Coconut (8 page)

‘Tlou’ is ours, Tshepo later said, and ‘Sereto’ the poetry behind it. I had repeated the words over and over again, desperate not to forget. How foolish I must have looked, sitting there silently with not a thing to share. How angry I was at Siphokazi for shattering my night and at Tshepo for always having an answer for everything and at myself.

I decided not so long ago to take it a word at a time. The plan was that in every spoken sentence I would try to use a single word of Sepedi. Just like an athlete, I would gradually increase the workload until eventually I would be strong and fluent.

“Ke mang yo, Tshepo?”

“This is my sister, Ofilwe.”

“She looks like a ‘I want my Mommy!’”

“Leave Vuyo and I alone, Ofilwe, and go play inside with the other girls.”

“Since I’ve been here I’ve only heard this little girl speak English. Do you only speak English, sweetie?”

“Vuyo, please man, leave her alone, she’s young.

Ofilwe, I said go and play inside with the other girls.”

‘How hard could it be?’ I had asked myself. ‘Of course I can speak the language,’ I had told myself a numerous times, ‘I just don’t because I have no reason to.’

“Daddy, Tshepo’s calling me names!”

“Just ignore him.”

“He called me an Aunty Jemima, Daddy.”

“What is an Aunty Jemima?”

“Tshepo says an Aunty Jemima is a sell-out. Daddy, Tshepo says I am a sell-out. He says I embarrass him and that I mustn’t ever come near him when his friends are around.”

“Just ignore him, Ofilwe.”

The plan was to try out my new vocabulary on Daddy first. I knew his mind was always elsewhere, so was certain that if I sounded relatively normal, he would respond with the usual ‘OK, Ofilwe’ and ‘Don’t worry Ofilwe’. It was only when I’d finished scheming, plotting graphs and typing out my method, that I realised how many gaping holes I had in my head. There I was battling to put sentences together, speaking in the slightest of whimpers, hoping that Daddy would pretend, out of pity, that he understood so that I would not be forced to repeat the mumbo jumbo I had spewed out. Each word ended in a shudder, a cringe.

Sometimes I just wish I could hold my breath just for a little while, and then a little while longer, until I do not have to hold it anymore. I do not like looking at later, because I do not understand what I see. If I just held my breath, for a small long while, then I wouldn’t have to be there, and that would be OK.

Do you think if I closed my eyes real tight and held them that way for a forever amount of time, that when I tried to open them again, they would refuse, because they’d gotten comfortable being that way? Because maybe then I wouldn’t have to see, and then I wouldn’t have to feel so sad. I do not like to watch what you do to yourself, little black girl. I do not like to see you sell your soul for a silver skin. Why do you pull at your button nose? Do you not see that it is beautiful that way? I do not know how to fix you, little black girl, so I will shut my eyes as tight as I can.

I hate my ears, for they are the greatest liars I have ever known. They lie to me every day. As soon as I speak a word they play it back to me in an accent that is not my own. Perhaps my ears are thieves too. “Whose accent is this?” I demand to know. They are not intimidated by my rage. “Whose accent did you steal, you lying thieves?”

Oh, sometimes I want to cut my toes, just one and then another, until I cannot cut them anymore. If I had no toes, it would be so difficult to walk. Then everybody would say, “Sit down, poor little black girl. Sit down, and do not wear yourself out so.” Right there I would sit and not take another step. That would be OK, too: I do not know where I am going anyway.

We are now finally on our way back home. Mama uses facial wipes to prepare her skin for the Deep Velvet that she will apply to her eyelids. The Tender Plum that was modestly brushed onto the apples of her cheeks this morning will not match the Indigo chiffon skirt she must change into as soon as we get home. It is the second Sunday of the month, time again for Mama, mama Julia, mama Caroline and mama Peggy to meet. These three ladies are Mama’s closest friends from a larger group of thirteen women. In another era, in a different land with a less controversial history, none of these thirteen women would be friends because no two of them have anything in common. Except, of course, the one thing that they do have in common, the thing that is significant enough to be sufficient reason to keep thirteen conflicting characters as the best of buddies. All of these women are trying to forget.

I move closer to the window so that I can see Mama’s reflection in the side mirror. I wonder if she can see me watching her and what she thinks of it if she can. She pulls the visor down and dabs a little bit of Zambuck on her eyebrows, tinted slightly lighter to match the colour of her beaded cornrows, then arches them up high. Our eyes cross as Mama looks down to search for another one of her Essential Handbag Cosmetics in her glittery sequin clutch purse; I immediately pull away and stare out of the window, creasing my forehead tight so as to appear as if I am deep in thought.

The Benedicts have a ‘We start together and end together’ policy. Well not policy, because that makes it sound too much like a rule, but rather tradition. It’s hilarious because there are six of them in the family, a mother and father, three daughters and little Jimmy, the only boy, and each morning, before they officially awake, all four kids sluggishly head for the parents’ bedroom to what they call the Start/Finish bed for the daily Benedicts Family Team Huddle. It’s a scramble to see who can get into the bed first and secure themselves the warmest spot, even if it means stepping on mom’s head or jabbing dad in the stomach in the process. The show always begins with somebody falling out of the bed and ends with mom hysterically dragging everybody, sometimes even dad, out of the room! Of course that kind of stuff only happens on TV. In real life people have to go to work.

I call this symphony ‘Unfinished’ because that is the only word I remember being able to pronounce when I read the title on the back of the CD cover. Tshepo once danced to this piece at one of his ballet concerts at the clubhouse. This is the only CD Daddy has ever bought and the one that perpetually howls in his car when he is not listening to the news. I find this kind of music invasive and not a taste I think I would like to acquire, as Daddy describes it. I wonder if it is really a taste in classical music that Daddy acquired or rather a taste of money that has led to his desire for all things that insinuate wealth and stability.

