Njunjul the Sun

by Meme McDonald

  I fold that blank sheet of paper and put it back in the study under my pillow. Won’t be long, I tell myself, I’ll have a page crammed full of what I’m up to and that envelope bulging with junga for them fullas.

  I wander out the back steps. That sun’s a lot softer down here, slanted off to one side. Makes it hard to know what part of the day you’re up to.

  I’m sitting down with another bowl of cereal. The woman downstairs’s pegging out her undies on the clothes-line. I don’t reckon she can see me pervin’ from the top of the stairs. Then she looks up. I’m gone all shame, trying to look like I’m not watching. There’s something about her undies I can’t help spying on, but. A black lacy pair, and a g-string.

  I’m hoping she’s not thinking I’m doing a job on Aunty and Uncle’s flat. I try and say something friendly. Nothing comes out but a silly little squeak. She’s giving me a smile now. Big wide smile, soft and open, and I’m realising I’m still thinking about that g-string and how it might look on her and now I’m all shame and choking on my cornflakes.

  ‘Hello,’ her voice is slow, wafting up the back steps like the smell of something yummy cooking. ‘You must be the nephew?’

  I’m nodding like a fool.

  ‘Hello, nephew. I’m Rhonda.’

  Lemon meringue pie. That’s what her voice reminds me of. That sweet tangy smell that teases you all afternoon while it’s cooking, stringing you along till it’s ready to be eaten.

  There’s a lot of things I know I could be saying, like my name and where I come from and asking her about her day. But I can’t find those words nowhere. They’re all gone hiding, leaving me sitting out here like a munyard, getting my eyes caught up on her knickers.

  Next day, I hear Uncle rushing out the door.

  ‘One day soon you gotta come out to school with me. Give me a hand dancing.’

  I’m ready to race after him. The door slams. Too late. One day soon could be a long way off.

  Same time, I’m kicking m’self. I could’ve learnt a heap of deadly dances up at Yarrie. Always seemed like next trip I’d learn more. Always next time. Now I’m down here I’m cursing I didn’t hang round those old fullas some more. Learn those dances that go way back.

  I don’t want to let m’uncle down. I don’t know how I’d feel out in front of a whole class of kids, but. I’m still a kid m’self. They’d laugh at me. Specially if I have to paint-up with nothing on but m’little judda-jah, my jocks.

  I’m not feeling too deadly ‘cause I don’t look too deadly. I got none of the right gear. But I reckon, even if I looked too deadly, I wouldn’t feel too deadly, ‘cause I’m as scared as. It’s my first day down the courts.

  Uncle and me, we walk in the gym. That male sweat sucks the breath out of you. There’re blokes down here have to duck their head when they walk under the ring, they’re that big. Being frightened makes you shrink. I reckon I shrunk real bad.

  Uncle’s stretching. I never stretched in my life. Only thing I ever stretched was the truth when I got in trouble.

  ‘You can get your black butt down here and stretch. Don’t wanna see you pulling any hammies or putting your back out ‘cause you’re not warmed up.’

  I’m following everything m’uncle does. He changes his shoes. He puts his painted-up runners on. The ones his ‘cus, my Aunty Lillian, drew all our Story animals on in blackfulla colours. My real deadly shoes are still back there, in my Dreamtime. I got no shoes to change into so I fiddle with m’laces. He leaves his laces loose. I’m loosening mine off. Then he’s shooting round warming up.

  There’s a bumping and thumping beat comes through the door. This big blackfulla, like American dude, Uncle calls him Leaping Leroy, walks in with a sound machine makes mine look like a toy. He’s a mobile radio station. Looks like he’s about to take off and drag us all to Mars. Bandanna, gold teeth, earrings . . . I never seen no one like this, not even in the movies.

  He grabs my uncle, hugs him hard, thumping his fist into his chest right over his heart, ‘Love, brother, love. Give me some love.’ My uncle’s buried under a mountain of all American black love.

  Then Leaping Leroy comes up to shake my hand. I’m not sure whether I should run for it. He’s got hold of me, but. M’hand’s disappearing up his arm, he’s pulling me in tight. He gives me a bro’ handshake goes on for that long, twisting and turning, that m’arm takes a couple of minutes to find its way back to m’body.

