It really is very inconsiderate. Sometimes one just wants to be alone with one’s thoughts and not have to deal with bad breath and body odour so early in the morning. Women are not so bad. They bore me with their questions about how I manage to keep my figure so slim or the stories about their harsh white bosses at work or the long tales of their various illnesses, aches and pains, but I still prefer them to the men. The men disgust me. All of them are a bunch of criminals. A bunch of uneducated criminals. They look at me like they want to rape me and I know they would do it if there weren’t so many people around. They call me Nice and Nana and whisper other crude things as I walk past them hanging against the wall, unclean and smelling of alcohol. I hate them and they know it. They have no respect for women, so why should I have any respect for them? I do not respond to them, even to the ones who greet me politely. I keep my chin up and walk straight past them as if I cannot hear them.
Maybe there are some good ones who really mean no harm but unfortunately their peers have sullied their name. In fact, as a general rule I try not to mix with any black men at all. It just makes things easier.
One of the Wimpy girls who thought it a clever idea to befriend me until I put her straight used to warn me that some day the men would grow fed up with my ‘snaaks-ness’ and I would be made to regret it. But I didn’t care, they didn’t intimidate me. Besides, what is the point? I will not be living in this dingy old township forever, so why build relationships with people I have no intention of ever seeing again? I want nothing to do with this dirt. Not ever. Not ever in my life again. And I think the people here at the station know it. That’s why the Pick ’n Pay ladies look at me the way they do.
“I came into this world alone and I am going to leave it alone, so what is the point?”
“But everybody needs friends, Fikile, even you, my sweetie. Go play outside with the other girls.”
“I am fine here with you, Gogo.”
“Fikile, I am not fine here with you. Gogo needs some time alone to rest and you need to spend more time with people your own age.”
“I will be quiet, Gogo, I won’t disturb you.”
“Fikile, Uncle and I will not be here forever and then who will you have as company?”
“Myself. I will have myself.”
“I am not asking you, I am telling you: go play outside with the other girls.”
“But they are stupid, Gogo. They spend the whole day at Sammy’s Tavern talking about boys and laughing with old men so that they will buy them cold drinks.”
“Then play with other girls, Fikile.”
“They are all the same.”
“‘They are all the same’, ‘they are boring’, ‘they can’t speak English’, ‘they are stupid’, ‘they steal my stuff’. You always have an excuse, Fikile. I am fed up with you sitting in here all day reading those fashion magazines. I have a good mind to take those magazines away from you. I thought that they would be a fine way for you to practise your reading but they have taught you nothing but to be a snob. Go outside and play.”
“Take the magazines away, I don’t care.”
“Fikile! O nyaka ke go bethe ka tlelapa ne? Get outside now.”
“It’s hot outside and my skin will get dark.”
“Fikile, go.”
“No.”
The man sitting next to me on the train tells me that it is a belief of his that one must always get to know the person you are seated next to when you embark on any sort of journey. I roll my eyes and pretend I do not know that the freak is speaking to me and continue to page through my Girlfriend. I watch him out of the corner of my eye as he bends forward to pull his mahogany-brown leather briefcase up from the floor. I notice the padded leather handle, the two classic nickel buckles, the slide latch behind the front buckles, the parallel stitching with thick maroon cotton, and when he flips the front flap open, the V&CX symbols embroidered in red across its inner silk lining. Classy, I think to myself.
He unzips its sides, revealing only a green apple inside which rolls out and down the cabin as he attempts to raise the briefcase up to his lap. He looks as if he is about to go after it, but then changes his mind. It is too far and the train too full. “I was going to offer you some of my apple,” he chuckles as he zips up the very expensive-looking briefcase, “but I guess it was never meant to be.”
“I have my own food,” I reply crisply as I notice the name ‘K.J. Fishwick’ engraved into the corner of the briefcase. A thief! I think to myself. Typical, I should have known better than to think some garrulous train-riding black man would walk around with a V&CX briefcase he bought for himself.
“So you can talk,” he responds, smiling.
I do not look at this man, this man who is a thief like all the other men in this train, and probably an alcoholic and a rapist too. I shift back in my seat, straighten up my back, raise my magazine so it is closer to my eyes and begin to hum lightly, flipping through the pages, while working hard to keep the ‘piss off’ look on my face.
“The way you read it so intensely, it must be a very good magazine. May I see it?” He snatches my precious Girlfriend out of my hand. The bloody nerve! Who is this man and why does he not just leave me alone? “Oh so you’re one of those,” he says mockingly, looking at the photograph of Avril Lavigne on the cover of the magazine.
“One of what?” I snap back, irritated with this man who thinks he can be so familiar with me.
