“So you want to explain to me, dahling, why the gentleman is sitting with a cigarette in the non-smoking section of the shop? Are you trying to get this shop closed down?”
“He wouldn’t move, Miss Becky.”
“He wouldn’t move? Why didn’t you ask them whether they wanted to be in the smoking section before you seated them, Fiks?”
“They seated themselves, Miss Becky.”
“They seated themselves? Oh, Fiks! You allowed customers to seat themselves?” She shakes her head, and raises her hand to stop me as I attempt to explain. “You really are intent on working on my nerves today, aren’t you, dahling?”
I try to speak again, but am once again stopped by her hand. She takes a deep breath, in and out, and then coolly walks over to the table with the two guys. She smiles her large Miss Becky smile, puts her hand on the one with the cigarette’s shoulder, says something that makes them laugh and then nod and then laugh again and then get up and move outside. Miss Becky calmly walks back to me. “The young gentlemen had no problem with sitting in the smoking section, dahling. If only you had taken the time to explain to them that the inside of the shop is for non-smokers only, then we wouldn’t have to be having this conversation.”
“But I did – ”
“I do not want to hear it, Fiks. I think I’ve had enough of you for one day.” She closes her eyes, breathes deeply again, and then says, “Maybe you should just go home.”
“Go home? But Miss Becky it’s only – ”
“Yes Fiks, go home and think about your behaviour. I’ll get Yvonne to take over from you. We’ll speak again on Monday.” She does not wait for me to say anything, but takes the ashtrays out of my hands and walks into the storeroom calling for Yvonne.
Go home? But it’s only two o’clock. How can Miss Becky be sending me home at two o’clock? There are another three whole hours before the shop closes and I am being sent home? What about the customers? They won’t be happy if Fiks is not here. They need me. Yvonne has no waitressing experience. Yvonne can barely speak English, she won’t ever manage. This thing I do, this waitressing thing at this shop, takes a certain kind of person. A person with people skills, a person who knows how to speak to the rich and famous without making them feel uncomfortable. This job requires a person who has an understanding of the Silver Spoon world and the kind of people who live in it. A person like me. Yvonne understands none of that.
My cheeks dampen. One day Miss Becky will see that this place is nothing without me. She’ll be so sorry she sent me home early that when I come in tomorrow morning she’ll be down on her knees begging me to forgive her. But I won’t, I’ll tell her that I am leaving with Paul and taking my style, my talent and my manner with people with me, and never coming back.
Sometimes I feel it all collapsing around me. My face gets so hot that I cannot even breathe.
I am suddenly aware of the boy outside watching me. It’s the friend, the one who was not smoking, the one who shrugged his shoulders. I am embarrassed as I realise that he has been watching me this whole time, watching while Miss Becky scolded me, watching as I wet my cheeks. He smiles when he sees that I can see him. “I am sorry,” he mouths through the glass. I look away, and go to the back to get my stuff. Whatever.
I am tired of waiting, waiting for the day when it will all be different, when it will be my turn, my story, my rose.
I am tired of the fear, the anxiety, the endless debates within my head, the empty feeling in my chest and the knot in my stomach.
I am tired of looking around, in the mirror, at my legs and my hands, wondering when they will be different.
I am tired of the same outfit worn in different styles. I am tired of sleepless nights, phone calls to far-away places, crossed fingers and bended knees.
I am tired. I have tried, I am always trying, but now I am tired. I want it now.
Yvonne waves as I walk out of the shop, yanking her hair net and plastic apron off and tucking in the Silver Spoon T-shirt Miss Becky has lent her. It is evident that she is insanely excited. She waves at me but I do not wave back. There is only one Fiks, and nobody else can do what I do.
The boy, the friend, the one who was not smoking, the one who shrugged his shoulders, the one who smiled, the one who mouthed “I am sorry,” gets up from his chair and runs after me.
I do not stop and hear the other guy, the one who emptied the ashtray onto the floor after I had just swept it, the one who lit a cigarette in the non-smoking section, the one who lied to Miss Becky about what happened, shout, “What is it with you and black girls, Sky! It’s fucking embarrassing, dude! Leave the chick alone, man!”
I walk faster. Those words make my eyes fill again. I want him to leave me alone but he catches up to me.
“Sheesh,” he gasps, out of breath. “I’m not trying to mug you, lady, I just wanted to apologise for what happened there earlier.”
Before I can help it my cheeks are drenched.
“I hope we didn’t get you fired or anything. My friend has issues, don’t let him get to you. I don’t actually know why I’m friends with him. He’s a real jerk. I can speak to your boss-lady if you want, I really don’t want you to lose your job because of us. I really am sorry.”