  Now he’s slapping some other brother just arrived, laughing, talking trash, ‘nigger’ this and ‘nigger’ that. I’m looking round for who’s hearing this. I only heard that word from the bulleymen or from people all puffed up and angry and wanting to hurt you. This big fulla Leroy, he’s not hurting no one. He’s in love with himself and the whole world. He’s turning that ‘nigger’ word right round and sitting it on its head. Nothing can bring Leaping Leroy down.

  ‘L-O-V-E, love. Love will heal the world, brother. Give us some love, man. Give it to me.’

  I’m giving all I got.

  Uncle introduces me to the whole mob of them. They all got time to shake my hand and slap me good. I feel like the new recruit.

  I never seen anyone as big as Richie Rich. He wears that many rings and chains it’s like he is the jewellery shop. The ball game’s half over before he can get all that gold off of him to walk on the court. Tell him anything and he says, ‘It’s all good.’ True. I reckon if you told him you slammed into a truck, broke both legs, and you only got a day to live, that’s what he’d say. ‘It’s all good, man.’

  Uncle points out some of the others. There’s Dray and the Landlord. ‘In the key, under the net there, is the Landlord’s apartment block. Anything that comes in the key, he throws out. The Boss, he looks like Bruce Springstein. Bobby Oh . . . whenever Bobby gets the ball everyone goes “ooohh!” Once he gets the ball he can take you in a heartbeat,’ Uncle reckons.

  ‘That fulla there, he’s the Sultan of Swat. He can jump. That ball comes anywhere near the rim he swats it, sends it to the rafters.

  ‘Only quiet one down here is the Guru. Used to be a monk. That’s a monk not a punk,’ m’uncle jokes.

  I’m looking at the Guru. He’s only a short fulla, not much taller than me. He don’t look like no legend basketballer. Uncle reckons he’s a point-guard. ‘He doesn’t say that much. When he says, you listen. The brothers call him the truth-speaker, see.’

  I’m thinking that must be some special move I’m not knowing about yet.

  After shooting around and warming up, Uncle tightens his laces. I tighten what’s left of mine. Everyone’s ready to play. Me too. I’m ready to run on.

  Uncle cuts me off. ‘You got some work to do on your own, boy. Wait here a minute till the teams are picked.’

  Everyone else starts shooting from outside the three-point line. There a bit of trash-talking in the air, trying to make people miss their shots. The first five fullas to score a basket make up the first team, next five fullas to shoot play in the second team, see.

  ‘Yo, yo, man . . .’

  ‘No, no, man . . . no.’

  ‘Give me the rock, man.

  ‘Yo, yo . . .’

  I feel like a yo-yo in no-no-man’s land! I’m thinking ‘yo’ must be somewhere between ‘yes’ and ‘no’.

  Those fullas who miss gotta sit down till the next game. No one’s wanting to sit out. Rules of the game are first team to score ten baskets wins. Team to win stays on. Losing team swaps with the fullas waiting.

  Uncle sends me over to the spare court. I’m dragging m’feet. He gives me a list of work-outs as long as m’arm, what I’ve got left of it. First some sprints up and down the court touching the baseline then the free-throw line – he calls them suicides. Then some shooting drills – left hand, right hand. Fifty jump shots from each of six positions around the key. Not in the paint, but. That’s under the hoop, the keyway that’s painted in on the floor in the shape of a key. Reckons I’m too small to be in there, in the paint. I’d take a po
unding off the big fullas if I go in there. Dribbling drills, left hand, right hand. And if I got time, hook up with some other fullas hanging loose. Shoot round, play some one-on-one . . .

  ‘Sharpen up your strengths, but work on your weaknesses, right?’

  I’m trying to look eager as. But I’m wanting to be in the game, not dribbling on the spare court. This looks more like homework than basketball. M’uncle sees my hang-dog look.

  ‘Remember, “Carry water, chop wood”. Do what you gotta do. Work on yourself. That’s what Phil Jackson, one of the greatest coaches in American basketball history, would say. That got him six championship rings with the Bulls and now two at the Lakers. Remember that.’

  I’m flat out remembering m’name I’m that stuffed. I thought basketball was meant to be fun. I take a break, panting and sweating, sitting down watching m’uncle play with the brothers.

