Njunjul the Sun

by Meme McDonald

  I’m checking she’s watching m’moves. Part of me wants to show off. Part of me wants to make sure I don’t make a fool of m’self. Part of me wants to make her feel like I’m her friend and she’s the same for me. Part of me tells me I’m a munyard for wanting to do anything.

  ‘You walking home?’

  She stops me in my tracks. I just stand here, holding the rock between m’hands, staring back, thinking walking home is not what I thought I was doing.

  ‘Yeah.’

  Why did I say that?

  Saturday morning, we got no milk. I go back to bed and think about things.

  The whole block of flats was partying till late. Loud music. In and out of each other’s flats. Strangers wandering through.

  Rhonda, I remember her name now, well, Rhonda the woman in the flat downstairs, she showed me her place. Says she’s a student or something. Not at school or nothing.She’s too old for school. Talked this science to me. About the planets and the universe and black holes and plants and how we breathe in what they breathe out and they breathe in what we breathe . . .

  We sat on her couch for hours. I was into it, ‘specially that stuff about the sky. Aunty Milly could’ve been talking about that. She might be looking up, seeing me as a planet like Venus with a halo of gases, or big Pluto right out there on the edge, or she could be seeing me as a black hole! Eh, good-go! That’s rude!

  Rhonda showed me photos of the pets she’s had. Three-legged dogs, birds with no feathers, cats with no tail . . . She even makes friends with rats and cockroaches.

  ‘If you’re serious about protecting life, then rats and mice and cockroaches are part of the cycle of all living things. If you kill them then you can’t call yourself a pacifist.’

  I’m wondering if pacifist was something to do with the Pacific Ocean or whales.

  ‘Or an environmentalist,’ says Rhonda.

  I’m knowing that’s a greenie. I follow what she’s saying. I just never had my thoughts shifted around this way before. She’s telling me that’s the way traditional blackfullas think. I’m not knowing if she’s meaning me or not. I’m agreeing with her theory, but somehow I don’t get what she’s talking about. My Aunty Milly, when she tells me stuff about the way the world is, I get it. Aunty, she don’t have theories thatmuch, but. She don’t call us paci . . . whatevers or nothing. She just tells it like it’s always been.

  Last night, sitting on that jalbu’s couch, nothing seemed to matter that much, but. Mostly, I was wanting to be close to her, this Rhonda. Close to that warm smell of lemon meringue. Sinking into that slow, soft voice of hers.

  I’m lying flat on m’back waiting for the day to happen. Everyone’s sleeping in. I can hear those city noises out on the street. Traffic screeching. People yelling. None of it for me.

  I’ve not been catching m’thoughts wandering back home. They musta been, but, ‘cause now I got this deadweight feeling in m’belly. Hits you when you least expect it, that missing everyone, homesick feeling. I got it that bad I’m even missing myself.

  Sometimes I get that slack feeling. I’m happy to lay back and do nothing, just chill. This feeling is an ache, but. Like a bellyful of longing for that place means home. For saltwater. For that feeling of home-dirt under your feet. For the smell of smoke when that fire lights up as the sun goes down. For that same old food tastes of home. For those faces that know who you are without you having to do or say nothing.

  Aunty Em comes out. Walks past in a daze. Checks the fridge. Slams the door shut. Goes back to the bedroom. Aunty shocks me back to here, where I am. She got thoseno-clothes on. She not even covering up when she walks by. Maybe I’m not here. Maybe I’m missing home that bad I’ve gone see-through.

  ‘Just give us ten more minutes.’ I hear Uncle roll over in bed, moaning.

  ‘Ten more minutes could mean half the day with you and bed. I’m starving,’ Aunty’s groaning.

  My belly’s roaming. I can’t take it. I gotta do something. If I keep on laying here I’m gonna be gone, don’t exist no more, sunk into the same pattern as the sofa-bed. City makes you feel like that. Like you’re nothing. I gotta get myself moving, walk away from that sick feeling of being somewhere you can’t see your own self.

  I can’t get myself moving, but. Next thing, I hear the rattling of keys, Uncle’s feet on the floor. M’feet swing over the side of the sofa, m’body sits up, m’shorts pull on, and I’m there at the door, going somewhere, anywhere.

  ‘Can I come?’