I nod, but cannot get any words out.
“I am so sorry. This job obviously means a lot to you. I am really sorry. Please don’t cry. I’ll go speak to your boss. Do you want me to speak to her?”
I shake my head. Gosh no, I think, that’s the last thing I need. He does that and she’ll send me home for good. “No,” I manage to say, drying my eyes with a bunch of Silver Spoon napkins I keep in my bag. “It’s fine, I’m fine.”
Even if I cry all night, I am fine.
Even though my heart is punctured, I am fine.
Even though I feel like there is no hope, I am fine.
Even though it feels like it will be this way forever,
I am fine.
Even though it makes no sense, I am fine.
“I really do hate to see such a beautiful girl so sad,” he says, smiling, relieved that I have stopped crying. “Kumuhle kakhulu.” He says this with a confidence that makes me think that this guy has used this line before. But I cannot help laughing at his silliness. I wonder if he is saying it wrong intentionally
“Umuhle,” I say, correcting him anyway.
“Thank you,” he smiles, thinking I am returning the compliment. I realise that it was a sincere mistake and not just a white boy’s silliness. How sweet, I think. How refreshing.
“No, it’s Umuhle, not Kumuhle.” I explain.
“Oh,” he laughs. “Well, Umuhle.”
Such a nice boy, I think.
If it was another day and I was not being sent home and replaced by a kitchen maid, I might have been disappointed that the moment was spoilt by the friend’s rude interruption. “Sky, I didn’t come here to watch you run after every black chick that walks past.”
I look at my watch and realise that if I want to catch the 3.30 train I need to leave and find a taxi now. “Thank you,” I say, and walk away.
“The name is Sky, Sky Richardson,” he shouts to my back as I move further and further away. “We should have coffee some time, a drink or whatever. I’ll come find you. Hey, you didn’t tell me your name!” he yells, but I don’t stop and keep walking until I can’t hear him anymore.
Sky. Such a nice name.
There’s a couple of taxis standing empty on the corner of Schubert when I get there. So much for the taxi strikes, Miss Becky.
We wait for forty minutes until the taxi fills up and we finally leave. It is Sunday, and everybody is tired, lost in his or her own thoughts, wondering where the weekend went, so the drive back to the station is quiet. I remind the driver to stop at the station so I can get out. It is 3.50 when I get to the platform where I board the train for Mphe Batho, so because I am twenty minutes late, I have to wait for the 4.30 train. The station is empty and there are numerous benches to choose f
rom. I am a little uneasy being here alone, so decide against reading my magazine and instead sit on my bag and keep my eyes wide open and watchful for any strange activities.
When the train arrives at 5pm and not 4.30 as is timetabled, I am surprised to see the gentleman I was on the train with this morning sitting in the same place. Before I can pretend to have not seen him, he waves and beckons me to come sit next to him and a little girl he seats on his lap to make room for me.
“You have a daughter?” I ask as I sit down.
“Yes, her name is Palesa.” He says proudly. “Yithi molo ngo sisi Palesa, say hello to the nice lady, Palesa.”
The ‘nice lady’? I silently chuckle. That’s a first! I never thought anybody around here would refer to me as ‘the nice lady’. Such a strange man, I think to myself. How can he call me the ‘nice lady’ after the way I treated him this morning? The little girl looks at me and smiles. She is pretty. He picks her up and places her on the seat opposite to him.
“Yes, she was with her grandmother for the weekend. We are going home now, nê Paly?” he says, sticking his tongue out at her. She giggles.
“She did not want to come home, her granny spoils her so much,” he continues, laughing.
I’m not sure why this man is being so nice to me. Has he forgotten our earlier encounter? The apple that rolled out of the empty briefcase? Perhaps it is not the same man. I look at his feet for the briefcase to make sure. Mr K.J. Fishwick. No, it’s him alright.
He catches me looking at it and laughs again. “You really do like this briefcase, don’t you?”
I smile, embarrassed. “It is nice” is all I can get out.
“You think? I find it to be such a nuisance. I only carry it around to make my boss feel better. He made such a big deal of giving it to me. It was my birthday last week and when he heard he pulled all his papers and cards and pens and things out of the briefcase and gave it to me right there and then. Everybody at the office made such a fuss about the whole thing, you’d think he’d bought me a house or something. But I really have no need for it. I never have anything to put in it, except apples of course, that is, when they don’t roll away.” He laughs again. His laugh is contagious and I catch myself laughing with him. I am ashamed, too. I know I must apologise but do not know how. I search for a long time for the words but all I can think to say is, “Maybe your boss made such a fuss because the briefcase is so expensive.”
