My Holiday Shorts edited by duduzile zamantungwa mabaso
My Holiday Shorts First Published by Black Letter Media (Pty) Ltd 2013 Tel: +27 11 966 8061 Fax: 086 606 1565 www.blackletterm.com info@blackletterm.com PO Box 94004 Yeoville, 2143 Johannesburg, South Africa Š 2013 Black Letter Media Design & Layout Black Letter Media (Pty) Ltd No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrievable system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, photocopying or otherwise without prior written permission of the publishers, Black Letter Media (Pty) Ltd. Any copying or sharing of this work for financial gain is infringement of copyright. All rights reserved. ISBN: 978-0-9870198-5-1
Contents
Preface 7 Acknowledgements 11 Ilze Hugo
The Suit
13
Ginny Swart
Action Man
17
Daddy’s Boy
23
Zimkhitha Sulelo
Learning to dance Kizomba 31
Liam Kruger Regrowth
37
Catherine Shepherd
Joy Ride
43
Lebogang Tlou Everlasting
49
Chinenye Emezie-Egwuonwu
Chronicles Of A Falcon Heart 53
Boipelo Maetla Serendipity
59
Sasha Ross
Her name was Georgie
63
Megan Ross
Almost Home
67
One of these mornin’s, you’re gonna rise up singin’ / Then you’ll spread your wings and you’ll take to the sky ~Summertime, George Gershwin
Preface Here we are again. You and I. At the beginning of a new book. About to set off on an adventure into several holiday flings, terrors, confusions, journeys... You may be wondering about what adventures lie within these pages. I imagine you’re sitting on a beach, under a big umbrella, someone is lathering sunscreen on your back and you’re sipping on something cold. Or maybe you’re dripping wet, having just climbed out of a pool. Or are you out there in the villages taking in a beautiful view or just chilling with a glass of wine on a sidewalk restaurant. Or you are just setting off on a long drive or flight to visit family in another country. I imagine you stealing an escape into these pages between conversation and fun times. Searching for a different journey away from reality. Welcome! Great to see you here. 9
This book was made to fit into your holiday plans. Its purpose is to entertain you, make you sigh longingly or laugh out loud. Award winning short story writer, Lorrie Moore says, “A short story is a love affair; a novel is a marriage. A short story is a photograph; a novel is a film.� And these are short short stories. Little love affairs, short intervals that may be startling, romantic, full of whimsy, steamy encounters and sweet acts of love. All fitting into your pocket. The eleven South African writers featured in these pages excite me. Some of them are more experienced than others but all of them show a spark - a keen sense of observation, a sharp humour, a charm and a wicked way with words. I hope that you will enjoy these stories as much as I have enjoyed them.
peace. duduzile zamantungwa mabaso editor and publisher Johannesburg, November 2013 10
Acknowledgements Thank you to the contributors, Ilze Hugo, Liam Kruger, Zimkhitha Sulelo, Lebogang Tlou, Boipelo Maetla, Megan Ross, Ginny Swart, Chinenye Emezie-Egwuonwu, Catherine Shepherd and Sasha Ross. A special thank you to Tiisetso Tlelima for taking the magnifying glass to this text and making sure that everything looks good.
13
The Suit Ilze Hugo
The first time I saw Frank I was on my lunch break, wandering the green pathways and semi-fresh air of the city zoo. He was sitting in front of the bear, smoking a Stuyvesant Blue. He’d cut a hole in his fur suit, roundabout where his mouth would be, through which he slipped the stub, dragging on it in quick stammering puffs. Smoke twirls frisked the air between him and the grizzly that swayed about like a drunk walking the line. From the other side of the fence, Frank’s eyes followed its every move. A gap-toothed girl holding an ice-cream tugged on her mother’s pant leg: ‘Mommy, mommy! Mommy, mommy! A smoking bear!’ The mommy scowled at Frank, scooped up the kid, icecream teetering dangerously and seethed through the revolving gate and into the city. After that, I noticed him in the supermarket once; his fur glowing yellow under the fluorescent lights. 15
Clutching a basket brimming with milk, steak and honey, he seemed oblivious to the stares. The third time I saw Frank, I was watching the game at this local dive I like. It was Sunday noon and the air in the pub was raw with traces of the night before – a sickly mélange of cigarette smoke and vomit. I was nursing a Pilsner when I noticed brown fur peeking out from behind an oak tree in the courtyard. It was Frank. He was sipping whisky through a straw while reading. ‘Hi there,’ I offered. ‘Do you mind if I sit down?’ He didn’t say anything. Just grunted. I took it as a yes and slid into the bench across from him as he turned a page with a paw. ‘So,’ he said. ‘You want to know about the suit? People always want to know about the suit.’ He looked up from his book and I saw myself staring back at me from the depths of his plastic nose. ‘You wouldn’t understand. No one does.’ ‘Try me,’ I wanted to say. But I didn’t. Instead, I ordered another beer and asked him for a cigarette. ‘Say, you’re quite handy with those paws,’ I marvelled as he lit it for me with a flick of his wrist. ‘Don’t you get hot in there, though?’ He shrugged. ‘You know, I get it. I really do. You don’t want to 16
talk. But I know a thing or two about being born in the wrong body.’ ‘You’re some kind of transsexual?’ ‘Not exactly,’ I smiled. Getting up, I scribbled on a serviette and slipped it to him: ‘Phone me. Or drop by my office if you ever want to talk. I have a feeling we’ll understand each other.’ The last time I saw Frank was at my office. ‘Let him in and hold my calls,’ I said to my receptionist when she told me a man in a bear suit was denting the waiting room couch and, at that, without an appointment. ‘Hi,’ I smiled as he hovered over the doorsill. ‘It says on the plaque outside that you’re a psychologist. I’m not crazy you know. Maybe this was a bad idea.’ ‘Hold on. Sit down. Give me a chance to explain. This isn’t professional. It’s personal.’ ‘Personal?’ ‘I think we’re going through the same thing. Except in my case, it’s kind of the reverse. I was hoping we could help each other. It gets lonely to pretend, you know.’ 17
He scratched his big bear head with a knuckle, ‘What are you talking about?’ ‘I think it’s probably best if I show you.’ And with that, I peeled off my man suit - fur bursting through skin - rose up to my full height, bared my fangs and roared.