Mama does not like to be touched. I personally have never seen it happen but she tells me that her skin is sensitive and breaks out in rashes if it is in contact with human flesh for a prolonged period of time. Children’s hands are especially lethal and cause her a ghastly amount of discomfort when and after she comes into contact with them. Mama suspects it is because children by nature are filthy and thus exacerbate her fussy skin’s response to touch.

Mama appears to be content with her creation. She puts her sunglasses on and sits back in the seat. I am impressed. With a few handbag essentials and the help of the vehicle side mirror and front-seat visor, Mama has within minutes transformed herself from unassuming proud mother of two and grateful housewife to cosmopolitan woman-on-the-move. She will be in the house only long enough to swiftly change out of her pure white Sunday dress. Then she will be on the road again, off to swap scandals with the ladies over crushed ice and olives.

I wish I could have danced for Mama, but Lady Gertrude would not have me in her class. I was all angles: elbows and knees prodding out of every corner of my pre-pubescent square-shaped body. I should have been Tshepo and Tshepo me. Mama’s Tshepi. I don’t know if Tshepo ever really enjoyed the Pliés and Pas de Chats, or the baby-blue leotard and white lace on the satin slippers. I suppose it made no difference whether he did or not.

Tshepo was magnificent. His slight frame, sustained arms and legs, deft chin, precise nose, easy shoulders and delicate manner in which he swirled all across the portable stage and behind the curtains had the audience of doting mothers, envious sisters and well-meaning neighbours mesmerised. Tshepo had everything that made Mama beautiful and the one thing that would have made her perfect: Daddy’s fair skin. Tshepo always knew how to make Mama gleeful.

I had thought back then that if I could give my nose a name, then it would be easier to combat. At the end of grade five we went on a three-day school camp to Pilanesberg. On our first night we played a game called Mud Wars. I remember it was Bush Babies against The Dolphins. I was one of The Dolphins, but do not remember having anything to do with the inappropriate name of the group. We had been told to pack old clothing prior to our departure, and that is what we were wearing when our camp leaders collected us from our dormitories to direct us to the lake where the game would be held. Each team member was instructed to fetch a long stick from a pile that had been previously assembled by the camp leaders. The sticks were swirled in the gooey mud that formed the lake’s boundaries, until a ball of wet sand, held together by pieces of grass, slime and insect remains, formed on the end. The objective was to hit as many of the opposition with mud balls as possible until all their men were down before ours were. I remember swinging my stick, aiming for a Bush Baby I had spotted hiding behind a heap of broken branches, and hitting the wall behind them instead. The mud ball hit the wall and stuck right there. While I stood there waiting for it to slide down, thinking that it looked a lot like my nose fixed stubbornly against the camp wall, I was hit by a Bush Baby in the back. So that is what I named my nose: Mud War.

“I bumped into Belinda Johnson outside the pharmacy,” I say, stealing the spotlight from Symphony No. 8’s piano piece, provoking one of them to respond.

“That’s lovely, dear, we have not seen Belinda in a long while. Did you invite her over for lunch?”

“No, Daddy.” That is a nonsensical question. Daddy knows very well that there will be no Sunday lunch today because Mama will be elsewhere. And I cannot cook, Tshepo will not cook and Old Virginia is not allowed to cook. Besides, is today not golf day, like every other day of the week?

“I have told you before, Daddy, Belinda and I are no longer friends.” It is important that I focus on my objective and not allow Daddy’s play-play world to annoy me.

“Those are good news, Ofilwe,” Mama speaks at last.

“Good news? That is a terrible thing, Ofilwe.”

“It is about time, my darling girl. Did not I say those people she were no good for you, Ofilwe?” Mama makes as if she cannot hear Daddy.

“It is careless to throw away a useful relationship such as yours and Belinda’s, Ofilwe, without even giving it any thought. Those Johnsons are fine people.”

“Fine people? If I is not forbidden you from accepting food from those so-called fine people, Ofilwe, you would be dead now, wouldn’t you, Ofilwe? I am sure, my girl, you are old now and now you can see yourself and be glad me, your Mama, she protected you from that rubbish that goes on at that farm, nê Ofilwe?”

“Those people are mighty intelligent, Ofilwe. You see white people, my child, they know how to utilise their money. Mr Johnson knows that it is wise to invest in property. Why do you think they live on such a large piece of land?”

“Sies! And that dirty house of theirs is a disgust. Remember, Ofilwe? Do you remember how dirty you is when you came back home, Ofilwe? No wonder you is always sick. Those people, they is made you sick, my child.”

“Were you ever sick, Ofilwe? Nonsense! Those Johnsons are open-minded people, Ofilwe. Those are the kind of white people we need in our country. They treated you well, did they not, Ofilwe? How often was Belinda here to help you with your school work, Ofilwe?”

“That Belinda is fat and ugly, my child, and he is only your friend because nobody wants her. Her own people don’t want him and now she wants to come to you? Hayi!”

“As soon as we get home you must call Belinda, Ofilwe, and sort out your differences. She is a reasonable young lady, I am certain she will be willing to put all of this behind her.”

“Ofilwe, you just leave this thing alone. If she wants you come back, she must be the one who is making amends, and it will be no loss to you if he does not. You hear me, my girl? No loss. You must now be starting to be can surrounding yourself with the right kind of people, Ofilwe. Like that Melissa du Toit, Ofilwe, where is he now? What a charming girl.”