Coconut (3 page)

Daddy never fetches me from school, so when Mama was away staying at Ous Matilda’s, who had just given birth, I had told just about everybody who cared to listen that my Daddy was picking me up in his new Mercedes-Benz.

But when Daddy finally does arrive, I am no longer standing outside the towering rusty school gates with all my friends and a few nosy others. Instead, I am sitting on the grass mound playing five-cards with the ice-cream man, who is the only interesting company there is left. As I am getting up, Stuart Simons walks from the high-school sport fields towards the parking lot with a clique of senior boys who I know are only allowing Stuart to hang with them because he is wealthy. Although I have never liked Stuart very much, I wave bye to him so that he can see me climbing into the most captivating car on the school grounds. As I open the boot to put my bag in, Stuart walks over and says something like “Nice wheels, Ofilwe, who did your father hijack this one from?”

I want to smash his skull in with the cricket bat he is holding in his hand and watch the red blood trickle down his freckled face. Instead, I slam the boot shut, fling the silver-grey front door open, and scream at Daddy for picking me up late.

There is a vintage jet-black lady who sells ready-to-eat
Maotoana
at the notorious Schubert intersection. She is there every Sunday, so as we near those crossroads, I sit up to see if I can spot her before we speed past the green light. Unlike the other street vendors who periodically jive in between the cars, pressing their noses against electronic windows, psychedelic products in hand, toothless smiles searching for the rare interested individual, Makhulu sits motionless underneath her generous orange umbrella, waiting for us to come to her. Makhulu has been operating at this intersection for just over two months now, but already she seems to own it. Her leathery skin, folded into a hundred-and-two deep lines, makes it difficult for one to read emotion off her face. Her bold bead-like eyes stare straight ahead, suggesting a mind preoccupied. Her chin is always slightly raised, her back strikingly straight for someone her age and her hands are always neatly placed in her lap. I secretly believe that Makhulu is of royal blood.

On days when the spray-painted traffic lights do grant me an opportunity to observe the business of street vending outside our centrally locked doors, I see the teenage newspaper boy bring Makhulu a one-litre glass Coke bottle filled with water to drink. The raucous ‘ID-book-cover and hands-free-kit for sale’ twin brothers drop their heads and cup their hands together as a greeting every time they pass by Makhulu’s throne. Each time we stop, I make an attempt to catch her eye. I never manage to and do not know what I would do if I ever did.

Grandmother Tlou, Daddy’s mother, can tell you anything, including the things nobody would bother to know, about the British royal family. Grandmother Tlou took a week off from work at the Department of Education after she had heard the news of the sudden death of Diana, Princess of Wales. Aunty Sophia, Daddy’s verbose cousin who was raised by Grandmother Tlou and Grandfather Tlou because Grandfather Tlou owned a butchery in Atteridgeville and could afford to do so, called Daddy to report what was going on at the face-brick Atteridgeville Gardens house. Grandmother Tlou apparently announced that she would no longer be attending meals for the next three days as a sign of respect for the passing of the great princess. Aunty Sophia later told Tshepo, after the tension around Grandmother Tlou’s condition had subsided, that after her announcement Grandmother Tlou commenced packing away all her clothing of colour, including her trademark Emporium scarves, into the spare bedroom downstairs, committing herself to dress in black until such a time when it would be appropriate to cease mourning. Although Daddy chided Grandmother Tlou for appearing to be more devastated over the death of the princess than that of her own husband four years earlier, he returned from a business trip in London with 18-ct white-gold loop earrings similar to those that Diana once wore, in an attempt to ease Grandmother’s suffering.

Who is my own Princess Di? Does my royal family still exist, some place out there in barren, rural South Africa? Please, do tell me about their dynasty. I am afraid my history only goes as far back as lessons on the Dutch East India Company in grade two at Laerskool Valley Primary School. Were they once a grand people, ruling over a mighty nation, audaciously fighting off the advance of the colourless ones? Do you perhaps know where they are now?

I have heard some hiss that the heirs to their thrones sit with swollen bellies and emaciated limbs under a merciless sun, waiting for government grants. Surely that cannot be true.

As we cross the intersection, having fulfilled our Sunday obligation, leaving guilt behind and driving back into the secular, I wonder what my own family will be like. Unlike some of my female friends, I do not have a picture of an ideal husband in mind nor am I certain whether I even fancy one.

Strangely enough, I think about my future children quite a bit. I imagine lovely round dimpled faces and Colgate smiles running past sticky walls. In my dreams they are painted in shades of pink. I am afraid of what that means.

Little Square Shopping Centre is where the important people of Little Valley prefer to do their buying. Mama comes here every day of the week to purchase the food she will prepare for our evening meal. I am absolutely certain Mama is perfectly aware that in an age of cute baby-blue freezers and touch-screen microwaves it is completely unnecessary to shop daily. I have now stopped trying to draw this to her attention and have accepted it as another one of Mama’s peculiar indulgences. Sundays are the only days I come here willingly, because on Sundays after church we, the Tlou family, have breakfast at Silver Spoon Coffee Shop.

Today, unlike other days, Fikile is our waitress. She shows us to the only remaining table, thoughtlessly placed threateningly close to the swinging kitchen doors. Silver Spoon is a small establishment and Fikile and Ayanda are the only waiters who work here.