18
Action Man Ginny Swart
Sanette Joubert took the last of the books from the bookshelf and packed them in the carton. Just a good dusting and the shelves would be ready for the Abrahams’, the next occupants of their house. Fifteen years ago, Sanette and her husband John had bought this small starter home. Now they were moving to a big modern house on the edge of town, with four big bedrooms and a double garage. Twelve year old Mike couldn’t wait to move. The nine year old twins, Ellen and Bailey, had been packed for weeks, thrilled at the prospect of each having their own room at last. John was already planning how he’d fit the garage with his woodworking tools and his golf gear and his fishing equipment. Sanette joked there wouldn’t be room to park the cars. 19
She knew she should have been thrilled about this new house but every day she was feeling more and more miserable about leaving. John said it was just ‘seller’s remorse’ but her feeling of sadness was very real. “Are you thinking about your garden? I know you’ve put a lot of work into it, love,” said John. “But you’ll have three times the space when we move.” “It’s not just the garden, although that’s hard enough to leave behind. I know I’m being silly,” she said. “It’s just that all our family history is here, John. The children grew up in these rooms. Look around you, it’s so full of memories.” “We’ll make more memories in the new place,” he said patiently. “You know this is a good move, Sanette. Better for everyone.” “You haven’t an ounce of sentiment in you!” she said crossly. “Honestly, I wish you weren’t such an... Well, an action man. Sometimes you’re totally unsympathetic to other people’s feelings.” He shook his head. “Not true. You’re just exhausted from all this packing. Take a break. Oh, by the way, Mrs Abrahams wants to bring a builder over tomorrow. They’re making a few 20
structural alterations before they move in.” Sanette didn’t want to know about any changes. Their little house was perfect just as it was. But she had to be there to let Mrs Abrahams in and when she and the builder arrived the following morning she couldn’t help hearing what she had in mind. “We’ll knock out this wall to make it one big living area,” she said briskly, walking through the lounge and dining room. “And a new floor?” asked the builder. “Definitely. I think cream ceramic tiles would look good.” The new owner paused. “And a new front door, one of those stable doors with glass to let some light into this dreary hallway.” Sanette was stunned. She’d always considered the solid oak door to be the best feature of the house. She couldn’t wait for them to leave before she went to look at the front door again. Apart from the beautiful brass knocker on the outside, the inner surface of the door held a lot of the Joubert family’s written history. All the way up the doorframe, there were notches cut 21
into the wood, with initials and years scratched next to them. Every Christmas they had recorded the heights of the children, behind the door where they wouldn’t be noticed. Starting with MJ, 2001. Had Mike really been that small as a year old? MJ, 2013 – now he was a young giant! At twelve, he was taller than she was. And the twins EJ and BJ, their heights had been identical until last year when Bailey shot ahead by nearly two centimetres. Boys had these growth spurts, didn’t they? John had insisted on recording Sanette’s height too, and his own. Up until last year, they’d still been taller than all the children but at Christmas, Mike had proudly topped Sanette by a centimetre. He’d been delighted. “Wait till next year, I’m gonna be taller than you, Dad!” Sanette ran her hand over the incisions and her eyes filled with tears. How could she leave these behind? “Cheer up,” said John. “I’ll take a photo of it, that’ll be almost as good. And we can start a new record of their height at the new house.” “That’s not the same,” she said sadly. 22
But there was no point in brooding about it. There were still all the kitchen cupboards to clear. Moving day was chaotic. The removal men arrived late and stopped for tea almost immediately. Boxes were dropped. The twins squabbled and at the last minute they couldn’t find the cat. By the time they arrived at their new house it was late afternoon. All the furniture in the house and mountains of cartons stood waiting to be unpacked. Sanette was exhausted. “We’ll unpack tomorrow,” she said wearily. “I just need to find the bedding and we can start on these in the morning.” “Nope,” said John. “Surprise! I’ve booked us all into a hotel for the night. Pizza for supper and we can come back here tomorrow to get going.” “What a thoughtful man you are, my love,” she murmured. The next morning after a leisurely breakfast, they drew up outside the house and she frowned. “What are those men doing?” A gang of workmen were hard at work in the front, 23
trampling on the flower beds. “They’re chopping out our door!” She rushed over to them. “Darn it,” said John, “I hoped they’d be finished by now.” The front door of the new house lay on one side and an older, more solid door stood firmly in its place. The men were busy bricking it in. “Stop!” She shouted. “Recognise it?” John looked smug. “The Abrahams’ were getting rid of it, so I thought…” “Our door! Our family history!” Sanette whirled around and kissed him hard. “Thank you darling, this makes our new house absolutely perfect!” He really is an action man, she thought. In the nicest, most sentimental way.