“It is?” he asks.
“Yes, it is a V&CX briefcase. That’s a very expensive label.”
“Oh,” he says nodding, but is not moved by the revelation as one might have expected.
We sit in silence. I look out the window and realise that next stop we will be home.
Sunday afternoons are always pretty quiet on the train and I am often back home in no time. But for some reason, today I do not want the train to stop.
“I went to pick up Palesa from school on Friday…”
Despite myself, I turn around and face him, like people do when they speak to each other. He is a very handsome man, handsome and kind.
“Oh, really?” I say, encouraging him to go on.
“So while I am waiting for her to find her schoolbag and say goodbye to her friends, my eyes start to wander around the playground. I stand there, listening to what sounds like millions of laughing, screaming, smiling little faces filled with so much life and energy. Most of them were milky white, but here and there were spots of colour.” He stops. I do not know if that is the end of his story, so I wait.
“They seemed so happy, you know, and their happiness so pure and real you could grab it in your two hands.” I am not sure where this is going, but I remain silent.
“I asked one of the teachers to show me where the bathroom was. After a long day at work I was feeling a little overwhelmed by the heat and all the buzzing around me. It was Friday, so that meant that they, the little kids, weren’t going to come to school for a whole two days, so their excitement was understandable.” He chuckles that goofy chuckle again and this time I laugh with him, without inhibition. I have no idea what he is speaking about but for some reason it’s just so good to listen to him speak.
“And then suddenly a little chocolate girl walks past me, hand in hand with the cutest half-metre milk bar I have ever seen in my life. Both of them are chatting away, both with fizz-pops in their other hands.” He smiles at the memory. “Wow! I thought, look how happy they are. Who am I to get in the way?”
Now I am completely lost. “What do you mean?” I hesitantly ask, scared that my question may cut his story short.
“I’ve been thinking of home-schooling Palesa. She refuses to speak a word of Xhosa and I know it is the influence of that school.”
“Oh,” I say, my bubble bursting instantly. Not this topic again.
“They were so joyful, those kids. But, you know, I couldn’t shake the feeling that they were only happy because they didn’t know. Don’t get me wrong, the school is remarkable, it really is. I think it is like one of the top hundred primary schools in the country. The opportunities those children get at that school are endless. And just by looking at Palesa, you can just see that she is such an inspired little girl with so much to offer the world. Compared to other children her age in the township, who go to black schools, she is miles ahead. And she is just so happy, you know. But, I can’t shake a certain feeling.”
I am now sorry that I have allowed this man to speak to me.
“Perhaps it is me,” he continues. “Maybe I do not know what I want. Or what I want for her. I just got so confused as I stood there at the edge of that playground, because I knew that they were happy and I was happy that they were, but listening to all those little black faces yelping away in English, unaware that they have a beautiful language at home that they will one day long for, just broke my heart.” He looks at me. The dimples are still there and he’s still smiling, but I can see in his eyes that there is a grave heaviness he feels inside.
I look away. I do not know what to say to this man and I hope that he will stop talking soon.
“Standing at the edge of that playground, I watched little spots of amber and auburn become less of what Africa dreamed of and more of what Europe thought we ought to be. Standing at the edge of that playground I saw tiny pieces of America, born on African soil. I saw a dark-skinned people refusing to be associated with the red soil, the mud huts and the glistening stone beads that they once loved.”
The train suddenly comes to a stop as he finishes that last sentence. Mphe Batho Station, the end of the line. We have finally arrived. I have never been so glad to be back. I pick up my bags and quickly get out. I do not say a word to the man, not even goodbye, not even to the little girl. No, I get out and walk home as fast as I can.
I have come to realise that many things are seldom as they seem. Sometimes what you think is your greatest obstacle turns out to be the least, and what you thought would be easy enough to conquer troubles you still.
I do not know how to make it pretty. I do not know how to mask it. It is not a piece of literary genius. It is the story of our lives. It is our story, told in our own words as we feel it every day. It is boring. It is plain. It is overdone and definitely not newsworthy. But it is the story we have to tell.
European Union
Literary Award
Rules
The European Union Literary Award is presented annually by Jacana Media and the European Union to a first, unpublished novel by a South African. Submissions must be received by 30 September. The winner of the EU Literary Award will be announced at a ceremony in Johannesburg the following March. The winner will receive R25 000 and will have his or her novel published by Jacana Media. This award is open to South African writers resident in South Africa.
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