I do not like Fikile. She has a strange air about her. Although small, Silver Spoon is fashionable and its customers are loyal. Besides Tshepo, who insists that nothing compares to a bowl of soft-pap porridge prepared by our domestic worker Old Virginia, our family worships Silver Spoon’s Traditional English Breakfast. So we, too, are loyal. Fikile usually serves the other customers because they ask for her, and Ayanda serves us. I personally prefer it that way, and I am confident she does too. Although I am surprised Ayanda is not serving us today, I say nothing for fear of Fikile spitting in our food. I would not put it past her.

“Tshepo my darly! Tshepo-wee, tell your sister to come quick inside, our guests is come.
”

I can hear Mama from where I am, but carry on making headstands in the pool. I am not ready to get out yet, the water’s warm and I still need to work on my back-flips. Mama always-always chooses the times when I am having fun to send me around. I see Tshepo coming out of the house and quickly sink under water.

“Ofilwe, stop being stupid. I can see you under there and I know you can hear me. Get out and come greet Mama’s guests.”

I don’t understand why the people in this house can’t just leave me alone. Mama and her guests drive everybody crazy. This is probably why Daddy spends all his weekends at Golf City. As I enter the living room, Tshepo brings in a tray of sultana grapes, salted crackers, cheese wedges, carrot and celery sticks, and honey mustard pretzels for the ladies I recognise as the nursing sisters Mama used to work with.

“Oooo! Here she is. Ofilwe, you are wet! Oh, Ofilwe. My floor. What a mess.
Bona,
Ofilwe! Be careful, man. Hayi. These children! Ofilwe, do you still remember Mama Solly le Mama Katlego? Come, come. It’s a long time since they see you last, isn’t it? Come greet them nicely.”

“Hi.”

I don’t understand why the people in this house can’t just leave me alone! I was minding my own business when Tshepo dragged me out of the pool to come greet Mama’s guests, and then when I did exactly that, Mama looked at me in horror as if I had sworn at them. What on earth is wrong with the word ‘Hi’? Everybody says ‘Hi’.

Later, she’d complain to my grandmother. “It is a great embarrassing, Koko. Hayi! You should have been here to hear your little Ofilwe. Those women are my elders, not even I would speak with them in such a manner. ‘Hi’. Just like that, Koko. ‘Hi’. As if. You’d think she’s doing them a favour by greeting them. Is a simple ‘Dumelang bo Mama’ too much to ask? It’s not right, Koko. No, it is not right one bit. What kind of children am I raising?”

I know that Fikile knows that we do not need this much time to decide on what it is we are going to eat.

I know that Fikile knows that we order the same Silver Spoon’s Traditional English Breakfast every Sunday, without exception. I know that Fikile is not as busy as she is pretending to be. She stands with her right hand on her hip and her left in her hair at a table of three blue-eyed males, all of whom look at least forty years her senior. Two of them appear to be somewhat drunk, speaking too loudly for the proximity of their chairs. The third man is conversing with Fikile. She seems pleased with the things he is saying to her. Fikile shakes her head in false disapproval and laughs shrilly as she walks away from the table. She looks straight through me.

Fikile can’t be much older than me. Is she not embarrassed? Does she not wonder what the rest of us will think of her Hanky-Pankies with that
Oupa
? The grey-haired, pale man with the blue eyes she has been speaking to looks like he has been in that suit since Friday morning. Stale. The type you know is pathetically desperate.
Sies
. Is a lack of melanin her only criterion?

Junior P. Mokoena used to head the table next to mine in the third term of grade seven at Laerskool Valley Primary School. Mrs van Niekerk, my red and round grade seven mathematics teacher, arranged her class in such a way that the top six grade seven pupils would each head their own table of four pupils. Mrs van Niekerk changed the table arrangement of pupils after every class test and said that in this way the stronger pupils in the class could help the not-so-strong pupils and that some day we would all be as equally strong.

Shame. Mrs van Niekerk was a sweet lady, but perhaps a little naive. Her table system became a fierce competition amongst the top students in the class to see who could head the most number of tables each term while the not-so-strong students remained not so strong.

Junior P. Mokoena always got the highest marks in our mathematics class tests and as a result was never moved from his table, a grave, deep-brown table that became known as Junior’s Table. In the third term of that year I was, for the first time ever in my life, in the top six of the grade seven mathematics class. Mrs van Niekerk, as I had so desperately hoped, assigned me to head the table next to Junior’s. I remember slowly packing my yellow space-case into my matching single-strap, over-the-shoulder Mall Rat bag, and walking over to my prize as if it was as inconsequential as the sentiments of the not-so-strong pupils I was leaving behind. Honestly, being in the top six had never been a key priority of mine. I had worked hard for this class test because I knew that it was the only way I would ever get Junior P. Mokoena to recognise me.

I hated Junior. I hated how he walked around the school as if all and sundry wanted to be him. I hated that they actually did. I thought it moronic that he was the topic of our every conversation. I did not care that he had his own driver or that their indoor swimming pool was Olympic size. It did not matter to me that his mother was one of the first black female neurosurgeons in the country and that his father owned all the bottlestores in Soweto. Who cares if the

Mokoenas are spending the festive season in Spain? I did not ask for daily updates on Junior P. Mokoena’s glamorous life and I was tired of getting them.

“Tell her that I only date white girls.”

I do not remember feeling sad at the words, just rage. Anger at myself for being so foolish, contempt towards the love letter I had written which still lay open on his arrogant desk for all his fans to see, and hatred for the boy that had just ruined my life. Who did Junior P. Mokoena think he was?

“Hi. My name is Fikile. Are you ready to order?”