24
Daddy’s Boy Ginny Swart
“Susan? Frikkie here.” Her heart leapt. Was this the phone call she’d been waiting for all week, where he would apologize? “Just checking on my boy. How’s Toby doing?” Apparently not. How do you think he’s doing when his father figure has walked out on him? “Fine,” she said. “Well, he misses you, of course. But we’re fine.” “I’ll come past over the weekend and take him out. If that’s alright with you.” Why not take us both out? Oh no, I forgot, it’s the male bonding thing. 25
“He’d love that,” she said. “I need to tidy my cupboards this weekend anyway. It’s impossible to do that with Toby around, he needs so much attention.” “It’s his age,” said Frikkie. “Is he still playing with that Action Man I gave him?” “That boy’s pretty rough on toys,” she said. “I think the head’s lost. But he still carries it around.” “Well, around ten o’clock Saturday okay?” “Sure” I won’t mention this yet, she thought. Frikkie’s not exactly known for being reliable and I’d hate for Toby to be disappointed. She was right to wait. While Toby was dealing, messily, with his breakfast porridge on Saturday, the phone rang. “Susan? Frikkie here. Something’s come up…” “You can’t make it,” she said flatly. “No surprise.” Arrangements with Frikkie were a series of disappointments, explained away quite reasonably by police emergencies at work. 26
These endless cancellations had contributed to their break up. That, and the stress of not knowing if Frikkie would come home alive at the end of his shift. “I was looking forward to it, but there’s a situation with a security van and a bunch of ‘jackers’ at the mall. I’d love to see you both but I have to be there, sweetheart.” She couldn’t help the old familiar warning, “Look out for yourself. Take care.” “Tell Toby I’m really sorry not to see him.” Aren’t you sorry not to see me? Toby looked up expectantly. “Let’s go to the park. Jason might be there and you can play with him.” She spent the next hour sleepily reading on a bench while Toby and Jason ran around and exhausted themselves. Susan hadn’t slept well since Frikkie left. Alone in the darkness, she heard creaks and rustles she’d never noticed before. Toby heard them too, and he’d come through and demand to sleep next to her. This was a bad habit she didn’t want to encourage but she enjoyed 27
the warmth and comfort of his little body against hers. Her weekend stretched bleakly ahead. Even with his irregular hours as a policeman, when Frikkie was home they’d had a lot of fun. They’d seemed to be heading towards something permanent, as in ring, marriage, mortgage. But their final fight had been so awful. Frikkie had packed two bags and stormed off, telling her bitterly that she had absolutely no understanding of the work he did and they’d be better off apart. She watched him pack, stunned. “But what about Toby?” she’d whispered, “I thought you loved him?” She’d thought Frikkie loved her too, but she’d been wrong. “I’ll have him for weekends, that sort of thing. Other people manage.” Other people who split. His absence was definitely having an effect on Toby. He swung between strangely quiet and really disobedient. He needs a male figure around, thought Susan. A disciplinarian. 28
Not that Frikkie was good at discipline, but he and Toby shared some mystical male bond that Susan knew she could never compete with. That evening as she was watching Survivor and armed the comfort food of a Chinese take-away, there was a knock on the door. It was Frikkie, looking exhausted. “I know it’s late,” he mumbled. “But I was wondering if I could see Toby?” “He’s asleep, you idiot,” she said. “Come in. You look finished.” “I am.” He flopped down on the sofa with a sigh. “What a day. There were five guys armed to the teeth who took two women hostage before we arrived.” “Omigod, what’s that bandage?” “This? A bullet grazed the back of my hand. I was dead lucky.” “Nearly dead, you mean.” She flung her arms around him. “I couldn’t bear it if you were killed, Frikkie.” “You know I’m Superman, silly.” He put his arm around her. The cuddle turned into a long kiss and 29
built in passion, until they broke away, staring into each other’s eyes. “I’m such an idiot,” he whispered. “I’ve missed you dreadfully.” “Not just Toby?” “Sure, I missed him but every time I thought of you I got this awful hollow feeling that I’d lost you forever through my own pig-headedness.” “I’ll never complain about your work again. I’ve been wanting to phone and tell you that I’ve realised I’d rather have you around sometimes than not at all.” “Good! Hey, do you reckon there’s enough sweetand-sour in that container for two? I could handle a few noodles, I haven’t eaten since breakfast.” “Have it all,” she said. “You’re going to need your energy, lover boy.” She enjoyed watching him fork down the noodles with his usual appetite, then took his hand and led him to the bedroom “Ssh, don’t wake Toby,” she whispered. “He’s going to be so pleased to see you in the morning.” 30
There was a frantic, excited whimper and a scrambling of furry paws. “He seems pretty pleased right now,” grinned Frikkie in delight, bending down and scooping up the wriggling golden retriever puppy. “’Oo’s a lovely fellow then? ‘Oo’s daddy’s best boy? Did you miss me, boofuls?” “He’s NOT sleeping on our bed tonight,” said Susan firmly. “Maybe on the end of it? Just this once? He’ll be lonely all by himself away from us.” Two pairs of melting brown eyes implored her to reconsider. “No,” said Susan. “He can have a nice bowl of left over noodles in the kitchen and you can play with him in the morning. Tonight, you’re all mine.”
