Africa: December 2007 Archives
I listen and I think of my childhood.
'I could have been someone. Well so could anyone. You took my dreams from me, when I first found you' - The Pogues & Kirsty McColl, Fairytale of New York
Mom on the couch, cigarette in one hand, knees curled up under her, skirt moving higher and higher as the drink kicks in. Dad in his chair, newspaper on his lap making us keep quiet while the news is on. Simmering tension in the room as they wrestle with their choices.
The Christmas cards are all stuck up on the wall. Holly, snow, robins, mistletoe. I've never seen mistletoe before and I wonder if it's magic. If you kiss under the mistletoe will you find true love? My teenage self, desperately romantic, hopes so.
Christmas is high drama. Twenty or more assorted family members and no-one knows if mom will get drunk.
Not just drunk, incapable drunk.
Not just tipsy, but helpless, mascara streaked tears and beautiful blue eyes full of pain.
Until then we'll sit under the bauhinia tree on lawn chairs and dig at each other. Gran will tight-lippedly do the dishes on the back verandah at around four when she disapproves of the conversation.
Dad will complain about the weather.
Uncle T will tell tasteless jokes to mom in the pantry and try to get her to drop her pants when she's at the cusp of had enough and had too much. My cousins will tease me mercilessly.
The Christmas lights will twinkle in the bright sunlight. We'll all drink tea and eat cake.
We have so much to be thankful for. Let's count our blessings.
Thank god for the servants, even though they have the day off. Thank god for Gran whose making three different kinds of cake and all the desserts. Thank god that Uncle T will be bringing his booze and then taking it all home again. Thank fucking Christ that we'll be playing happy families and pretending we all love each other while the sun beats through the humid air.
And silently we wonder when we'll see a better time? When will all our dreams come true?
The memories bitter, yet so familiar, knife-sharp and clear and I miss it.
I want it back, even with all the anguish. I miss my Mama, but she's 2000 miles away.
So happy Christmas, I love you.
They're only little tears, darling, let them spill
And lay your head upon my shoulder
Outside my window the world has gone to war
Are you the one that Ive been waiting for?
- Nick Cave & The Bad Seeds, Are you the one that I've been waiting for.
The tennis ball flips lazily from one side of the court to the other. Tanned, smooth, effortlessly hairless, teenage legs chase the ball.
Backhand, forehand, volley.
White socks with bobbles above white-washed plimsolls, painted every weekend to keep them white.
Green skirts short, slips of white bikini showing when they dip to hit the ball. White t-shirts pulled tight across suddenly full breasts.
The tennis teacher, Flash, he's called, leaning back characteristically on his heels and surveying the sea of hormones in front of him.
The best player is blond and cheeky. Her C-cup passes her in Maths and advances her in tennis. She has curls, good teeth, and an impish face. Even at 14 she knows how to stand close to the teacher, how to show the most flesh when she swings for the ball.
The ball slams, hits the faded clay, catches in the ancient net. The racquets squeak. Shoes thump.
The sun shines on and trickles of sweat run down the back of the tanned knees.
Circles of sweat start to form in the armpits of the clean white shirts. Beads form on noses. The ball slams.
Mid-afternoon and tennis ends, just as cricket starts.
The few boys, favourites of the tennis teacher, lift themselves from the shade of the hut, where they've been watching the play. Punching each other, horsing around, they pretend not to care.
Lanky and loping, they leave to chase different balls on a different field.
If I don't break a sweat, it ain't as good as it gets. - Beth Hart, As Good As It Gets
The veranda. Wide and low.
Soft darkness in contrast to the glaring October light.
Green gauze over the window apertures to keep out the flies. Whitewashed walls, paint flaking if you rub against it.
Inside, cool oxblood floors, polished to a high shine by the Boy and his polisher. Whirring and whining every morning at 7o'clock.
The electric fan on top of the gramophone, limply distributing the air. The heat pulling the life out of you.
Dad fiddling with the radio to get a station through the static. Eventually giving up and settling for torpid silence.
Ochre plastic leather covered chairs sticking to the backs of your
legs where your skirt rides up. A sucking sound when you shift in your
seat. You want to fling your legs apart and hook them over the sides of the chair, but that's impolite so you keep them together and squirm in your chair.
You really want to lie down on the cool floor like the dogs, who pant and salivate in the heat.
Kleintje the fox terrier lies on her side, panting, chest heaving, in an effort to cool down.
Tea in a metal teapot. The green knitted tea cosy made by one of the aunts pointlessly covering the teapot. All delivered by the Boy on a tray with four cups, sugar basin, hot water, teaspoons.
'Bloody Boy forgot the milk again. Can you tell him to bring it?'
'Ephraaaaim, milk!'
The conversation drags on about crops, rain, mielies, Boys and their wives, incest, polygamy, the goat herder and his penchant for fucking the goats. Having to call the vet for the goats and why can't he just be normal and keep it in his trousers.
'Jeepers, did you see that Juliet's husband beat her again. These people. Drink and fight. You can't do anything with them. It's not surprising they can't govern themselves.'
A sigh, and then the subject changes.
'Mmm. Do you want another cup of tea?'
