There’s been no one interesting since then, unless you count the revolting Mr Ramphalsingh, or Rumpelforeskin, as we call him, because of his diminutive height, childish temper and perverted ways. His favourite “punishment” is to run his hand down the backs of his female pupils and snap their bra straps. Even the boys in the class have grown out of this game. I tried to tell Ma about it once, but she wouldn’t believe me. “At an Indian school? You must be imagining things. You need to stop reading all those books – they’re giving you ougat ideas!”
Rukshana says I should make a voodoo doll of him and stick pins in it. I don’t know how she knows this stuff. I wish I was still at the Catholic school – I’d rather deal with crazy nuns than be at the mercy of an evil dwarf.
Hide and Seek
YIPPEE! THE JUNE HOLIDAYS ARE HERE – three teacher-free weeks and two and a half years before I’m over and done with school. Oh bliss. Oh joy. Every time I tell Salena I’d love to leave school and get a nine-to-five job so I can be free to pursue the really important things in life (like eating lip-smacking food and reading till the early hours of the morning) she looks at me in horror. Like I’ve suggested we hack Ma to pieces and bury the chunks in the back garden with Tommy-Tiger and Ginger and those comics Faruk-Paruk used to stash in the ground like family skeletons. I’m glad that he and that annoying wife of his have finally run off to Australia.
I’m spending a few days with Salena and the boys because Zain is away on business. Of course I’d never sleep over if Zain were at home. He reminds me of a cross between Rumpelforeskin and a zombie. Last Eid, when Ma and I came over for lunch, his entire extended family was there, and he kept introducing me to his repulsive relatives as his second wife. Not even the vomiting noises I made put him off. He’s disgusting.
The boys and I are playing hide and seek in the garden. They’re supposed to be hiding, although I can clearly hear their whispers from where they’re crouching behind the stump of the loquat tree. I can’t understand why Salena had the tree chopped down – I used to love picking off the loquats, still warm from the sun, and popping them into my mouth. Like eating bread straight from the oven.
Raqim’s black cat Peanut Butter and I are meant to be looking for the boys, or pretending to look, but we’re both too lazy to get up from the swing. Actually Peanut’s the real reason I can’t get up. He’s washing himself and it’s rude to interrupt someone at their ablutions, especially if that someone is a cat. Cats are very particular about cleanliness, like Salena. One of my favourite stories from madressa is about the Prophet (Peace-be-upon-Him), a cat-lover, who, legend has it, cut away a piece of his clothing so that he would not have to disturb his cat, Muezza, who was napping on a part of his robe.
I’m conducting an experiment to see how clean cats are. Each time Peanut’s done licking and sucking at one pristine paw and moved on to the next, I stroke the recently cleansed paw. Immediately he stops washing the one he’s busy with and resumes licking the other. To get rid of my scent. I’ve seen Salena do a very similar thing: clean her bathroom, then shower, and then after that, clean her bathroom again. But I must stop torturing the cat. I can see two pairs of boy-eyes watching me. Ready or not, here I come!
Goodbye Rumpelforeskin
I CAN’T BELIEVE I’M ALREADY IN MATRIC. It’s strange: I can remember the fluffy duck I used to play with when I was three and the first time I sat in a black-tyre swing, but I can’t remember most of high school. It’s as if I’ve been asleep and am waking up a few years later from a dull dream.
Aren’t your teenage years supposed to be the best years of your life? I go from home to school to the library to home to school, and my greatest thrill is the weekly trip to the new shopping mall and its sweet-smelling shiny bookstore. I’ve discovered all sorts of women writers that I never knew existed, and who don’t write about love affairs and marriage and children. Two of my classmates have dropped out of school because of unplanned pregnancies. Of course the new daddies don’t have to leave school; they walk around with a swagger, like they’ve accomplished something.
I can’t imagine wanting to touch a boy’s body. Most of the boys in my school look like they bath on special occasions only. Some of them have brought dagga to school, but the thought of having to pay money to swallow smoke seems absurd to me. I’d rather spend my pocket money on books.
