Njunjul the Sun

by Meme McDonald

  I’m waking with the first light poking into me through the curtains. It’s the weekend. I got plenty of time to hang out here in Aunty Em’s study and think on things. No way I’m sleeping, but. Dozing . . . dreaming . . . but not sleeping. I’m seeing kite hawks soaring overhead, I’m hearing the drone of the yikki-yikki, I’m flying through the air, dunkin’, I’m sitting with the sun on m’face. I’m taking my time.

  I’m knowing I’ve been through my initiation. Not traditional way, but modern-day initiation.

  That morning light gets me up I can’t lay back no more. I’m full up with things I’m wanting to do.

  I get that blank sheet of paper. The one I folded up beside the sofa that first day I was in Aunty and Uncle’s flat on m’own. I couldn’t find what it was I had to write back then.

  I take that piece of empty paper out and sit up at Aunty Emma’s desk. I’m careful with all her stuff. But I sit up here ‘cause I know I can. I switch the desk lamp on and I start to write a letter to the mob up home.

  I done at least three pages before I’m even halfway through what I want to tell all those fullas about what’s happening. What I’m getting m’mind set on doing. Telling them about the brothers, and what the kids at school ask. Something about m’friend Rhonda. Like about computers.

  When I finish, I tuck in three of those fifties. I imagine those fullas eyes when they open it up and that junga falls out. The first fifty is for m’mum. The next for m’Aunty Milly. And the last is for m’sis. The one that brought the ticket down Happy Valley for me that day. I seen the look in her eye. I owe her this and more. I’ll be sending lots more, I know that.

  I sit back and look at that envelope, all addressed up. I reckon I’m gonna ask Rhonda to teach me some graphics on the computer so I can make my own designs and that. Like on letters . . . maybe t-shirts . . . deadly, eh? . . . or CD covers . . . Maybe they teach that stuff at Aunty Em’s school . . . Maybe . . .

  Next thing, Aunty Em’s staring down at me with a cup of tea. Eh, look-out. I’ve been falling back to sleep. Deep sleep when that darkness is smooth and good to you, taking away your troubles. Not that jagged sleep, tosses you about with nightmares. That sleep I had then was the best sleep ever, like fully.

  Aunty Em’s sweet tea is waking me up, bringing me into the day. It’s middle of the morning.

  Aunty’s about to go shopping with Uncle Garth. She asks me if I want anything special.

  ‘Yeah.’ I’m hardly recognising that steady, sure voice of mine. ‘To come tell some of my stories to your class?’

  She stands there, looking at me.

  I’m taking another sip of m’tea, leaving my words out there for her to dodge or do what she likes with.

  ‘I reckon we could fit that in sometime,’ she says quietly.

  I can tell that means ‘yes’.

  ‘Might get Uncle Garth to drive us, though. No trains, okay?’ she smiles, only gammin’, jarring me up. I didn’t know we could be joking about that yet.

  I’m working out how I’m gonna start my session. I reckon I’ll stand up there, same as Uncle, m’two feet firmly on the ground, acknowledging the fullas from this place here, from this land, then telling them about my saltwater place where I come from . . .

  And I’ll be talking about what it’s like for me. Telling my story of growing up around the mangroves, of hunting and fishing, aunties and uncles, of getting into trouble and getting myself out of it. Maybe, I’ll even tell them about my girragundji, that voice inside me. Maybe . . .

  There’s a rhythm coming to my days. And m’nights, they’re smoothing out. I’m drifting off to sleep, no worries about getting stuck halfway, waking up wanting to do some damage. That voice, that girragundji voice, it’s quiet. It’s there, but. As much a part of me as breathing.

  I’m sleeping to the music of those old-fulla words didjeridooing me through the night. Something to do with feet. Something to do with having your feet on the ground. I’m not worrying about what I get and what I don’t get. I’m trusting I’ll be understanding when I need to understand. I’m just laying back listening till that sun lifts me out of bed. And then I’m just getting one foot to go in front of the other, on solid ground.

  I’m waking, hearing Aunty Milly laughing up big. She’s been watching for me, true, I know that.

  I reckon I’ll’ve saved up enough junga by the end of the year to go back home for Christmas. I’ll be getting that up-home dirt under my toenails. Aunty Milly reckons it’s important to get that dirt in your feet. Makes sure you never forget who you are and which way is home.

  I can see Aunty Milly looking up into that sky, watching for me there. Not for the moon, or for the stars. I’m no moon-face, good-go! And I’m no star yet, neither. I hear her laughing, but. She can see me clear as.

  ‘Njunjul,’ I’m hearing her calling out. ‘Yibulla, Njunjul the Sun.’