“You know, those abo mabhebeza who are always wishing to be something that they ain’t never gonna be.” He chuckles.
I do not know who he thinks he is or who he thinks I am, him in his yellowing shirt, worn, stiff and rigid from too much washing, bleaching and ironing. “You have me all sussed out, don’t you, Mr. K.J. Fishwick? That is your name, right? Or are you one of those thieving black men who just can’t keep their hands off white men’s property?”
He stares back at me in disbelief.
“Which poor white man did you steal that pretty little briefcase from, Mr Fishwick?” I ask, as I pull the magazine from his grasp.
He does not respond. He just sighs, shakes his head and slips the briefcase behind his feet and underneath his seat. He turns away and looks out of the window for the rest of the ride. Good. I am glad I have my peace and quiet back.
Five more stops until I get off the train, and then I will take a taxi from Sizanani Station and then I will finally be at work. The train trip into the suburbs is always the hardest part of my day to get through. The carriages stink of labourers’ sweat and of urine and soaked sanitary towels that should have been changed days ago. It is especially bad in the afternoons on the way back home from work, but it is pretty awful in the mornings too. It makes you wonder if half the people in this train even bother to take a bath before they leave their shacks in the mornings. It really is pure disregard for the rest of us who have to try to stomach these offensive body odours. It is an absence of self-respect too, because no self-respecting person, regardless of circumstance, would walk around smelling the way these people do.
I am anxious to get out of this train and onto the taxi and to work. The train is moving slower than usual today, which is frustrating. Perhaps it has something to do with those cable thefts. Black people! Why must they always be so damn destructive? And to think, they have never invented a thing in their squalid lives and yet they insist on destroying the little we have. Just look at how scummy the townships are. Have you ever seen any white suburb looking so despicable? In some townships it is difficult to differentiate the yards from the garbage heaps. It really is a disgrace, a paucity of perspective.
“And you, Fikile, what do you want to be when you grow up?”
“White, Teacher Zola. I want to be white.”
“You so stupid, Fikile, don’t you know you going to be as black as dirt for the rest of your life! Tell her Mrs Zola, tell her she’s going to be as black as dirt forever.”
“Shut up, Ntombana. Mrs Zola said we can grow up to be anythi
ng our hearts desire.”
“But Fikile, dear, you can’t change the colour of your skin. What I meant is that you can – ”
“See, Fikile! You so stupid!”
“Ntombana, if you don’t keep quiet now I am going to have to send you out of my class.”
“I will be white if I want to be white. I don’t care what anybody thinks.”
“But why would you want to do that, dear?”
“Because it’s better.”
“What makes you think that, Fikile?”
“Everything.”
It is after seven o’clock when we get to Sizanani Station. The people here dress and look a tad better than the ones at home and are not nearly as noisy. I think it might be because they are closer to the suburbs and are thus familiar with the way of life. There are no endless queues at the taxi rank today because it is a Sunday and not even eight o’clock yet, so many people are still fast asleep. I choose a crimson taxi with polished wheels and First Class spray-painted on its back window. There is no such thing as a first-class taxi, but I often take this one if it is not too full. It is better than riding in Desire or Yizo Yizo. I guess it also feels good pretending I really am travelling first class, because someday I will only travel first class.
Inside, I spot a seat next to a large woman who sleeps with her head against the window. Her greasy hair makes ugly smudges on the glass as her head slides up and down in sync with her breathing. On her lap sits a skinny little boy with his thumb in his mouth who also looks as if he, too, is well on his way to dreamland. So, because they are both sleeping or at least she is and he soon will be, I decide it’s safe to sit next to them.
I have begun to believe that there has been a change in me. I am now more confident in everything I do and am no longer uncertain of my capabilities. Nothing intimidates me. I have even started speaking in the English language even when I do not need to. I am no longer concerned with what I sound like because I have come to believe that I sound like any other English-speaking person. I use words like ‘facetious’ and ‘filial’ in everyday speech and speak English boldly, without hesitation. Not like Uncle, who spews out fragments of Shakespeare that make little sense to him or anyone else, but with true insight and understanding. There is this new drive that has taken charge of me: it urges me to take command and create my own destiny. I am certain of where I am going and know exactly what it is I want out of life. I have worked hard to be where I am and have little tolerance for those who get in my way.
“Lady!” I yell into her ear, after attempts at nudging her awake have failed.
“Lady, you are going to have to tell your kid to get off me!” I shout again, hoping she will awake and remove the boy.
She turns her head and opens her eyes. “We are here?” she asks, looking out of the window and then around the taxi, confused.