Getting up each morning for school is like watching the same horror movie over and over. Monday mornings are particularly gruesome, and they begin on Sunday afternoons as the weak Sunday light seeps away to make way for the new school week.
I can’t wait to leave this school, especially to see the backs of certain teachers, like the hateful Mr Rumpelforeskin, who’s become a whole lot worse this year. He’s really losing it now: he stinks of alcohol all the time. And he’s added a new dimension to his favourite punishment. Now, when he snaps our bras, he sticks his frosty parchment hands right down the inside of our school dresses, poking our skin with his bony knuckles as he hunts for the strap.
Why do we put up with it? We’re almost grown up. But when he sidles closer, it’s as though we’ve been turned to stone, immobile and without tongues. One day I tell him to fuck off, but he seems to find that a real turn on, and I get singled out two days in a row. At the end of the second lesson he tells the class we have to come in the next day for extra lessons, even though it is Saturday.
I oversleep that morning, so Ma drops me off and, because it is raining, she gives me one of Papa’s old umbrellas to use when I walk home. I open the classroom door and look into the faces of my classmates, who are wearing identical expressions of horror and amusement.
Rumpelforeskin is standing at the head of the class as usual and, as usual, he is wearing his white lab coat, like the GP he will never be, but today it’s open … and there’s nothing underneath it! He is naked, displaying an anorexic abdomen and grinning like a demented gnome, exhibiting an obscene caterpillar of a penis swaying in a patch of pubic hair. He appears to be discussing the periodic table, and is oblivious to his audience.
I stand on the threshold of the classroom. It is a Saturday morning; I should be exploring the bookshop’s shelves while Ma is at the shop next door buying expensive foundation several shades too light for her. Instead, here I am being scarred for life. This is not right. I walk out of the classroom, and when I get home I tell Ma the teacher was sick, which is the truth, if not the whole truth.
It seems my madressa teacher was right after all: it is important that people have honourable names with beautiful meanings. Mr R was simply living up to his sleazy nickname. I wonder if that means I’m going to be an astronaut.
On Monday I hear the rest of the tale. Rumpelforeskin went on teaching until one of the boys, whose house is across the road from school, got fed-up and went to fetch his father, who promptly called the principal and the cops. The next day we have a new teacher, Miss Roberts. I never see Rumpelforeskin again, but from time to time he visits my nightmares.
Makeovers
I’M AT VARSITY AND EVERYTHING AND NOTHING HAS CHANGED. I’m majoring in history because I have this vague idea that I’d like to become a teacher to compensate for all the rotten ones I had at school. Still, I’m not entirely satisfied with the idea of teaching as a career; I don’t feel grown up enough to make any solid decision yet. Perhaps it would help if Ma showed an interest in my studies, but she’s made it abundantly clear that she’s prepared to fund my stay at varsity provided I make sure that somewhere along the line I bring home a doctor, or a dentist (I don’t have the heart to tell her there’s no dentistry faculty on this campus), or at the very least a pharmacist. Occasionally when she pisses me off I imagine bringing home a nice dark-haired Jewish doctor-to-be, who is deeply involved in the struggle and who likes darkies as Ma says.
Rukshana and I have met up again, although there’s a certain distance between us now. The five years apart have changed us, and she’s studying art and drama, which means she’s on a different
campus. We do meet up for English lectures, and we still have that ability to communicate without words, but the bond is not the same. She says it’s because she’s openly gay and I’m uncomfortable with that, but I don’t think that’s it. I tell her my hormones haven’t kicked in yet and she rolls her eyes at me and offers to give me a biology lesson with a mirror, which makes us both cry with laughter, remembering how our madressa teacher once solemnly told a group of us twelve-year-old girls that if a husband looks at his wife’s naked body during intercourse any child they conceived would be born blind.
Rukshana and another friend of hers, Maria, who is Greek and comes from a background as bubble-like as ours, see me as their pet project. They’ve forced me to free my hair, which for years I kept in a fish plait hanging down my back. Now I wear it loose, its abundant curls floating around me like a permanent cloak. I get stopped by white girls all the time to ask me where I had my perm done. I say Rylands, and they look back at me blankly.