31
Learning to dance Kizomba Zimkhitha Sulelo
I am no different from other girls. When I hear a song I like, I always get up and say “this is my favourite song!” And that claim is not limited to just one song. When in a good mood, I sing in the shower, and I have no qualms about having my favourite drink before noon if the mood is right. And yes, I have danced shoulder to shoulder with a man and had him hold me tight against his chest and felt the temperature rise a little. I have done the worst that a girl can do under the influence, on the dance floor. Rihanna’s twerking and grinding has nothing on me. I have called all this dancing but it was not until I met Omar that I finally found my perfect rhythm. And it wasn’t on the dance floor! It was the early hours of the morning, and I was lying on my back. His chest was firmly placed on top of 33
mine. It was intense but not uncomfortable. The rays of early morning sun through the window gave us just enough light to see each other. He whispered, “Dance for me, Mama”. I didn’t know what he meant but when I looked into his eyes I knew what I had to do. I slowly moved my hips in small circles. He kissed me paying close attention to my ears. I had met my match. I could no longer play it safe. This heart of mine, that I have kept safe for years, had finally betrayed me. It could no longer be trusted, was all I could think of afterwards. As if he knew what I was thinking, he kissed me and held me close. And as quickly as he held me, he let go of me. “I’m hungry. What are we going to eat?” I was shocked. It was just after 5 in the morning. This is usually the time I grab my shoes and tip toe to the bathroom before I disappeared. “I’m not hungry,” I said. “Of course you are. You have been drinking and dancing the whole night. Grab a t-shirt and join me in the kitchen,” he said as he grabbed a towel. His body was fine, but I was hiding mine under the blankets feeling a bit shy all of a sudden. It would be perfect next to his, but the way he was so relaxed, naked, 34
made me feel uncomfortable. I heard the water in the shower before I got up and looked for a t-shirt and put it on. From his wardrobe I learnt a few things. He was extremely neat, wore pink, and loved his watches and caps. I left my braids loose on my back and walked out to the kitchen. For the first time, I actually had a chance to look around his flat in the early morning light. It was a classic bachelor pad with a big flat screen, leather couch and big speakers next to the TV. There was a stack of CD’s next to the TV and I went closer to investigate, just like I would if it was a shelf full of books. The top CD had a picture of an Usher lookalike and “Kizomba” written at the bottom. I picked up the CD for a closer look at the cover. The guy on the cover had just one button open in his crisp white shirt, I could see his navel. Definitely not the guy you want to bring home to meet mummy, but God, he had a sexy smile! “Put something on” I heard a familiar voice. I turned around and this time there was not just a towel on his body but a white cap too. “What’s with the cap”? Are we going to go and play tennis”? “Not today. But we might dance again. If you 35
behave.” He said wrapping his arms around my waist. He took the CD from my hands and said “Good choice for a South African girl” and he put the CD in the DVD player. “What is that supposed to mean?” “It means no ‘ayeye’ or ‘yebo’ today. I will teach you how to dance Kizomba.” Ready to defend South African music and dance moves, from Boom Shaka times to Durban’s Finest, I took a deep breath, but before I could say anything the music had started and he pulled me close. With his right hand holding my back gently, he pulled me close to his chest. The lesson had begun. “Follow my lead and just move your hips and loosen your knees. This is a sensual dance. Try and feel the music,” he said. “How am I supposed to move with you so close?” “That’s the trick. You have to feel your partner’s chest and thighs. Think Tango but a slow Tango and the way you embrace a loved one. It’s just basic 1-2 and 1-2-3 steps.” “Ok, I’m ready,” I said nervously. 36
“Good. It starts with my left leg and you move your right leg back. Don’t be shy. You have to let me in. Relax your thighs and just let me lead,” he said. Follow his lead, I did. I started to relax and quickly got the rhythm right. “See, that’s the way to do it. The problem with this dance is that you can’t just do it with anyone.” “Why not?” “Well, you don’t want just anyone this close. Or do you?” I didn’t have time to answer. His towel dropped. The cap followed. So did my t-shirt. Then we were on the floor kissing. It had taken two weeks of flirting, and four dates to get me to his house, and all I could think of was how I wish it had been sooner. This was going to be the best summer I have ever spent in Cape Town. I was sure of it. I was in love!
37
Regrowth Liam Kruger
What I’d fallen in love with was Sophie’s haircut – a sort of Katherine Hepburn deal, though her cheekbones were a little angrier – which was maybe not the smartest thing to fall in love with, but that’s how that goes. There’s a sort of honesty in falling in love with stuff that’s necessarily transient, or anyway this is what I told myself. And I know, but I was in art school – all I did was lie to myself back then. I’d met her at a staff party – you know how that goes. I was giving my first seminar on The Femme Fatale In Dutch Baroque, or something else I was unqualified to have an opinion about, and she was a teaching assistant two departments over. She’d come into the party on the sleeve of someone from Gender Studies, but pretty soon the offending arm was hanging limply behind her while she said charming things and left lipstick on paper cups. Standard unattainable fare. Grasp exceeding reach, 39
etcetera – I mean, I’m no Spencer Tracey. No, I don’t know what charming things she was saying. I was looking at the Hepburn hair, alright? Our one interaction consisted of my stumbling across the room, already exhausted from Flying Dutchmaning my way from one circle of acquaintances to the next, and asking her, “I’m sorry, but do you have a lighter?” She made the face you make when you see through somebody without really having to look at them, and said, “Sorry, no.” Then someone started reciting something in Middle English, so I stepped outside, suddenly, actually, needing that smoke. At the back of the building I found Gail, grand and matronly in that slightly Tennessee Williams way, and Oliver, stocky and energetic in that slightly tennisy way, passing a joint between them. “Oh, thank God,” I said. “Don’t bring Him into this,” said Gail. “We’re having a nice time.” She passed me the spliff, which I took, nodding my thanks and my greeting in the same gesture. 40
We did the usual spiel – when did society start conflating ethics and aesthetics, the function of violence in contemporary art, the price of gas. Standard pseudointelligentsia stuff. The joint disappeared, and so did Ollie, but Gail and I stood taking in the slice of view we could make out between the student housing blocks; beyond the suburbs were mountains where, as we stood, terrible poets were describing how we looked. “You seem quite taken with Samantha’s girl,” said Gail, looking ahead. It wasn’t something you could say looking someone in the face. “Oh, no. I’m not the sort that gets taken,” I said, catching myself sounding like someone from Enid Blyton, and blushing about it. Gail kindly ignored this, but not so kindly that I didn’t see her do it. “I think I might head out,” I said, looking away. “Well, naturally – you young ones always stay for the drugs, and leave before the other two start,” she said, which was either an olive branch or a come-on or both. “Do you want me to walk you to your car?” I asked. She smiled. “And miss the opportunity for blackmail? No, I’ll never get tenure otherwise. You run along, though.” 41
