Coconut

by Kopano Matlwa

  …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?”

  “Leave me alone, Tshepo. I have to get ready.”

  “So you are going to go tonight to this – what is it? Dinner? And naturally, being the cultivated sweetheart you are, politely listen to them talk about their music, their boyfriends and their holidays abroad? Oh and maybe, out of courtesy, they’ll drop in a ‘You’re looking great, Fifi’ before getting back to the agenda of who’s hosting who at Crystal Bay this Christmas.”

  “Kristen Bay.”

  “Whatever, Ofilwe. What does it matter? Are you going to Kristen Bay this Christmas? Do you even know where these lovely bays are that you spend your evenings talking about? Do you not feel like a fool, taking part in conversations that have nothing to do with you? Conversations that will never have anything remotely to do with you. You are the backstage crew in the drama of their lives. If they need you, they do not know it and do not care. Open your eyes.”

  “Stop it, Tshepo. These are my friends you’re talking about.”

  “Friends, Ofilwe, know your name. Friends ask where you come from and are curious about what language you and yours speak. Friends get to know your family, all of them, those with and those without. Friends do not scoff at your beliefs, friends appreciate your customs, friends accept you for who you really are.”

  “Get out of my room, Tshepo.”

  Their faithless eyes crawl on my skin, making it itch. I scratch my neck. Perhaps if I walk over to the topical creams section, they will ease off. The pharmacist himself is tolerable, decades have a way of redeeming one. It is his spinster of a sister I detest. I know it is only a matter of time until she slithers over to offer me her unasked-for assistance. Seeing Belinda has put me in sour spirits and I am in no mood to use the accent today. I hold my breath as I walk between the security sensors, and out of the pharmacy doors, daring them to ring wildly. Who knows, maybe I do have an innate proclivity for theft.

  Samantha Grey’s father wanted her back. She’d smugly spill it all as we sat in a circle on Mrs Mark’s mat, ‘sharing and caring’ during Guidance. He wanted custody and would pay any price to win her and too-fast-for-even-the-fast-girls Lucy back from bi-polar Mom and her boyfriend of the week. It was rational to pity her, but as we watched item after recently bought item slip effortlessly off cherry-gloss lips, we envied her and bargained with the gods that they should be so gracious as to let divorce rain down on our poor households, too. Mrs Mark, eyes soggy and face swollen in dismay, suggested that we give Samantha a group drukkie. In our arms Samantha promised that if we proved to be as cool as her friends from her previous school she would consider asking her Dad if we could spend a weekend at the dam.

  I had heard of the kissing game spin-the-bottle, and thought, already wise at only twelve, that it was cowardly to allow a deodorant can (apparently it pointed better than a bottle) to determine who and when you embraced. I knew that at the right time with the right guy I would embrace all I liked without seeking the approval of any type of container. That is why when we sat in a circle on Samantha’s Dad’s polished floor watching the Axe deodorant can spin recklessly, I thanked my guardian angel that there was no right guy here and this was not the right time.

  As the Axe was spun again, I knew from the way it had been mocking me with its sarcastic swirls all night that it would point at me next. It was too late to fake a sunstroke-related headache, so I silently pleaded with it to pair me up with a girl. Any girl. Anything rather than the humiliation of exposing my inexperienced lips to the expertise of those that belonged to the boys in the room. The conniving canister instead commanded that Clinton be the one I kiss. Clinton Mitchley. The Clinton Mitchley who was believed to have taken his first girl at the age of ten. Samantha’s Clinton. My intestines choked. I knew that the longer I sat staring at the abominable piece of aluminium, the harder it would be to do the deed. I calmly shifted my bum, still in wet board shorts, into the centre of the circle. I gently helped myself onto my knees, closed my eyes and pouted out.

  “No ways! Her lips are too dark!” he protested.

  Now with eyelids fastened tight (No ways! Her lips are too dark), I shifted back to my ready spot (No ways! Her lips are too dark), unsure of what to do next (No ways! Her lips are too dark), whispering the words to myself (No ways! Her lips are too dark), not believing that they were spoken words (No ways! Her lips are too dark); live words (No ways! Her lips are too dark); words that had been followed by an explosion of general laughter (No ways! Her lips are too dark).