Every Friday afternoon Ruks and Maria take me shopping in Claremont. I walk into the change room in my shapeless tracksuit pants and overlarge T-shirt and come out wearing slinky tops, tight little skirts and high heels that make walking impossible. They sing my praises and applaud. I tell them my rule is to never wear shoes you can’t run in, and that goes for clothes too. We settle on shoes with flat heels and designer jeans with fitted shirts.
I admit to liking our forays into the make-up department more. They take me for facials, and my skin, of which Ma has always made me feel ashamed, glows. My eyebrows are plucked into perky curves, and I lose my moustache. I’m not an artist like Ruks, but I discover a knack for painting my face in the latest fashionable colours, and my lips, which I’ve been biting to make them smaller since Faruk-Paruk first told me they looked like sausages, become permanently stained in red.
When I go back to the house, silent except for Mr Humperdinck serenading Ma, there is no one to talk to about my week, or about the new me in the mirror. I don’t know what Ma does during the week, but her weekend social life is restricted to our shopping-mall forays and Sunday-morning visits to Polla-the-Prune and lunch with Salena. The Prune never fails to mention that at my age she was married, and I never fail to ask her about her husband. Sometimes she pretends he’s still living with her, but everyone knows about his new wife and their five children.
Every Sunday Salena cooks us a magnificent meal, including a vegetarian dish for me. I think she’s on drugs: she wears the same serene expression of the Mona Lisa, and we hardly talk at all, unless it’s about her sons.
In the late afternoon, while Zain naps, Ma and Salena drink tea together and the boys and I play in the garden. They catch frogs and spiders and put them in glass jars, and I pretend to eat them, before we let them free.
Potato Curry
2 tbsp oil
1 tsp cumin seeds
½ tsp mustard seeds
1 onion, finely chopped
1 tomato, finely chopped
½ tsp turmeric
1 tsp powdered dhania
½ tsp crushed garlic
½ tsp crushed ginger
1 green chilli, chopped
4 medium potatoes, peeled and cubed
salt to taste
1 cup water
finely chopped dhania leaves for garnish
Heat 1 tablespoon of oil in a pan and fry the cumin and mustard seeds. In a separate pot, fry the onions in the rest of the oil until golden brown, then add the tomato and cook until soft. If the mixture gets dry, you may need to add some water.
Add the fried cumin and mustard seeds plus the turmeric, powdered dhania, garlic, ginger, chopped chilli and salt. Mix in the cubed potatoes and water. Cook on a low heat until the potatoes are soft. Garnish with dhania leaves. A great dish for herbivores like me.
Promises, Promises
I wanted my golden ball. He said he could get it for me, if I rewarded him. I thought he would ask for a jar of flies that I could get a palace servant to collect for him. But Mr Froggy had aspirations. He wanted to eat from my golden plate, drink from my golden cup and sleep next to my golden limbs. It was horrific.
Daddy told me I’d made an oath, and I’d better honour it the way a true princess would (unlike Mom, who broke their marriage vows to run away with my governess).
But I knew what Daddy was thinking. If Mr Froggy could talk, he was probably a prince under a spell. Daddy imagined that if I helped free Mr Froggy from the spell, we would be obliged to marry. Daddy would be rid of me: no more memories of my mother.
No way was I travelling on a guilt trip of Daddy’s plotting. A few hurriedly spoken words didn’t constitute a verbal agreement, as far as I was concerned. Besides, there were no witnesses. I would not be bound to some slimy green creature that couldn’t let an insect flutter by without unravelling its tongue to taste it. He revolted me. I didn’t want to marry this amphibian; I didn’t want his tadpoles swimming in my clean body every night. I thought of my cat Fluffy, overindulged, heavy with too much cream and her latest litter. She’d eat anything that didn’t move.
That night, when Mr Froggy was asleep on my golden pillow, I sprinkled some of Fluffy’s golden food pellets over his sleeping form and placed him on the pillow before her cat basket. One greedy gulp, a few chews, and bye-bye Mr Froggy. As painless a passing as I could arrange – I’m not cruel or vindictive. Just a bit self-centred.