I smiled back and kissed her on the cheek, before wandering away to pine over a girl I hadn’t spoken to. Had I stayed for the rest of the party, of course, I’d have seen Sophie get impressively drunk – someone called her a prettier Hemingway, and I’m not really sure how far that comparison works but it stuck with me – and start accusing the school of being more concerned with real estate than education, claiming that the Dean, whose wife was in attendance, had bent over for the guys in Finance a decade ago. The speech was, Gail said, magnificent, punctuated by a remarkable amount of four letter words em-blank-bedded within longer ones. Sophie didn’t get invited to work as a teaching assistant the next semester, and Professor Samantha got one of her old flames out of storage for the next party – this one with more of a Gene Tierney look. Or so I’m told – I’d had my own inadvertence with one of the femmes of The Femme Fatale in Dutch Baroque and was working in a friend’s studio by that time. And so I proceeded merrily along my downward spiral and Sophie along hers. I was modulating my course every now and then to see if we might not end up at the same trashy party. By the time we descended into orbit with one another, she’d lost the Hepburn look 42
and gotten one of those fashionable trims manufactured solely to generate regret in later years - an undercut, in this case. I looked at her, in the haze of that terrible, terrible bar; the last four songs had all been Toto, she held a glass of whiskey clumsily, and was asking me where she knew me from. “My god,” I thought. “You look almost attainable.” Alright, maybe I said it out loud. Either way, I ended up at hers, and a few days later she ended up at mine, so we’d both had a look at each other’s open wounds, and I guess nothing scared us too much, since we kept on doing it. She knows Dutch Baroque better than I do. But then, everyone knows Dutch Baroque better than I do. Sophie got a job copywriting for an okay outfit – drinks less, or anyway, gets less mean about it. Growing her hair out, too, getting sort of Hepburnt. Which is nice for her, a little sad for me – reach, grasp, etcetera. Because, see, she’s on the upswing – getting calls from the school, or Samantha, anyway. Getting back into that Hepburn space. A little Summertime, a little Morning Glory – whereas I’m some distance from Spencer Tracy and losing ground fast, so it’ll be A Bill of Divorcement soonish. 43
Till then, though.
44
Joy Ride Catherine Shepherd
Cecilia lay down on the couch and squinted into the warm sun beyond the patio door. She rested for a few minutes, day dreaming, stretching her spine out comfortably. Then like a flash she jumped up and ran into the kitchen, where her brother sat bent over his book. “Come on Mr B, come on!” Cecilia smiled at her brother who although much bigger than her was only one year ahead at varsity. “It’s a brilliant day and I refuse to waste this summer holiday on high teas,” she lowered her face until it was only millimetres from Bob’s. “And old people,” she whispered. Bob closed his eyes briefly. He put down the book and made a slight nod in the direction of the drinks cabinet. Cecilia’s face lit up. They were going to start enjoying their summer holiday at Gramps. 45
“Let’s just take the green machine and make a night of it,” Cecilia said, as she poured herself a G and T. Bob, keeping half an eye on the entrance, nodded. “Only if you promise to behave.” Later that night, with their grandfather fast asleep in the upstairs bedroom, they backed his classic award winning 1970 green Chevrolet out of the garage and into the night’s embrace, an owl the only witness. It would be the end of their holiday if they were caught driving his greatest treasure; Gramps was a strict character with firm rules. The fairy lights strung along the smoky ceiling flickered above the crowd at Lavender, the local summer pub. Cecilia met a guy at the bar who entertained her with deluxe cocktails while Bob danced around swooning, sun-kissed girls, mouthing the words to the songs. When the old hit, Y M C A came on, the young women moved and expanded with the letters toward Bob like he was a pop star. By the time he thought to check his watch, the illuminated dial glowed 3am. He tapped his sister on the shoulder and smiled, “It’s over sis. Let’s go before we get caught.” Bob left Cecilia to say her goodbyes and went out to the car. A moment later, Cecilia heard a shout. “Oh 46
shit, the car! Someone’s driven into our car!” Cecilia ran out, followed by her new man and several of Bob’s admirers. The girls stood around, aaaing and oooing at the very large dent on the front right fender of Gramps’ pride and joy. Cecilia began to cry. “I don’t believe it! I just don’t fucking believe it!” Bob sank onto the hood, head in hands. “Shut-up,” Cecilia barked, wiping away her tears. “Don’t you know any other words? Just SHUT-UP!” “What seems to be the problem?” Two punters they’d seen earlier in the pub sauntered up. One was a huge man in green dungarees almost the same colour as Gramp’s car, the other had tufts of red hair that seemed to sprout from the top of his tiny frame. They looked like Laurel and Hardy. It turned out they were local mechanics with a garage and panel beating business close by. “Come with us, we’ll have that dent out in fifteen minutes,” Laurel boasted. His voice was rough and ready; about six beers rough and ready. Bob eyed him leering at Cecilia’s cleavage. “I don’t like this, I don’t like this at all,” he whispered into Cecilia’s ear. 47
“We don’t have a choice, do we?” she spat back. The four made their way slowly down the road past Middle Beach shopping centre, Laurel and Hardy in the front with an old 4x4, the siblings following in the green machine. Soon the 4x4 stopped at what looked like a dilapidated corrugated barn. A faded sign hung above a workshop. Old car parts lay strewn amongst shadows cast by tall pines running alongside a dusty porch. While Hardy, stayed in the 4x4, Laurel came to the passenger side where Cecilia sat. He opened the door and smiled at her. It wasn’t a pretty sight – irregular yellow teeth dotted around a protruding thick tongue. A chill went up her spine. “Quickly!” she yelled and slammed the car door. “Get out of here!” In her panic, Cecilia did not hear Laurel yelp as his fingers were caught in the door. Bob thrust the car into reverse and sped back up the road before Hardy could heave his big body out of the 4x4 and turn in their direction. Laurel ran alongside the vehicle, a look of wild panic in his eyes. By the time Cecilia noticed him and opened 48
the door to free his fingers, Bob had driven over his foot and knocked part of an old shed flying. The siblings were silent during the short trip back to the house. Bob parked the car in its original position as the sun was rising, the owl asleep in the oak. There was no point going to sleep now; Gramps would surface soon. Still shaking and bleary-eyed, they made their way to the kitchen. They were slumped at the breakfast table when Gramps came in to put the kettle on. He gave them a quizzical look. “You two look tired. Is anything wrong?” “No,” they answered in unison, their eyes wide. Cecilia’s hand trembled as she lifted her teacup. Gramps looked from one to the other in a slow, deliberate way. “What are your plans for today? Would it be too much of an imposition if I ask you to run down to the mechanics with my green machine this morning, Bob? I had a little accident yesterday and they said they would sort out the dent for me.” “What? Gramps, did you smash the car?” Cecilia asked, not daring to look at her brother. 49
“Yes. I drove into a pole.” Cecilia silently thanked the powers that be. “You’ll take it in for me, won’t you? There is only one mechanic shop. It’s just past Middle Beach so it will be easy to find.” Cecilia’s teacup hit the saucer with a loud clip.