  ‘You’re a punk, man.’

  ‘You’re a P-A-M.’

  ‘I’ll tell you who’s the punk arse mother . . .’

  ‘That was out, man.’

  ‘Kiss my black ass that was out.’

  See, everyone’s an umpire when you play pick-up. Leaping Leroy’s going off over Richie Rich’s call. I thought this was a game of L-O-V-E. Now Leroy sounds like he’s about to kick everybody’s butt over a leather ball filled with air going out of bounds. And I thought us blackfullas were crazy!

  ‘It was in, bitch! I’m not kissing your black ass, nigger.’

  Another nigg . . . I mean blackfulla said that, so that’s okay, I think. I’m trying to find my way with this trash-talk.

  Bald fulla, Ed-man, fires a dagger from way out, hits the rim hard, and shoots through the net like a knife. Next play he’s got the rock, the basketball, slices through the key and jams one. He’s shaking and baking, getting down and going crazy.

  ‘This is too easy, man. It’s too easy for me, man.’ He’s calling out at the top of his voice. ‘Give me something I can play against. You better show me some respect today, man, ‘cause I’m hot. I’m wiping the floor with you mothers, man. Someone should pay me for this!’

  The others are revving him up, yo-manning, you’re-the-man talk.

  ‘I gotta sit my black ass down.’ Ed walks off the court. ‘Give the kid a go. This is too goddamn easy.’

  I’m ready to take off on that plane, that big jumbo jet direct to Los Angeles, United States of America. The L.A. Lakers, I’m there. The crowd’s crying out for me. I’m the man.

  M’uncle steps in. ‘Next time.’

  The Guru walks over. ‘Sometimes love, it’s tough, man.’ His voice is quiet. He sits down next to me. Un-laces his runners. I’m not sure if he’s talking to me or to fresh air. The Guru, he has that way of talking he don’t seem to worry if you’re listening or getting it, he just keeps it flowing, slow and constant.

  ‘You gotta put something in before you get something out, right?’ He’s towelling himself down. ‘It’s a hard school, this game of basketball. This game of life. You get it?’

  I’m not sure what I get.

  He keeps on gathering up his things, talking. ‘It’s a test, right?’

  I worked out by now, he don’t need me to answer.

  ‘You gotta get the right mind-set before you can play the game. You gotta be a team-man.’

  He gets up.

  I’m waiting for more.

  The Guru-man walks off.

  I’m trying to figure something out from what I’ve been hearing. I never been thinking about that point-guard position. Me, I got m’mind set on flying through the air, through traffic, and throwing down some tomohawk dunks.

  4

  I couldn’t get out of it. Aunty Em’s got me on this train and we’re off to her school. She reckons it might be a bit strange at first not knowing anyone there but I’m sure to make friends. It’s not friends I’m worried about. It’s what happens in the gaps between being with your friends, like when you’re in class, from one bell to the next, sitting there being told you’re stupid for hours on end.

  We walk through the main gate. I let Aunty Em get a bit ahead. I’ve never been this side of the law before, arriving at school with a teacher. If she wasn’t m’aunty, I’d be giving her a hard time. She’s m’aunty, but, so I’m not sure what kind of time to give her. People are running up, the sucks, calling her Miss, asking her questions. She’s got that teacher-face on now. She gotta look like she’s in control or a real proper person.

  I’m waiting, looking round, feeling like a dork. I never seen so much asphalt in my entire life. Wall to wall. And bricks. Not a blade of grass in sight. I’m wondering who’s gonna be the first to pick a fight with me. Somehow I gotta keep my head from hitting that hard bitumen when they do. Wish Cedric was here. Least I’d have someone as my backstop.

  Now I’m looking closer. These fullas’re from everywhere. Blackfullas, whitefullas, brownfullas, yellowfullas, kind-of-orange-fullas, and every-other-colour-fulla in between, like fully. I wouldn’t know where half of them come from. How did they get here? Why did they come? Where’re they waiting to go to? Maybe I seen one or two look like Murri-fullas, I don’t know, but.

  Aunty Em turns, like she’s been listening to my thoughts.

