Coconut (5 page)

…Nkano

We remember the story of the Green Apples and
Pears.

…Nkano

How great it was to be a Green Apple. How unfortunate
to be a Pear.

…Nkano

“But are they all not fruit?” you ask.

…Nkano

Yes indeed.

…Nkano

But these, sadly, are the ways of our world.

…Nkano

We remember that then it was thought that there was
no reason for them to grow on separate trees.

…Nkano

They were so similar and yet so different.

…Nkano

How beautiful it was to see one grow alongside
another.

…Nkano

But the Green Apples grew bold,

…Nkano

while the Pears were unaware.

…Nkano

The Green Apples grew proud,

…Nkano

while the Pears were unaware.

Nkano

The Green Apples grew evil thoughts,

…Nkano

while the Pears were unaware.

…Nkano

It was only after much growing had been done that
the Pears awoke.

…Nkano

Of course, we will all appreciate that by then it was
too late.

…Nkano

We recall how many Pears were found smashed against
the stony earth.

…Nkano

We recall their stems bent and broken.

…Nkano

We remember the deep bruising, the ruptured flesh,
the oozing.

…Nkano

But worse, we remember those Pears that lay in the
dirt and did not bruise or ooze at all.

…Nkano

We cried for those Pears,

…Nkano

we cried because we knew that those were the young,
whose flesh had never reached ripening, but had been
yanked off the tree all the same by the bold, proud and
evil Green Apples.

…Nkano

“But are they all not fruit,” you cry, “of the same
tree?”

…Nkano

Yes indeed.

…Nkano

But these, sadly, are the ways of our world.

…Nkano

But do we recall?

…Nkano

The day a Pear tore off a Pear from the Green Apple
and Pear tree and threw it against a rock?

…Nkano

We had been told that this Pear had developed
differently, without the long neck that was common to
Pears, and with a fuller and rounder lower body.

…Nkano

Of course, this was nothing new to us or to the Pears
and perhaps to some of the Green Apples, for fruit
often took on strange forms.

…Nkano

When the Pear tore off a Pear from the Green Apple
and Pear tree and threw it against a rock, there grew a
wild commotion in the tree.

…Nkano

The women wailed and the men swore to capture and
kill the traitor Pear. For who had ever heard of such a
thing? A fruit attacking one of its own?

…Nkano

We will appreciate that things were a lot quieter then.

…Nkano

And these things we could hear with our own ears.

…Nkano

The traitor Pear, sensing his life was in danger, ran
before the king of the Green Apples and begged for
his protection.

…Nkano

“I am a Green Apple, my King,” the Pear pleaded.

…Nkano

“Do I possess the long neck that is common to those
worthless Pears and their raindrop-shaped body? No,
my King. I am a Green Apple, born from and raised by
a Green Apple. I only killed that Pear to help rid our
tree of those parasitic Pears. Please, my King, grant me
your protection.”

…Nkano

And so a Pear became a Green Apple.

…Nkano

Ah, it is the workings of the world,

…Nkano

that things will grow.

…Nkano

And grow they did.

…Nkano

With time the traitor Pear grew the neck that was
common to Pears.

…Nkano

But the traitor Pear was unaware.

…Nkano

With time the traitor Pear grew a raindrop-shaped
lower body that was common to the Pears.

…Nkano

But the traitor Pear was unaware.

…Nkano

We remember the day,

…Nkano

because it was after that day that it was thought better
that Pears and Green Apples should grow on separate
trees.

…Nkano

We remember the day,

…Nkano

because the sky was clearer than it had ever been.

…Nkano

It was on this day that the traitor Pear decided, with
the sky being so clear and all, that he would go out
and sun himself, before the world awoke and work
had to be done.

…Nkano

What an unfortunate notion.

…Nkano

It was on this day, when the sky was clearer than it
had ever been, that the Pear, sitting out in the sun, his
neck grown long, his lower body raindrop-shaped,
was thought to be a Pear.

…Nkano

And of course, it being so early, he had not yet had
the chance to rub his skin against the leaves to make it
shine like that of a Green Apple.

…Nkano

And of course he, being a Green Apple for so long, had
forgotten to be careful.

…Nkano

Why, he was so close to the other Green Apples,
having proved himself through numerous dead Pears,
that he believed for sure that the Green Apples saw
him as one of their own.

…Nkano

What an unfortunate notion.

…Nkano

The traitor Pear, sitting out in the sun, looking up at a
clear sky, unaware of a few Green Apples drawing closer,
his neck grown long, his lower body raindrop-shaped,
was yanked off the tree and thrown against a rock.
…Nkano

Just like any other Pear.

…Nkano

This is where the story ends.

As Daddy hands our payment over to Fikile, who stands impatiently at the edge of our table, I wonder if anybody has ever told her this story.