Daddy woke us up as the sun threw its golden gaze into my palatial bedroom. I was exhausted. Fluffy had kept me up most of the night, meowing and coughing with indigestion. Daddy searched everywhere for Mr Froggy, to no avail. He frowned at me; I shrugged and began filing Fluffy’s nails. He was suspicious, but of what could he accuse me?
Then it was my turn to remind Daddy of his agreement with me. The one he’d made on paper.
Next week Fluffy and I are off on a world tour. I’ve always dreamt of travelling – perhaps I’ll even look up Mother, now that I’m of legal age and Daddy can’t keep us apart any longer.
Macbeth
FINAL EXAMS ARE FINISHED. I’m the proud owner of a bachelor’s degree, and I still have no idea what I want to do when I grow up. Rukshana has a job in an advertising agency. I’m a bit envious that she’s earning a salary while I’m still Ma’s dependant. I’ve decided not to study further for fear of living in books forever, so instead I’ve volunteered to teach English literature in a high-school enrichment programme in the Cape Flats, just for a year. It will help me decide if I want to go into teaching, and I’ll be doing something useful for a change.
Ma’s pissed off because I brought home a degree without a doctor-husband attached to it. She keeps muttering about the girls in our extended family who are as old as I am and have babies already, blah blah blah. She’s not keen on my volunteer work because I’m unlikely to meet her dream-doctor in a township, but she’s bought me a car and is paying for driving lessons. I’ve tried to convince Salena to join me in driving lessons; but she says her husband wouldn’t want her to drive.
My job is simple enough: teach Macbeth to five classes of Standard Eights, in one-hour slots. Basically the same lesson five times a day to five different classes – but it’s not as dull as it sounds.
Of course it helps that Macbeth is filled with murder and witches and blood that won’t wash out, and the classes love it when I read them fairytales involving witches; the gorier the better.
One day during the June holidays I’m driving in the city on my way to visit Ruks at her work, and I hear a pedestrian screaming at me through the slow rain, “Macbeth, Macbeth”, and it’s one of my students. Fame at last.
Growing Up
I’M MOODY AND MISERABLE. Teaching is over for the year. Although it’s only October, it’s time for examinations, and the real teachers have taken over. I’ve loved Macbeth, but I’ve decided I don’t want to make teaching my career. I’m restless, with an energy that has no outlet. Then I get a letter from Papa’s sister in England. Aunty Anjum and her family
moved there after they were kicked out of Kenya. Her correspondence has always been erratic, but somehow this letter seems like an answer to an unspoken prayer.
I practise the words for days, then mention to Ma as casually as possible, “Why don’t I visit Papa’s sister for a few months?” Ma frowns and says she’ll think about it. I’m surprised I don’t get her barely-there raised eyebrows, which she never needs to pluck. I know what she’s thinking: the girl can’t find a doctor-husband in Cape Town, maybe she’ll meet a nice Indian boy in London. She calls up Aunty Anjum and they plot together.
I apply for a passport with some truly horrific photographs. Ma takes me shopping for winter clothes: thermal undies and socks, a new jacket. I feel like I’m five years old. Afterwards we drink coffee together and she tells me she might sell the house now that I’m gone, get something smaller. Has she realised I don’t plan on coming back? Is she giving me permission to leave her forever? Is Ma growing up?
That December she sees me off at the airport, reminding me to be a good girl and not to bring shame on the family. Translation: Don’t have sex, and if you do, don’t get pregnant. Muslim mothers protect the hymen with the same energy conservationists use to protect endangered species. She reminds me to honour her; she tells me that according to the Quran, my heaven lies under her feet. I smile and nod agreeably, like I’m Salena. I’m afraid she may change her mind and hold on to my ticket. She touches my curls, tells me I can still have my hair straightened, even in London. Then she pats my cheek and says that at least I won’t see the sun for a while.
Not a Fairytale Page 4
