Coconut (21 page)

Authors: Kopano Matlwa

BOOK: Coconut

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The ‘nice lady’? I silently chuckle. That’s a first! I never thought anybody around here would refer to me as ‘the nice lady’. Such a strange man, I think to myself. How can he call me the ‘nice lady’ after the way I treated him this morning? The little girl looks at me and smiles. She is pretty. He picks her up and places her on the seat opposite to him.

“Yes, she was with her grandmother for the weekend. We are going home now, nê Paly?” he says, sticking his tongue out at her. She giggles.

“She did not want to come home, her granny spoils her so much,” he continues, laughing.

I’m not sure why this man is being so nice to me. Has he forgotten our earlier encounter? The apple that rolled out of the empty briefcase? Perhaps it is not the same man. I look at his feet for the briefcase to make sure.
Mr K.J. Fishwick
. No, it’s him alright.

He catches me looking at it and laughs again. “You really do like this briefcase, don’t you?”

I smile, embarrassed. “It is nice” is all I can get out.

“You think? I find it to be such a nuisance. I only carry it around to make my boss feel better. He made such a big deal of giving it to me. It was my birthday last week and when he heard he pulled all his papers and cards and pens and things out of the briefcase and gave it to me right there and then. Everybody at the office made such a fuss about the whole thing, you’d think he’d bought me a house or something. But I really have no need for it. I never have anything to put in it, except apples of course, that is, when they don’t roll away.” He laughs again. His laugh is contagious and I catch myself laughing with him. I am ashamed, too. I know I must apologise but do not know how. I search for a long time for the words but all I can think to say is, “Maybe your boss made such a fuss because the briefcase is so expensive.”

“It is?” he asks.

“Yes, it is a V&CX briefcase. That’s a very expensive label.”

“Oh,” he says nodding, but is not moved by the revelation as one might have expected.

We sit in silence. I look out the window and realise that next stop we will be home.

Sunday afternoons are always pretty quiet on the train and I am often back home in no time. But for some reason, today I do not want the train to stop.

“I went to pick up Palesa from school on Friday…”

Despite myself, I turn around and face him, like people do when they speak to each other. He is a very handsome man, handsome and kind.

“Oh, really?” I say, encouraging him to go on.

“So while I am waiting for her to find her schoolbag and say goodbye to her friends, my eyes start to wander around the playground. I stand there, listening to what sounds like millions of laughing, screaming, smiling little faces filled with so much life and energy. Most of them were milky white, but here and there were spots of colour.” He stops. I do not know if that is the end of his story, so I wait.

“They seemed so happy, you know, and their happiness so pure and real you could grab it in your two hands.” I am not sure where this is going, but I remain silent.

“I asked one of the teachers to show me where the bathroom was. After a long day at work I was feeling a little overwhelmed by the heat and all the buzzing around me. It was Friday, so that meant that they, the little kids, weren’t going to come to school for a whole two days, so their excitement was understandable.” He chuckles that goofy chuckle again and this time I laugh with him, without inhibition. I have no idea what he is speaking about but for some reason it’s just so good to listen to him speak.

“And then suddenly a little chocolate girl walks past me, hand in hand with the cutest half-metre milk bar I have ever seen in my life. Both of them are chatting away, both with fizz-pops in their other hands.” He smiles at the memory. “Wow! I thought, look how happy they are. Who am I to get in the way?”

Now I am completely lost. “What do you mean?” I hesitantly ask, scared that my question may cut his story short.

“I’ve been thinking of home-schooling Palesa. She refuses to speak a word of Xhosa and I know it is the influence of that school.”

“Oh,” I say, my bubble bursting instantly. Not this topic again.

“They were so joyful, those kids. But, you know, I couldn’t shake the feeling that they were only happy because they didn’t know. Don’t get me wrong, the school is remarkable, it really is. I think it is like one of the top hundred primary schools in the country. The opportunities those children get at that school are endless. And just by looking at Palesa, you can just see that she is such an inspired little girl with so much to offer the world. Compared to other children her age in the township, who go to black schools, she is miles ahead. And she is just so happy, you know. But, I can’t shake a certain feeling.”

I am now sorry that I have allowed this man to speak to me.

“Perhaps it is me,” he continues. “Maybe I do not know what I want. Or what I want for her. I just got so confused as I stood there at the edge of that playground, because I knew that they were happy and I was happy that they were, but listening to all those little black faces yelping away in English, unaware that they have a beautiful language at home that they will one day long for, just broke my heart.” He looks at me. The dimples are still there and he’s still smiling, but I can see in his eyes that there is a grave heaviness he feels inside.

I look away. I do not know what to say to this man and I hope that he will stop talking soon.

“Standing at the edge of that playground, I watched little spots of amber and auburn become less of what Africa dreamed of and more of what Europe thought we ought to be. Standing at the edge of that playground I saw tiny pieces of America, born on African soil. I saw a dark-skinned people refusing to be associated with the red soil, the mud huts and the glistening stone beads that they once loved.”

The train suddenly comes to a stop as he finishes that last sentence. Mphe Batho Station, the end of the line. We have finally arrived. I have never been so glad to be back. I pick up my bags and quickly get out. I do not say a word to the man, not even goodbye, not even to the little girl. No, I get out and walk home as fast as I can.

I have come to realise that many things are seldom as they seem. Sometimes what you think is your greatest obstacle turns out to be the least, and what you thought would be easy enough to conquer troubles you still.

I do not know how to make it pretty. I do not know how to mask it. It is not a piece of literary genius. It is the story of our lives. It is our story, told in our own words as we feel it every day. It is boring. It is plain. It is overdone and definitely not newsworthy. But it is the story we have to tell.

European Union

Literary Award

Rules

The European Union Literary Award is presented annually by Jacana Media and the European Union to a first, unpublished novel by a South African. Submissions must be received by 30 September. The winner of the EU Literary Award will be announced at a ceremony in Johannesburg the following March. The winner will receive R25 000 and will have his or her novel published by Jacana Media. This award is open to South African writers resident in South Africa.

What to submit:

A first, unpublished work of fiction in English (translations into English from other languages are permitted only if the work has never been published in any language).

A manuscript of between 60 000 and 100 000 words in length.

Two securely bound, typed A4 copies (1.5 space, 12 point font).

A separate one-page summary of the manuscript.

A separate one-page biography of the author with all contact details including telephone numbers and email address.

The author’s name should not appear anywhere on the manuscript.

What not to submit:

Memoirs, Short stories, History, Geography or other non-fiction books will not be considered. No drafts will be considered. Entrants are strongly advised to ensure that manuscripts are submitted in their final, publishable form. Published novelists may not enter this competition, even under pseudonyms. However, published authors of short stories, plays or poetry may enter their first novels.

Send to:

Jacana Media
EU Literary Award
PO Box 2004
Houghton
2041

No late manuscripts will be accepted.
No emailed entries will be accepted.
Manuscripts will not be returned.

The jury’s decision will be final. No correspondence will be entered into.

For further information:

Visit
www.jacana.co.za
or email
[email protected]

Previous winners of the European Union Literary Award, all available in Jacana paperback

The Silent Minaret
by Ishtiyaq Shukri

Bitches’ Brew
by Fred Khumalo

Ice in the Lungs
by Gerald Kraak

Other fiction titles by Jacana