  Now she’s laughing with me, and me with her. Njunjul means sun, see. The sun. My name. I’ve had that name since I’ve been a baby, warmed over the fire by my Aunty Milly. That’s been our way of welcoming babies into the world. All the old fullas, sitting around the fire, saying the name for that newborn fulla.

  I’ve not been using that name, but. Not for long time. Too shame. I could never spell it in migaloo school, see. And if I spelt it, they could never say it right. Me, I’ve had lots of other names. Some names I been called you wouldn’t wanna know about, neither. Now, but, I’m taking on that Njunjul name, my name, that back-home name from the place I been born. That fulla Njunjul’s been there for me all along, like fully. Only me, I’ve not been seeing that. Now I gotta be there for him. I’m feeling that warrior sun come to me.

  glossary of terms

  binna-gurri

  deaf, don’t listen

  boodgie

  fart

  bulleyman

  policeman

  Bummah

  people

  bungy

  friend

  fulla

  fellow

  gammin’

  joking

  gooli-up

  angry

  goona

  poo

  gulmra

  dunny

  imbala

  butterfly

  jalbu

  woman

  judda-jah

  pants for dancing

  junga

  money

  Koori

  Aboriginal person from regions in New South Wales and northern Victoria

  migaloo

  white person

  moyu

  bottom

  munyard

  idiot, crazy

  Murri

  Aboriginal person from regions in Queensland

  myall

  person from the country

  njarndi

  marijuana

  warrima

  dance

  wichay

  which way

  wongy

  silly, stupid

  yakai

  call out, shout

  yibulla

  you fulla

  yikki-yikki

  didjeridoo

  acknowledgements

  ‘Njunjul’ means ‘sun’ in Kunggandji language. It was the name given by the elders to Paul Pryor, Boori’s brother. In writing this book Paul seemed very close in spirit. We offer Njunjul the Sun in his memory; and also in memory of Aunty Milda and Uncle Peter and days down Happy Valley; and in memory of Rhondda Johnson for the fullness of her life.

  We give thanks to family and friends who have given so much to creating the characters of this book. In particular, we thank the elders, Aunty Val Stanley and Dot and Monty Pryor, Boori’s mother and father, for their loving guidance; Chicky Pryor for making us laugh and cry; cousins Lillian and Gerry Fourmile for their help with all things including language.

  Nicky Bidju Pryor has been photographed as the boy for My Girragundji, The Binna Binna Man and now this book. Not only do we thank him for his patienc
e and trust, but also for the inspiration he has been in many other ways. Thanks go to Joe and Grace Lovell, Ciaran Ward, Paulani Winitani, and to the many nieces and nephews who – some knowingly, some to their surprise – have inspired this story.

  Thanks to ‘the brothers’, in particular Larry Holmes for sharing his knowledge of life and the game, to Richie Wedderburn for it all being good, and to Terell Domonique Jackson for giving his love (that’s ‘L-O-V-E, man’).

  And thanks to Karina Paine for being so generous in time and spirit, and John Douglas for offering his wonderful photograph of 2 Quack.

  Thank you to the Happy Valley mob who made us welcome in their place: Delly Summers, Delly Walsh, Vincent Scott, Lucy Summers, Jody Langdon, Betsy Dalachy, Anthony Doolan, Arthur Langlo, Fred Langlo, Clarence Wyles, Monica Pichler and Les Brady.

  And thanks to those who helped out with photographs at the Laura Festival: Rod North and Sons Coaches for their bus and Darryl Bray, the driver; David and Krysten Pawsey, Susan Ball, Peter Turnbull and Chris Grummet. And to Farren Karyuka, from Mornington Island Dance Group, for the last minute loan of a much sought after dusty red cap.

  To Currambena Primary School staff and students a big thank you for making anything possible on a cold winters day. And thanks to Tempey High Language School – a centre for excellence in multi-cultural education – for permission to photograph.

  And thank you to those who are always there with their insights and advice: Jenny Darling and Jacinta DiMase, our agents – without Jacinta saying, ‘this is the one to write next’, Njunjul the Sun may not have been written for a long time; Jodi Satya for her focus and attention to detail; Natasha Roe for offering ways of understanding; Glen Leitch and everyone at Young Australia Workshop; the mob at Northland Secondary College and Lesley Reece and friends at Fremantle Children’s Literature Centre for their passionate support.

  Our greatest thanks to Allen & Unwin: Rosalind Price for her excitement and enthusiasm for the book since the early drafts; Sue Flockhart for editing in such a skilful way that made us think we did it all; Ruth Grüner, who does delicious designs with words and photographs and made the book look like you’d want to read it; and Karin Riederer for getting Njunjul the Sun from us to you.

  Thank you to all who support our work. We hope you enjoy this story.

  website: www.mememcdonald.com