50
Everlasting Lebogang Tlou
Last night, we lay in each other’s arms. A faint light emitting through the shirt I had hanging over my laptop. I don’t know why I keep it on at all times. Maybe to keep the dark at bay? But with her here, her heart beating in perfect tune with my own, I didn’t mind the darkness so much. With her near me, I felt as though nothing could go wrong in my life. I felt whole. It was as if our chaotic past had begun fading away. Shooting glowing embers into space, where they lingered long enough to pave the way forward for us. I finally understood what it truly meant to love. It felt as if the barriers that kept our two worlds separate had been broken. We lay in bed – entwined, unified. I wanted nothing more than for that moment to last forever. Forever. The word frightens me. I have said many a time, over 51
the years, that I am ready to tap out of ‘the game’. The prospect of settling down and embracing monogamy; perhaps I could devote myself to that one special woman. Even though the mere thought of commitment scares me, I yearned to give myself to her completely as I lay there in her arms. We shut the world out completely. I found myself shaking with anticipation at the promise our union presents. I found myself melting with every stroke of her hand down the length of my arm, yearning with every breath to be closer to her ‌ closer than the laws of physics allows. Again she kissed me, my heart racing uncontrollably, sweat streaming down my brow as her body pressed further into mine. The smell of her filled my nostrils - lavender! I breathed her into me. Ripples of pleasure coursed through my entire nervous system. She turned and looked me in the eyes and I knew the words were true. She reached for my hand and pulled my arm around her as she sunk further into me. Our breathing intensified and her sighs filled the darkness with a song that knows no sadness and strums no pain; a melodic, rhythmic tune more beautiful than any orchestral chorus. We lay there in my dim-lit room engulfed by love in all its purity. For a moment, all my fears seemed foolish; all my apprehensions and all my 52
insecurities were made to seem immature. I felt I was finally ready to spend the rest of my life with her. “I love you,” she said. My world stopped. Outside, the birds woke. And just as sudden as the dawn’s crack of light, there came a dark, turbulent storm. The passion in her eyes dimmed with every passing hour. As the morning waned, so too did her warmth and tenderness; replaced by the cold, bitter reality of her temper. I felt her pain as if it were my own. I knew her fears. I shared her desolate nightmares of a shadowy figure bearing down on her. I feared she felt his hands on her with every stroke. Soon the malice replaced the love in her eyes with darkness. The lips that, hours before, had kissed me deeply, passionately, now tore at my heart with accusations of betrayal and humiliation. Shattered by her malevolence, I left our den, downtrodden and wounded, in search for solace. Dusk fell. I returned home expecting her to have left, only to find her waiting on our bed staring out through the window – sadness and silent tears in her eyes. I sat beside her and took in the view. In silence, we sat and admired the orange and red, the sun setting over the trees. They looked like angels. 53
She turned to me, fixing her tear-filled eyes on mine. I froze, uncertain as to what to do next. She crawled into my arms once more and kissed me. A long, passionate kiss, with tears streaming down her cheeks into my own. At that precise moment, I knew that I wanted to spend the rest of my life by her side. To feel her in my arms every night, to fall asleep on her warm chest to the pounding of her heart… Forever. She withdrew from our embrace and started gathering her things. Her expression was now one of regret. Perplexed, I watched as she struggled with her shoelaces. I made to kneel down and help her but she raised her hand to ward me off, a chill, stony expression on her face. “This was a mistake,” she said, and for the umpteenth time that day my world stopped. I stared on helplessly as she opened the door and walked out. She stood at the threshold for a moment and turned to look at me as if she wanted to say something, but didn’t. She left.