  Uncle nods. He’s not talking up that much. Still half asleep. It don’t matter.

  We jump in the powder-blue. That sound of engine settles my belly down. Wheels turn, pulling away from the curb, houses slide by, we’re moving. I’m sitting in the front seat of a Mercedes Benz, like flash as, like rich-fulla’s car. I could be someone important. I’m with m’uncle. I am important. We’re only going around the corner for some milk. Who cares? Could’ve probably walked. You see me complaining? No way. Me, I’m wrapped to be cruising, like fully.

  We pull in next to the corner shop. Heaps of people looking at us now. I offer to go in. Uncle says he will. I’m cool with that. Gives me more chance to gammin’ being rich and famous. Shades on, laid back, feeling good, singing up. Na na na na na, like I knew that I would now.

  Eh, look-out! Uncle’s back. I sit up. He’s got his arms full. Paper, milk, bread . . . He’s fumbling with the door. It’s jammin’. I try to push from the inside. Uncle’s pulling hard with both hands. The door busts open. Well, she can’t be perfect. She’s a Murri-fulla’s car, not a bloomin’ miracle.

  Uncle gets in. Slips me a whole heap of change to put in m’pocket. Turns the key. Engine purrs. Slides her into gear. Accelerates. We’re cruisin’ again. What could be better? Sun streaming down, heads turning, us grinning up stupid on the inside, chillin’ on the outside . . .

  We come to this stop sign. Uncle looks to his right. I look right. I’m about to look left. Uncle don’t look left or right, but. He’s frozen, staring straight ahead. Then I see it. Bulleymen car, black mariah.

  ‘Uh oh.’

  Uncle’s stuck. He don’t move. He’s mumbling to himself, checking. ‘Seat belt’s on . . . not blowing no smoke . . . registered . . . got m’receipts to prove I didn’t nick the car . . . definitely got m’licence . . . not bombed up . . .’

  That bulleymen’s car turns left at the corner and cruises right up to us, slows down, stops, middle of the road. A flash of blue light, quick burst of the siren to get our attention. As if we weren’t watching! Just ‘cause we’re both staring straight ahead don’t mean we’re not watching when a bulleyman pulls up right next to you.

  Uncle’s getting gooli-up now, cursing under his breath. ‘What do these bastards want now? Two hundred years they’ve been getting stuck into us. Can’t they just leave us blackfullas alone. Always pulling us over for something. Picking on us just ‘cause we’re black!’

  One look at that bulleyman uniform and I break into a sweat. Across m’forehead, m’palms, down m’back. I thought it’d be different down here.

  We’re still staring straight ahead. That bulleyman’s taking his time. He winds down his window, slow.

  Uncle turns, faces up to him, smiles, real polite-face. No way I’m looking at no bulleyman in the face, but.

  M’uncle leans out the window, ‘Yes, officer. What can I do for you today, then?’

  Good-go! M’uncle’s sounding like a whitefulla now.

  The officer leans out and points to the top of the car. Real polite, true.

  ‘Ah, sir, you have a carton of milk on your roof.’

  ‘Eh, look-out!’ M’uncle’s feeling round on top of the roof for the carton of milk.

  I’m thinking, geez, can you get arrested for that down here? I thought them bulleymen were bad up home!

  ‘. . . thanks . . . thanks, officer . . .’ Uncle’s stumbling up on his words, whispering under his breath, ‘Shame job.’ He grabs the milk, throws it onto m’lap, waves to
the bulleyman, stalls the car. We kangaroo hop through the intersection, splutter up the road, not game to laugh at ourselves till we get home.

  Aunty Em’s down on the floor all tangled up. I’m thinking maybe she hurt herself or lost something. I’m getting down to help her.

  ‘You want to join in?’

  I’m not getting what’s she’s asking. She’s got her moyu stuck in the air and I’m thinking this is something I shouldn’t be looking at. I’m feeling shame as. Maybe I’m watching some women’s business stuff.

  ‘Yoga?’

  Uncle’s laughing up, ‘Go on, get down there, have a go.’

  I’m thinking, good-go!

  Uncle’s putting the kettle on. ‘It’s good for you. Stretching. Good for basketball. Makes you flexible.’

  ‘You show him how,’ Aunty’s calling out to Uncle, her head poking out between her legs. I’m not looking, but.