  ‘Some Koori-fullas in your class. I’ll introduce you.’

  I’m glad I can hear that Aunty Em voice coming through, not that teacher-voice she’s got for those other kids.

  ‘Come with me first. We’ll get the official business out of the way.’

  I’m shaking in my boots walking up to the office. Here we o, I’m thinking. We head on in. Then I’m ooking at that sign up above the front desk. I can read ‘Welcome’, that’s it, but. I’m trying to get my head around all these other languages written up there. What is this place? The United Nations?

  I’m starting to get it. Aunty Em teaches English as a second language. That’s ‘cause no one talks the same first language. Now I’m wishing I had my language. Mine got taken away, but. Aunty Milly told me stories of how our old people got punished for speaking their language. That was in the concentration camps, the reserves they hunted us mob into when them migaloos wanted our land. If the old people did their dances, sung their songs, spoke their language, they were locked up, heads shaved, punished real bad.

  Down here, but, you can hear these kids talking their different ways all over the place. Even the asphalt looks like it’s got its own language. Makes me sad as. Gives me that death feeling like I got nothing of me left.

  This tall fulla comes bowling out of the office. I step aside, but he follows, looking at me, with his hand out, grinning up big. He’s got this hair chasing itself all over his forehead, bright ginger.

  ‘G’day.’

  Something about him makes me laugh.

  Next thing I’m sitting down in his office. I make sure Aunty Em’s sitting right there beside me. He looks friendly, but you gotta watch your arse. I chuckle remembering stale-after-shave-and-hamburger-breath on the bus. And I’m chuckling ‘cause I wasn’t expecting to land in the Principal’s office right from day one. Not to be sat down and told I was welcome. Also I’m chuckling ‘cause I’m all over the place with knowing where I really am.

  Soon as we get home, I grab Uncle’s basketball and head down to that concrete slab of court along the foreshore there in the Pavilion. I gotta get off by m’self. I gotta think through the day.

  I go through my work-outs to the sound of the sea, the salt taste on m’lips, the seagulls squawking overhead. I’m blocking out everything else. Just listening to the rhythm of the sea. Even a city as big as Sydney can’t block that out. The rhythm of the sea, the bounce of the ball, the salt, the seagulls . . .

  I am whoever I wanna be, I’m telling m’self. I can be that tall I gotta duck when I walk under that net. I can be see-through like the wind. I can be the ball, or the endless ocean, or I can fly overhead and crap on everyone.

  I go to shoot a basket. There’s no ring. It’s gone. Someone’s taken t
he ring away. That ring not being there, somehow that brings me crashing back down, two feet on the ground. Who am I kidding, I can be anything, anyone, anytime? As if! I’m a blackfulla. I can only be what other people expect me to be. And that’s nothing too great. I can’t even shoot for a hoop without someone shifting where the ring is. I’m getting m’self gooli-up.

  Then I see her out the corner of my eye. The woman next door. The one with the knickers. Oh my-god, I’m thinking about her knickers again. I try to pretend I don’t see her. Like I’m doing up m’laces and that. I sneak a look again. She’s still watching, but, smiling at me. Standing there with a load of shopping in two string bags, one hanging off each shoulder, her in the middle. Out here in the open, she looks littler than I remember her back at the flats. Sort of little and alone in a real big place.

  I’m waving before I want to, smiling up like I’m just a kid, forgetting I got m’self in that loser mood.

  ‘No net?’ Her slow voice drifts across on the sea breeze.

  ‘Nup.’ I’m not wanting to look dumb, like some idiot shooting around with no ring. Eh, good-go!

  ‘They take it into the office. You just go to the front desk and ask for it. Leave a deposit.’

  I’m thinking, seagull deposit!

  I’m bouncing the ball, dribbling. Not that way! Figure eights between m’legs. Good-go! Imagining having the guts to front up to the person in charge and ask for their ring!

  ‘If they leave the rings out,’ she puts her load of shopping down, ‘vandals break them off at night.’

  She’s settling in for a chat.

  City’s funny like that, eh? I never thought no one would bust-up on a basketball hoop. I busted-up on lots of things m’self. That basketball’s sacred, but. That’s meant to be for all us kids with bad attitudes. City fulla’s got some funny ways.