“No, we have not arrived yet, but I would like you to detach your son from my shoulder, please, he is making me very uncomfortable.”
She looks at me and then at her boy who lies with his head on my shoulder, his drool and sweat steadily dampening my Silver Spoon T-shirt. She smiles a dopey smile that tells me that her mind is still asleep even though her eyes are awake. “Yes, he is very tired.” She says, slurring the words. “We are very tired, we travel a long way.”
I nod, but I am not put off. “Yes, that is very nice, but can you get him off me now, please?”
The woman does not seem to register what I am saying to her. She smiles again, closes her eyes and puts her head back against the window.
Is she deaf? Does she not understand English? “Lady, please! This is my seat and that is yours! I paid for this seat and I would like to enjoy it, please.” I push the kid towards her so she can see what I mean.
“Oh. OK. I am very sorry,” she says, seeming to finally rouse herself. She shakes the boy gently and whispers, “Konani, wake up, boy. Wake up, Konani.” But her whisper is barely a sound and her shaking only a pleasant rubbing that sends him deeper into sleep. I doubt she has any real intention of waking him up. She smiles that same toothless smile. “We is very tired and the child, he is very tired.”
I feel saliva run down my arm, I am not impressed. “I do not care if he is a child or a dog, just get him off me!” At this point I am screaming. I am aware I am making a scene. I want the dripping child as far away from me as possible.
Everybody in the taxi looks back to see what the commotion is about. Another substantially-sized lady seated in front of me, who apparently heard the entire conversation, looks back at us and thinks it wise to add her unasked-for two cents. “Haibo! Mare, he’s just a child. Kganthe, what kind of woman are you?” she says.
I cut a look at her, my eyes now frosted over: “The kind that doesn’t want another woman’s filthy child dirtying her work clothes with sweat and spit. But exactly how do you feature in this, mama?”
“Mo lebale, mme. O ke satane,” the nosy fatty whispers, turning back around.
Yes, call me Satan, but next time mind your own bloody business, I think to myself. The woman next to me, clearly not very familiar with English but now finally understanding exactly what the problem is, struggles to lift her son back into her lap and, when this is unsuccessful, slaps the boy awake and yells at him for disturbing the poor lady. That’s me. “I am very sorry, Sisi, we are very tired, we travel long way. Sorry,” she says, placing the startled boy onto her lap. I nod and pull a tissue out of my handbag to dry my top.
“Thank you,” I say, wiping my soggy sleeve. “That is all I asked for.”
The taxi drops me off at the Schubert intersection, only a ten-minute walk away from Little Square Shopping
Centre. I have the option of asking the driver to do what they call ‘a delivery’ and drop me off inside Little Square but that will double my taxi fare, and although walking in the sun does nothing for my complexion, I need the money for my cosmetics and clothes. I see how the boys selling newspapers and cold drinks at the intersection look at me as I cross the street. “Yo, o monthle ne,” they say, “Hello, nice, need some help with those bags?” or “Let me walk you to work, ngwana,” or “Here, come have a drink, gorgeous, you look hot and tired.” They whistle and holler and make fools of themselves trying to get my attention.
But I never look back. I adjust my posture (shoulders back and back upright), raise my chin and walk straight ahead without even the flutter of an eyelid. I walk right past them and their hot, flat cold drinks which I would never buy; right past their dusty newspapers all warm and grimy from dirty hands handling them all day, and past the revolting smell of the chicken feet which the peculiar, wrinkled old lady with charcoal-black skin and an odd orange umbrella sells at the corner.
I am not one of you, I want to tell them. Some day you will see me drive past here in a sleek air-conditioned car, and I will roll up my windows if you try to come near me, because I am not one of you. You are poor and black and I am rich and brown.
Working as a waitress is not very glamorous but I have to start somewhere. At least I am not packing plastics at Checkers or cleaning toilets. And Silver Spoon, I’ll have you know, is no run-of-the-mill establishment. At Silver Spoon Coffee Shop I get to mix with the who’s who of this country. Everybody from big-shot businessmen to surgeons and celebrated television producers. They all start their days at the Silver Spoon. Everybody knows us for our exotic coffee beans imported from Peru, El Salvador and New Guinea, for our peach and ginger iced teas made by Miss Becky herself, and our freshly baked cinnamon breads. Business deals are struck at Silver Spoon, deals that determine the strength of the rand and the price of gold. Alliances are formed at Silver Spoon and contracts signed for billions of dollars. In some of our quieter sections, actors and actresses practise their lines that are filmed and spoken on TV and heard by millions of South Africans every night on the evening soapies. Emails are sent from Silver Spoon Coffee Shop to Europe and back to Silver Spoon again.
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