  ‘I done mine,’ Uncle’s got this sly grin on his face, ‘before any of you slack fullas got up!’

  The kettle’s boiling. We sit out the back in the sun. I reckon before we’ve even finished up our first cup of tea, that bulleyman story’s gone halfway round the flats.

  Saturdays everyone hangs out. Rhonda hears us shiakking. She’s come out for a cuppa. I’m gone all shy.

  Uncle Garth tells the one about cus’, cousin Greggie boy. He’s m’uncle. He came down south and played some real good football. He was earning stacks of money, like fully. Sent a packet up to Aunty, his mum. She had this old bomb, rickety as. Traditional blackfulla car with dints and rust, see. The kinda car you gotta have a big mob riding in case he stops, and you need that mob to push start ‘im. That is, if there’s no bulleymen around!

  Everyone’s listening up to Uncle Garth. Smoko and Maori Mick come in from next door. Uncle’s building up that story good.

  ‘So, Aunty goes and buys a brand new car. Real deadly one. Radio, no rust, four doors open, windscreen wipers work, you can even wind the window down, and back up. When you driving, feels like you’re floating on a feather. You don’t feel no bumps. Even big potholes, he just cruise over.

  ‘But no-good, Aunty had to get rid of that car. Bulleymen keep pulling her up all the time. “Where did you get this car, madam?” Like she stole it or something.

  ‘She ended up selling that new car, going back to the old one. We in the back feeling those bumps on the road again. She reckons, “Better to feel them bumps in the road instead of them bulleymen bumps in your head.” ’

  We’re all laughing up. Uncle’s repeating the line about the bumps in the head. Those Maori-fullas on for a good story. Rest of the morning we just sit around, cups of tea, dunking biscuits, yarning up. Those stories make me feel like my insides are starting to thaw. I stretch out, find a patch of city sun to soak in.

  Rhonda, she sits down next to me and rolls a smoke. She reckons she liked us yarning last night. She’s not big on parties and it was good to have someone to sit down with.

  I’m nodding. ‘True?’

  If I didn’t know she’s old enough to be my aunty, I’d be thinking she was making a line for me.

  She’s asking me how I’m finding the city.

  ‘Feels like I’m still arriving.’ I’m telling her about the basketball. Her eyes are sparkling, like she doesn’t think I’m silly wanting to be a legend. And I’m telling her about school and not knowing no one and not wanting to go there. And she doesn’t try to tell me it’ll be good for me. So, I’m telling her some more.

  ‘I’ll take you down the market.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  I’m not sure what I’m saying yeah to. I’m not sure what market or where. I’m feeling like she’s the closest thing I got to a friend, but.

  ‘Let’s go.’

  ‘What, now?’

  ‘Better go now or it’ll be closed. Get your gear.’

  Aunty Em gives me that teacher-look. Like ‘don’t go getting yourself into trouble’.

  Uncle’s telling more stories to the Maori mob.

  Rhonda gets up, laughing at Aunty Em. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll look after him.’

  I’m hearing Aunty mutter something, not sure what. I’m getting ready, but. Standing up tall, trying to make out I know how to look after myself, thanks.

  Uncle grabs me on the way out. Hands me some junga. I know he’s looking out for me.

  5

  I’ve never seen a place like the markets. Mountains of fresh fruit, vegies, cheeses that stink like your dirty socks, chooks caged-in next door to undies and overcoats, wild birds crapping and flapping right beside those tight little organic apples. Never knew that word ‘organic’ means ‘natural’. I was thinking it might be something rude. Good-go, organic just means no way it’s been cheating. Not like those other kind of fruit and vegies, the cheating ones that use drugs, steroids and stuff, to pump themselves up bigger and shinier to suck you in. Rhonda reckons if they can test Olympic athletes for drugs, they should be out testing what the rest of us are eating on our apples that we don’t even know about. I’m wondering how you swab an apple?

  There’s people yelling from all directions. I’m thinking I done something wrong, they’re yelling that fierce. Slowly, I’m getting that’s just the city way of selling. I’m looking at those mangoes. No way I’d be game to front up and buy one, but. Might get m’self busted up. We knock ‘em off the trees up home, mangoes. Many as you can eat. Down here they’re selling ‘em for gold.