Belinda’s parents had a waterbed in their bedroom. It was a drab room with poor ventilation and an unusually low ceiling. The striped navy-blue and cream wallpaper was peeling off, revealing pretty pink tulips beneath, stuck there by a previous family. It seemed the sun, like Father Christmas and my house, preferred not to enter this house.

I hated being indoors at Belinda’s. My clothing always managed to collect dog hair from everything I made sure I did not touch, and although I didn’t mind it as much as I minded the smell, I knew Mama would shout at me for bringing ‘that filth!’ home again. The Johnsons lived on a large plot in Randjiesfontein. When the sun was outside the door and high, Belinda and I would roam the garden searching for four-leafed clovers that Belinda said would bring us good luck if we chewed them. When I told Mama about our clover-leaf lunch – which tasted of dog urine – she was horrified, that it was to be expected from these people to attempt to poison her only daughter, and after making me gargle with Anti-Germ, Mama threatened to prohibit me from visiting Belinda again if I ever accepted any kind of food from the Johnsons.

I knew that Mama was serious, but I actively partook in all the Johnson family feasts anyway. From asparagus quiche to cabbage sandwiches, I ate it all. I liked Belinda and her queer family even if they did have a peculiar palate. Mrs Conradie had seated Belinda and me together in grade three and we had been Best Friends Forever and Ever, ever since. On rainy days Belinda’s mother would lay out newspapers and give us a scrap piece of canvas to colour with Belinda’s finger-paints. We would lie on the floor of the Johnson’s studio, swinging our legs in the air and painting mermaids and unicorns while Belinda’s mother sat at her wooden table sketching stuffed birds.

I remember when Belinda’s mother kicked us out of the studio for giving her a migraine. I did not ask Belinda what a migraine was, because Belinda liked to think she knew everything. Belinda’s father was outside setting bird traps when we got on our knees and discreetly crawled into Belinda’s parents’ bedroom at the end of the narrow passage. The microscopic grey and white television was on the Oprah Winfrey show. I remember the guests on the show were teaching Oprah the Night Train Jive. Belinda and I rolled around the floor in stitches as Oprah and her guests formed a train and jiggled around the room going ‘oh-ah’ to the Night Train theme song. Jumping onto the waterbed, we too formed our own two-man train, going ‘oh-ah’ until Belinda’s mother kicked us out of the house into the rain, laughing.

When I spot Belinda and her father coming out of The Bread Lady across from Silver Spoon, I change direction and enter the pharmacy on my right. I suppress the twinge of guilt that threatens to knot my stomach. Belinda will not be thrilled to see me either, I tell myself.

After-Sun. Bikini. Ballet. Barbie and Ken. Cruise. Disneyland. Disco. Diamonds and Pearls. Easter Egg.

Fettuccine. Frappé. Fork and Knife. Gymnastics. Horse Riding. Horticulture. House in the Hills. Indoor Cricket. Jungle Gym. Jacuzzi. Jumping Jacks and Flip Flacks. Khaki. Lock. Loiter. Looks like Trouble. Maid. Native. Nameless.

No, not me, Madam. Napoleon. Ocean. Overthrow. Occupy and Rule. Palace. Quantity. Quantify. Queen of England. Red. Sunscreen. Suntan. Sex on the Beach. Tinkerbell. Unicorn. Oopsy daisy. Unwrap them all at once! Video Games. World Wide Web. Wireless Connection. Xmas. Yoga. Yo-yo Diet. You, You and You. Zero guilt.

Tshepo reckons that it is inevitable that one’s circle of friends will become smaller as one grows older. He reasons that when we begin we are similar, like two glasses of water sitting side by side on a clean tray. There is very little that differentiates us. We are simple beings whose interests do not extend beyond playing touch and kicking balls.

However, like the two glasses of water forgotten on a tray in the reading room, we start to collect bits. Bits of fluff, bits of a broken beetle wing, bits of bread, bits of pollen, bits of shed epithelial cells, bits of hair, bits of toilet paper, bits of airborne fungal organisms, bits of bits. All sorts of bits. No two combinations the same. Just like with the glasses of water, Environment, jealous of our fundamentality, bombards our basic minds with complexity. So we become frighteningly dissimilar, until there is very little that holds us together.

“Who are you, Ofilwe? You do not know who you are.”

“Oh and I suppose you do. You have me all figured out. Right? You have all the answers. What is it that you want from me, Tshepo? What is it that you would like me to do? Burn their photos? Tear up their letters? Act as if I never knew them? Oh, and to make it really authentic, maybe I should pretend that I cannot swim, Tshepo. Like you do. What a marvellous idea! That, right there, would make me real: prove to you, dear brother, and the whole wide world that I know who I am.”

“Are you not tired, Ofilwe?”

“I am tired of you, Tshepo.”

“When will it be enough? When will you realise that they only invite you when Tamara and Candice cannot make it? When there is an extra seat? When will you realise that the parents permit it because their children find you cute?”