My Tomboy Baby Sister

My sister was born three days after I turned nine. At that stage I had two brothers aged seven and two. That is how they planned us; in two batches of two.

On the night of my ninth birthday we all sat at the kitchen table discussing the arrival of the new baby. Those were the times before sonar and there was no telling if it was to be a baby boy or a girl. My mom and dad wanted a girl but my brother and I wanted another brother; to keep our baby brother busy so we won’t have to look after him.

We though my mom and dad still had a choice in the matter; you know something like going to a baby shop and pick one off the shelf. My brother and I resolved that if it was to be a girl she will have to greet us with the hand as we boys were taught to greet each other; there will be no kissing.

We stuck to our guns and I first kissed her good bye when she was nine. That was when I was conscripted into the army for my military training. My brothers followed suit since then.

We made no distinction between her and us. She was a little boy and we treated her as such. From very early she refused to wear a dress and she stood when having a pee. Until my mother got fed up and put a stop to it.

We taught her how to fight and we often used her to sort out the boys of her age when they annoyed us. She picked up a few blue eyes for her trouble but it paid off in the end. It was a disgrace to be sorted out by a girl and the little boys quickly learned not to trouble us.

After I got married my work transferred me to Johannesburg for three years and when I came back I was pleasantly surprised with my tomboy sister who had developed into a beautiful and sweet young lady.

When she was twenty her boyfriend tried to hit her but she sent him packing with such a hiding that he never showed his face again. I don’t know what happened to him. Her training paid off.

About five years after she got married she arrived at a family gathering one Sunday, sporting a swollen cheek. I asked her what happened and she laughed, pointing at her husband. He gave an embarrassed smile and raised his arms in mock surrender. Accident, he said. He was having a nightmare and he hit my sleeping sister in the face.

We believed the story. Firstly, he never was the type to beat his wife and secondly, there was not a mark on his face. He would not have gotten away unscathed; she can look after herself.


May you all have a great Monday with no shades of blue.