  I curse the pharmacist’s sister for making me leave the shelter of her shelves of medicine. The pathway I have chosen to take me to Mama, who I suspect is in Supermart, is the same one Belinda and her father are on and now they have seen me. I swear never to support that pharmacy again. The paved pathway is bordered by silver bars on either side. The bars are linked with cable. Long and narrow, these pathways encourage congeniality amongst the shoppers of Little Square but offer you no space to escape interaction with approaching strangers, forcing one of you to stop and step aside, smile a wooden hello, and let the other pass.

  Dear Fifi:

  How are you? I never see you anymore! What is going on? I miss you. Got so much to tell you! How come you never reply to my letters anymore? I’ve been sticking them under your desk like we always do. Have you not been getting them? (Maybe they’ve been falling off.) I mean it, I really do miss you. Are you cross with me over the whole late library book thing? I’ll pay the fine, Fifi; it’s really no biggy. I’m sorry, though, if that’s the issue. Remember our promise, our No Secrets Policy? That was good or bad secrets, remember? No Secrets, good or bad. SO if there is anything wrong, you are obliged, by the sacred Best Friends Book of Rules and Regulations for the sake of all Best Friends, to come, to tell me. He he I mean it.

  Gosh. I really do miss you. I’ve said that a lot, haven’t I? What is happening to us, Fi? I don’t even know you anymore. Anyway, Mrs Swart is looking at me funny. I finally understand why you hate this woman. Gosh. Why is she even dressed like that in the first place? I should be looking at her funny. She should be looking in the mirror and looking at herself funny. Maybe she doesn’t have a mirror. Who dresses like that in this day and age? Fifi, it is frightening. Fortunately for you, Fi, I cannot bring myself to defile this pretty piece of paper with a description of the ensemble she has on. How are we supposed to get an education with her prancing around the classroom like that? It is a lack of consideration, that is what it is. Pure selfishness. OK, now she is really looking at me funny so I should wrap this up. Well, I guess I kinda said all I really wanted to say. Hi and I miss you. Tried calling. You are never home these days, Old Virginia mentioned something about ‘he busy being out’. Ha ha! But you know good Ol’ Virginia never could get anything right. I actually, at first, thought you were avoiding me, and then I came back to my senses: Best Friends for Life means best friends for life! (Right?)

  Maybe we can do a sleepover this weekend. Like old times! You choose the movies. I swear to shut up this time. Last weekend at Renee’s we had hot chocolate with a dash of Amarula and cream. It is to die for, Fi! We can try make some of that too. Gosh, it’s been so long! I’m excited now. Please write back this time. You can’t pretend you didn’t get this one. I’ll put it ON your desk. Will call you tonight. Answer the phone please! (Old Virginia makes no sense.) Promise to let you play with my hair for as long as you like if you come over. I swear.

  Lots of Lekker Love

  Belinda

  B.F.F.E

  I will greet Belinda and her father just as soon as they get closer. I could still pull off escaping into another store, but I won’t because that would make them think I am ashamed, and I am not.

  I told myself I was throwing out all the garbage in my life when I rejected their invitations. I told myself that this detox had been a l
ong time coming, when I felt nothing when she began to cry. I told myself that now I would finally be happy when I took their pictures off my wall. I tried to say it day and night, hoped I’d chant it in my sleep, just until my foolish eyes stopped watering, the stubborn boulder in my throat dissolved and I began to believe that I was really ‘better off’ without them. Because I really am.

  I feel sorry for Belinda. I feel sorry for me. But I guess that’s just how the cookie crumbles. Things do not always work out the way they should. I think at heart she is a good person. But I am a good person too. She meant well. But we were different. And somewhere between grades three and ten that became a bad thing. It hurts hurting your friends. But she hurt me. You miss the laughs, the delirious things you’d do and the madness you shared.

  But after a while it’s agony playing a role you would never dream of auditioning for. You fall ill from explaining why Mama does not shave. You run out of excuses why Daddy refuses to go fishing with the rest of the dads, and why Koko won’t help out at the tuckshop like everybody else’s grandmother does. Even if Felicity, the only other girl of African descent in your grade, and the three other brown kids in the younger years, treat you like the scum they believe they are, at least you are all the same. At least they don’t stare or question or misunderstand.