Roses

It’s the day after Valentines and I’m thinking of roses.

On Saturday I stopped by Strathhaven shopping centre to get some veggies for the week (one green pepper, some beans, a Chinese cabbage and 2 carrots – it’s odd shopping for one person). I was slowly putting my things back in the car because I was kind of hoping Mum’s Mango Man (yes, she has a Mango Man) would descend upon me at that moment when you are stuck outside your car, caught in between getting in and driving away very fast and putting away your groceries – a moment I try very hard usually to avoid and one Zimbabwean fruit sellers are highly skilled at capitalising on. Today though, I wanted mangoes.

The Mango Man was refilling his bags on the other side of the parking lot and I was trying to decide if I would completely rewrite shopping parking lot rules and conventions and drive over to him, when the Rose Man found me. I know this Rose Man. He and I go way back. He knows I’m a sucker and will probably buy some discounted roses from him (business is always bad, he’s always desperate, I’m always a sucker and the roses actually are pretty cheap). We have a nice acquaintance – this time he didn’t even bother asking if I wanted roses. We talked for a couple minutes about business (bad) and how much money people had (none). I tried to be positive and point out that Tuesday was Valentine’s and that was sure to be good for his line of business. He wasn’t convinced. It’s hard to hope once you’re out of the habit. I asked how much his roses were and bought a yellow bunch. 20 for $2. A bargain.

And then it was Valentine’s Day. Zimbabwean private schools have a tradition of sending roses amongst each other. A group at the school, usually fundraising for charity, takes orders from its students to send roses to each other and to many schools in the city. So you pay a dollar and send your girlfriend who goes to another school a couple roses, her name is called out in assembly or lunch and everyone sees what a lucky, loved person she is. It’s horrible. I remember high school. By the middle of high school, my friends and I were sending each other roses but before then, those of us who were roseless each Valentine’s felt unlucky and unloved, all day as we watched the lucky and loved walk around glowing holding their wilting flowers. What I would have given for a wilting flower.

Anyway, I decided to send my boarding girls roses (because it actually doesn’t matter who they’re from because no one knows when your name is called out and they might be from, say, a boy, instead of Miss Bell and only you and Miss Bell have to know if you want, it’s mostly about the illusion). I decided to buy my own roses (cheaper and I had missed the pre-ordered ones) so I headed out Monday afternoon after lessons to a group of rose-sellers down the road – not my Rose Man, who was a bit further away. Anyway, this rose man wanted to sell me a bunch for $10! Five times the price of what I had paid on Saturday. Well, I like a challenge. I had facts and knowledge of rose prices on my side; he had the roses and knowledge of my desperation on his. Eventually I got him down to $4 a bunch. Fair, I think, for Valentine’s Eve. So I found a prefect, and got my roses slipped in amongst the official ones.

Yesterday, my girls were happy (I saved a few of them from the “zero-club”), and I have the left-overs in a glass on my bookshelf. They are slowly opening and smell gorgeous. I’m happy, too. But even now, even though I am content with who I am and where I am in my life, and even though I like to challenge accepted perceptions about love and gender and relationships (usually not on Valentine’s day because people aren’t usually in the mood to be challenged about love or gender or relationships then), and even though I have mostly moved on from high school and know that roses on Valentine’s do not make me lucky or loved, I kind of – secretly! – wish someone had sent me roses.