54
Chronicles Of A Falcon Heart Chinenye Emezie-Egwuonwu
Blue and red, fuchsia and pink swished around and about in the hall. The colourful ribbons were making a statement, one that says ‘I have no care in the world.’ They could up and go and settle at will as much as they wanted, wherever the wind took them. Only their aider and abettor, in this case, was the artificial air emitted by the air-conditioning system. Falcon kept her gaze on the long shiny materials, getting cross-eyed from watching the display, wishing she could join in their freestyle performance. Her concentration was interrupted when Kenzo waltzed into the hall. His suit tailored stuck to his frame to perfection. He was the groom tomorrow, an old flame of hers who decided that their friendship wasn’t worth the definition of the word. Backing out of their high 55
school graduation party at the last minute, literally, and leaving her to attend the event with her grumpy older brother, Lawrence, at the insistence of their dad. Falcon swore at the time never to have anything to do with him again, not that there was anything serious between them if the few stolen kisses they shared a number of times could qualify as unserious. Then three years later, their paths crossed again, this time in the university, and even though she had promised never to get involved with him ever again, she found herself falling for his boyish charms all over again. And history enjoyed the pleasure of repeating itself at her expense, although this time around, he had the decency to inform her he was in love with someone else. Falcon remembered it took every bit of breath in her being to resist breaking his head open with the vase on her desk. Who falls in love with someone they just met over the holidays in a spate of two weeks? Imagine her shock then when he walked through her office doors a little more than six weeks ago with a tall belle on his arm. Their recognition of one another was instant but the pleasure of their meeting unrequited. Looking at him now, his back to her, she has mixed emotions about her feelings. He turned around, almost immediately, and caught her looking up from her laptop. He took calculated steps towards her. 56
“Hi there.” “Hi to you too.” The conversation took the route of the mundane to the weather on the wedding day. Nothing that Falcon could shy away from. After all, it was in her job specs to provide clients with the weather report on the day of their event. But she could see from the way he looked at her that there was something else on his mind other than the weather. “Is anything the matter? Do you need to make any changes to the plans?” She hoped he’d give her an answer that would not require her working till almost midnight like she’d been doing in the past few weeks. “Nothing drastic, actually it’s a bit much more than that... it’s...” “What is it this time, Kenzo?” she said exasperated. “You and your fiancé have got to be the most indecisive bride and groom I’ve ever had to deal with. You’ve practically changed your plans over ten times already...” “Actually, I’m afraid this time it’s of a permanent nature.” “And what exactly do you mean by that?” Already having an idea of what he might be hinting at but needing clarity. 57
“You see Fal’, Mabel and I decided to take a break from the wedding...” he stopped letting the statement sink in. And sink in it did, for Falcon looked intently at him, before lowering her gaze to the file on her lap. Sighing as she flipped through to where she recorded their wedding plans. “So everything ends here and now?” she said marking asterisks on the notes. “Yes, and I know what you’re thinking, your agreed fee and all you’ve put into this whole process. “Actually, no I wasn’t thinking about that at all. Rather the time wasted, mine and yours.” “Oh that too. So what happens now?” he asked almost hesitantly. “You tell me, what would you like me to do?” “Well for starters, everything that needs to be done to cancel the whole arrangement. After that I was wondering if you could join me for a cup of coffee?” Falcon thought this was what her ears wanted. But her heart wanted none of it and sent a prompt message to her face to express her displeasure at his request. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to offend you. Just that I’ve 58
not been able to get you off my mind since that day I walked into your office.” “And when exactly did you decide this, Kenzo? When did you realise you couldn’t get me off your mind? Was it while you were eagerly going through wedding plans with your fiancé? Or when you were being measured for your suit? Or, wait, when you argued endlessly with Mabel about the size of the cake and she finally gave in to your choice? When, exactly, couldn’t you get me off your mind, Kenzo? ‘Cause from where I’m sitting I couldn’t possibly see myself in the grand charade that is your life, not back then and certainly not now.” And without waiting for him to respond, she got up quickly mouthing ‘you can find your way out’ and left. As livid as Falcon was, she surprised herself by laughing out loud and continued whilst hitting the steering wheel intermittently unable to control herself. She only stopped when she started getting curious stares from the other drivers in the parking bay. She doesn’t want him. She’s free of him. For a long time she’s wished and hoped for her heart to be free; to soar again. Now she knows Kenzo isn’t the wind she needs anywhere near her wings.
59
Serendipity Boipelo Maetla
Elizabeth woke up with a start and sat up in bed. She opened her eyes only to be blinded by the morning sun that filled her bedroom. She smiled as she remembered her dream. She closed her eyes again in an attempt to find her way back to one of the most breath taking dreams she had ever had. Elizabeth was not much of an extraordinary human being. A thirty-something year old wedding planner with a non-existent love life. As single as a dollar, Elizabeth was desperate for change. She had to wear a fake smile the day before at the office when yet another colleague announced that she was getting married. Although her voice said, “oh, I am so happy for you Juno”, her heart was crying to a solemn rhythm she had become too familiar with. A painful rhapsody; an ode to a lonely soul. “What is it 61
that I am doing wrong?” she wondered. “I need love. I NEED LOVE!” She almost said that loud enough for the people in the office to hear. “Are you okay?” asked Kathleen, her PA. “Yes, I am fine, I just need some air...” Elizabeth muttered as she paced away to the garden, leaving the office where everyone was still congratulating Juno who was now getting married for the second time. When Elizabeth arrived at that lonely place she called home, she called her sister, Decla, and they spoke for hours on the phone. Whenever they spoke, Elizabeth’s sister always reminded her about her high school love, Cian. Elizabeth and Cian had been together since seventh grade, but unfortunately Cian had to relocate to Cuba for university. “I will never forget you,” they would always say to each other. It was a sacred vow and it bounded them together so tightly. Elizabeth was tired of looking for love, with good reason. Having met so many that claimed so much and disappointed her all the time, she ended up believing that Cian was the only man who really understood her. To some it might have seemed like an obsession, how she held onto their high school pictures and letters, but 62
to her it was love. Cian was there when Elizabeth was in and out of hospital and had to go to therapy. He kept her sane throughout high school. No other man could tolerate her maniac episodes, no matter how much she tried to explain that it was not her fault. During those tough times it was Cian’s shoulder that she cried on, oblivious to the spark that still lingered between them. Elizabeth went to bed early. Sadness weighs a heavy burden on the shoulders of a lonely woman, indeed, she deserved to rest. In a matter of minutes, she was out like a light. Soon she was standing in a very arid place. An endless desert with a silence that gently kneaded the soul. Elizabeth looked around and saw a cave. From within, she heard a familiar song. She smiled. That song was playing when she and Cian first kissed. The music filled the air and she found herself walking through the entrance of the cave, inside, there he was. Wearing the same silver tuxedo he had worn to their Matric Ball. Cian held out his hands, reaching for Elizabeth who stood amazed by the candlelit dinner and champagne. “I have been waiting for you,” Cian said. “But, where are we?” Elizabeth muttered. “We are where we should be Liz, together,” he 63
whispered in response and held out his hand to Elizabeth, an invitation to dance. She took his hand. He gave a gentle pull and she followed his lead. They danced round and round. Their hearts beating in harmony. She had never been so happy. Suddenly, their beating hearts turned into a sharp she no longer recognised. Slowly the sharp tone turned into something she recognised. The alarm clock. Elizabeth reluctantly opened her eyes, looked around realising that it was time to get ready for work. A glimpse of her perfect reality had just been stripped away from her. As she stood to go and take a shower, Elizabeth’s phone rang. She frowned. So early in the morning. She answered. “Hello?” “Liz?” It was Cian...
