s birthday, and falls a day after my husband’s birthday.
It’s a very masculine week on my calendar, and public holidays as an adult were never much of a newsflash on my radar, since I’ve almost always been at work.
But last week, I’d forgotten about Women’s Day, as I tend to do, though I did have the day off.
This mini-me holiday involved a flurried visit to the “big smoke” — the town nearest my village, reached via a bridge, and only when necessary, since I like staying at home.
As I was leaving, my lovely assistant arrived — she helps me out twice a week.
Clara didn’t say a word about women or days off, but then, I remembered.
“Clara!” I said, as she began sorting through some papers and being her organised self, “You shouldn’t be here! It’s a public holiday — and it’s for women and I’m a terrible one!”
She laughed and assured me that, though she was quite aware of the public holiday, she’d missed a day or two recently, and so naturally planned to come in that day.
I felt terrible, and asked her to race through her assignments, and then leave before lunchtime, and buy herself a chocolate.
I also secretly planned to buy her a burger and chips, as I wouldn’t be staying in the “big smoke” for long; in fact, with it being Women’s Day, would shops be open at all?
Unfortunately, they all were; good news for me, but not for the dozens of female shop assistants, cashiers, supervisors and cleaners who peopled the mall as they always do, but were doing so today, of all days, on a government-backed day celebrating their womanhood, and supposedly a day off.
I asked the ladies at the large pharmacy chain why they were working that day, and they shrugged and smiled.
“It’s like this every year — it’s work. We do it, we must,” a senior supervisory-type lady with beautifully curled hair and red lips said.
A junior lady employee, all frizzy, sparkling eyes and hair, thanked me for even noticing.
“You’re the first person to wish us ‘Happy Women’s Day’, ma’am,” she chirped.
I went in search of the big manager, who happened to be a big man, and I begged him to allow me to buy all the cashiers a chocolate each.
This was against national policy, I knew, but that lovely lad pondered the request and then sighed, “OK,” he smiled, “just this once, and just because it is Women’s Day”.
The look on those ladies’ faces — you’d think I’d just paid off their bonds or offered them a tropical vacation.
They were utterly delighted, and the mood in the store was sunshine and roses. Everybody started wishing the ladies a happy day.
Later, at the takeaway place, manned by women exclusively, I asked the manager if I could tip the crew with enough cash to spoil each of them with a chocolate from the nearby chain store.
The manager (a woman this time) took my hand, looked into my eyes, and smiled soulfully.
“I’m sorry, my dear,” she said, “but both my integrity and the policy means we cannot accept your gift — not even outside, off the premises. We cannot do it”.
The other staff nodded, and smiled apologetically.
A customer in gorgeous Mary Jane shoes joined us at the counter and told me she and her husband had repeatedly tried to spoil the ladies at Christmas, Easter and on their respective birthdays, since the couple’s retail business was just down the road, and so “this place knows us very well,” she said.
“But no, we can’t spoil them, and I’m sure it’s because this is an American company, and not local is lekker South African,” she opined.
“Here in SA, we do things differently — without all this policy-schmolicy nonsense, hey?”
As I was leaving with burgers and chips for the various folks at home, and Clara, the manager tapped me on the shoulder.
“Thank you, my dear,” she said, squeezing my arm. “Remember — it is the thought that counts. It is the heart. That is all that matters.”