  Rhonda, she cruises, calm, sort of glazed look on her face like the rest of the sea of people getting yelled at. I’m following close. Too close sometimes. I’m bumping into her, the crowd squashing me up against her back. I’m real shame at first noticing how warm and smooth she feels under that thin patterned dress. And her butt all bouncy.

  But then I’m pushed and shoved and having to watch out for my own butt, that excited I’m not knowing which way I’m headed. I got eyes going all over the place, checking out, wondering where I’m headed and which way is home.

  Rhonda stops every time she comes across a cage. Might be kitten, might be baby chicks, might be those goldfish swimming about waving their fancy fins. If it’s alive she’s there kissing the glass, cooing at pigeons, sticking her finger through the wire cage to touch a ball of yellow chicken-fluff. I’m looking round, shame. She drags me over, wanting me to stick m’finger through the wire same as her. I’m checking no one’s staring first. People are flowing on past, but, not noticing, a long river of them headed for some ocean must be somewhere up ahead.

  Fulla behind the stall’s lookin’ like he’s seen it all. Deep furrows carved in his face, eyes darting. He don’t care how much Rhonda cooes and carries on, it’s the colour of her money he’s waiting for. Same time he’s working the crowd, fishing for some other mugs to reel onto his bank of the river.

  Now Rhonda’s shouting at some fulla wants to buy a duck. He’s picked out the one she’s making friends with. He’s asking the stall fulla that owns the duck how to wring its neck or if he’s gotta use an axe. Rhonda can’t take it. She’s pushing in front of him, shoving her purse out, asking how much. She’s pulling at me, the tears choking her up.

  ‘Do something. We gotta stop him.’

  Whadda you mean we, whitewoman, I’m thinking to myself, backing off.

  ‘Tell him! It’s our duck.’ Rhonda’s yelling, pushing me at the stall owner.

  I’m standing there like a goose, fumbling with m’words, never havin’ got into a punch-up over a duck before.

  We’re sitting in the bus, big cardboard box on our knees, something feathery and funky, flapping and crapping around inside, poking its beak out the airholes.

  ‘2 Quack. What about we call him 2 Quack?’ Rhonda smiles at me.

  You’d reckon we’d had a baby.

  I’m not getting the connection. We got this pure white duck and she’s wanting to name it after this black American rapper. Modern day Martin Luther King, that’s what I heard fullas call that 2 Pac. Does his scra
ppin’ through rappin’, but, fighting for the rights of his people, black people. Trouble is, he got shot by another rapper.

  I’m looking at her now, this little woman next to me, this Rhonda. Creamy white skin, straight mousy hair, freckles and blotches. She’s cute. One time I’m looking at her like she’s m’big sister, or aunty, or just a friend. Next minute I’m looking at her like she could be my jalbu, my chicky babe. Most times I’m looking at her and she’s looking like the strangest migaloo jalbu, whitewoman, I ever seen. And I’m feeling real black and she’s looking real white and that means we live on different planets. Other times, all that colour stuff don’t matter. We have that same way of thinking and feeling no matter if we’re black or blue or green.

  I’m babysitting 2 Quack. Over at Rhonda’s. Rhonda’s gone out to work. She works down the pub four nights a week, Wednesday to Saturday. She’s not wanting to be a barmaidthe rest of her life. It gets her by for now, but. I reckon one time I should go down there with her. When 2 Quack’s settled in enough to be left on his own. I could sit down one end of the bar. I reckon I look eighteen. No law against drinking soft drink. I’d be with an adult. Rhonda’s an adult.

  Rhonda reckons it’s not a great idea. She doesn’t want to be leading me astray, setting a bad example or something.

  Most days I’m downstairs at Rhonda’s. Not doing anything special. Hanging out, playing with 2 Quack, just chillin’.

  She’s teaching me lots about the Internet. We play computer games. She’s got heaps. Or go for walks around the cliffs. She knows all about algae and seaweed. She reckons seaweed is where it all begins. Like, you got no seaweed, you got no life. True, that’s what she reckons. I never looked at it like that. We used to muck round up home dressin’ up as girls with seaweed hair, teasing, chasing each other down the beach. Never saw that long slimy stuff like it’s the source of all that’s living and breathing. That’s deadly.