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Her name was Georgie Sasha Ross
Her name was Georgie. Hers was the rather clichéd story of an only child, abused by an alcoholic father who, in a drunken fit of rage, often mistook her for her long-gone mother. Georgie’s mother left them, or rather ran away from them (so it seemed), on Georgie’s 9th birthday. Georgie lived in a dustbowl of a town somewhere in the South, where train tracks were the horizon and bitter men the view. The mothers’ prayer group met every day at 2pm sharp without fail. The gossip was always followed by a rather loud, robust prayer asking God to heal the drunkards and remove the one or two “liberals”. Georgie had one friend and one friend only – Benjy. Benjy and Georgie, it sounded like the title of a rather grand book perhaps, but in this story, it was the title 65
of inseparable, free-thinking best friends, inseparable since their mothers had both left them. Benjy and Georgie had just graduated from the local church-driven high school. They were intelligent students who both scored A’s for everything but Religious Studies., which was more like “why Christianity should stamp out every other religion (and special instruction on how to do so)”. They knew they were the subject of their mothers’ prayer group, at least once a week, and the source of many a complaint every other day. Benjy and Georgie thrived on this knowledge that they were so different yet craved another life, another town, more people and less clichés. One particularly hot day Benjy and Georgie pooled their life savings and bought two backpacks, two sleeping bags and two glorious train tickets. They were ready to leave their ironically God-forsaken town, their loveless fathers, ignorant youth and ashamed preacher. The goodbyes - though they didn’t say many - were easy and enthusiastic. That and the train schedule were the only things keeping them there. The following day, Benjy and Georgie walked to the outskirts of the town, to the train that would take them somewhere better, somewhere they deserved. They let go of everything that had happened to them over the 66
years: the heartache, the oppression of their free spirits, the loss and the sadness that shackled them to the town. Benjy and Georgie leaned into each other; they turned their faces to the beaming sun and let the shadows of the town fall behind them.
67
Almost Home Megan Ross
It’s the middle of the week and we’re on the N2, home bound. You’ve got the wheel, one hand steering and the other resting on the gear stick. First, third, fifth. You can do that with a close ratio gearbox, you know, but not other cars. Nah-uh, you’d stall before you even got your foot off the damn clutch. I’ve got the passenger seat stretched back like a lounger, one foot on the dashboard and the other out the window, jiggling the side view mirror with my big toe. The chain mom called tacky does jingly jangly hoola-hoops around my ankle, shooting a constellation of lights at my chest. You’re playing the album you just recorded, steering with your bony knees as you strum the air to your favourite parts. The guitar, your mistress, sitting upright all strapped in and shit on the back seat. Strum, flick, 69
pick. I never understood that impulse, your urgency to create. But it’s what I love about you. That’s what makes you mine, Baby. My shorts are too tight. I unzip them and feel my stomach loosen, close my eyes and breathe in the humidity. You’re counting the donkeys that you see. “There’s another,” you exclaim. That’s seventeen now. I bundle up a cardigan and lean against it, watching the populations of cows, sheep and goats as we plough into our province, marked now by the bumps and holes in the pockmarked tar. Dip, swerve, shift, brake. A plane thunders across the sky, sweeping the stratus into neat puffy lines. “I’m glad we’re doing this Baby,” I tell you. “Ja, so am I, Baby. Except, they drive like cowboys here.” You talk like I haven’t lived here all of my 24 years. Here in this province without rain or steady electricity and sometimes even water. They don’t care for rules or regulations, you tell me. That speeding limit is something to beat. I lean back, taking in all your sounds: the high chatter, the soft low mumbling. You in the front seat of this old 70
white skadonk, and me, wind slicing through the fingers that dip and dive out the window. I had a dream that I could fly last night. I grew these alabaster sea gull wings, sharp and feathery like those birds in Sea Point. And without knowing how I flapped them once and twice and then left the ground, forsaking earth for air and silence. You were on the ground looking up at me, until I waved and you grew wings too. Then we smiled and danced and swam through the air, laughing at how wonderful everything is. I woke up smiling and reached for your hand. Held it tight. I grab a naartjie out my bag and tear flesh from the peel. Bit by bit I toss the orange crescents out the window. Juice drips on my top, and I lean forward to suck the sweet dampness out the cotton. You laugh when you catch me doing it and punch me playfully in the leg. Then we both laugh, you at me and me at you and then I feel the sharpest bolt of happiness shoot through me, like my spine is growing again. I want to spend every minute of my life hearing this laughter, our joy. It fills the car until we’re floating, tyres off the ground, no longer bound to the tar. We’re giggling and rolling hysterically in our seats and you no longer need the steering wheel since we’re higher than even the Coca Cola trucks. 71
Below us the scarred veld looks almost-green and a cow crossing the road stops to watch our ascent, looking up at the rusted chassis, home bound and happy.
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