One Love…

She took me out on a picnic in the middle of winter. Thankfully it was a warm night. She had stolen her mothers picnic basket. Up the side of the hill we could see the car park and the night lights of the sparkling city hugging the bay. Perched among the brushes, we were out of sight of other couples.

“Tell me about your last boy friend” I asked her.

“He was nice.” She began. “he used to be in that big residence on campus. I dated him the year after I quit university and started working in town.”

“He was black” I asked. For the country we were in, it was not an inappropriate question. Everyone has a color. A nation of colors.

“Yeah he was black. Black just like me”

She was wearing her hood over her head and her arms were wrapped around her knees. I could just see her cheeks peak into the light from the street lamps and her teeth bright to her brown skin.

“He was really nice. I would get back from work late. He would have cooked for me and everything. Rice, meat and vegetables. We would eat in his room and play music off his Hi-fi. He liked Celine Dion but I didn’t mind. He was really sweet. He grew up in a township in Joberg. He told me that he was the youngest boy in the family and spent a lot of time with is mum. That was how he learnt to cook so well. He even sang the songs his mother sang when she was cooking.”

“A black man cooking for his girl friend? I asked alarmed. “This is unprecedented! I don’t believe this story already.”

“Well he was real sweet” she continued. “Some times I would get back from work and find he had ran the bath for me, steaming hot with bubbles in it. I know it was just a residence bath in those skanky university residences with chipped tiles and a tiny mirror, but it was nice. He would light candles and put the music up in the his room so we could hear it. The other flat mates usually studied late at the library, anyway”

“What a charmer” I said. “Why did you ever let him go? Are you sure he was black? Maybe he was just raised by a wild pack of white people in the bush somewhere”

“Very funny” she said, not amused. Her teeth shone in the poor light.

“He would bathe me. Ever so slowly, and hum one of those songs his mother taught him. Soaping me with a rough old sack piece for scrubber and use Palmolive soap. But he was gentle and there was a lot of lather in the bath so he didn’t scratch me. I liked it. I liked the attention”

“I think I like him too, now” I joked. “What is his number? I could do with a long bath by candle light after a long day at the office.” To this she laughed and it made her feel a little at ease I think. She seemed to be getting a little serious up until that point. She hadn’t even budged in her seating position in a while. Though she kept rubbing her nose on her knees every now and then and sniffing because she was cold. I rubbed her shoulders and poured her more wine.

“You slept with him of course, right?” I asked. “Such a charming guy, how could you resist?”

With a distant look her eyes she said “Yes I did. Well, we had sex, often.”

“What was he like? I don’t mean how big was his dick or anything, I just mean, was he still gentle?” I asked though really I did want to know how big his dick was, given that he was so sweet and romantic. My guess was he was compensating for something.

“No, he was nice” she said, though being vague, as people so often are about sex. But then she went on.

“I would sleep in his bed in his room. I would not go back to my mums house in the township those nights. It was so far. Besides, my mum thought I was at my friends house.”

“That’s what friends are for” I chirped.

She continued, in a lower voice now. “He liked sleeping with me a lot. I liked it too. Really.” She looked a little shy when she said this and let loose a an embarrassed smile.

“We would have sex maybe once or twice in bed before we went to sleep. We wouldn’t talk then, or even make much noise since the other students in the flat might hear us. He could be a bit rough some times but I liked it. He never said anything when we were having sex”

“Why din’t you tell him” I said. “That he was rough.” But then she continued like she didn’t hear me.

“Some times I would get home really tired from work. It was then that I had two jobs. One doing promotions and the other recruiting students in town for sales. I would not even eat his food and go straight to bed before ten even. He didn’t mind that I didn’t eat the food. But then, sometimes he would wake me up in the middle of the night. I would tell him I didn’t want to but he would insist. At such times when we were doing it, I would feel like I was some one else.

“Oh dear” I said, running out of clever things to say.

“But that wasn’t so bad. But then once…” and she went quiet for a bit. I put my hand on her shoulder as if it would help the words out of her mouth. “Once….” she continued, swallowing heavily “I refused. I just told him ‘no’. He got upset. He just did it with me anyway. He got on top of me. He was really rough. I was so scared.” She said this very calmly, looking at the grass next to her, away from me. Her lips barely moved.

“Jesus” I said.

“He did that a couple of times.” Then she went silent for a long time. Quiet for so long, I began to take notice of cars racing along the mounting road now and then. I could hear some noises rising from the city. I began to make out vans and trucks going up and down the quay at the harbour. I did not know what to say. Then she continued “after that happened a few times…….I stopped going to his flat. I went home instead. I didn’t even sleep at my friends place nearby where my mum would think I would go. I was scared to meet him. I wouldn’t know what to say to him”

“He raped you” I said. “That is awful”. It was awful. She didn’t cry though. Then she looked at me, straight at me. I felt judged. “I would never hurt you” I said.

We packed up the pick-nick when it was getting too cold. I rubbed her hands and gave her a hug. The skin on her face was cold and so was mine.

“Men are like that” I said. “They hurt women.” And then I asked after a pause “Do you ever see him?”

“I do. He has a girlfriend now. She seems nice. They look happy”

One Wheel Off

When the alarm goes off in the morning, the first thing I do is get up out of bed, pick it up, switch it off and get right back into bed. The alarm is on my out dated cell phone. The type that take crappy pictures and have not yet heard of the internet. Sometimes I can’t find it though, and the noise from the blasted thing gets louder and louder as I get more and more impatient and awake. These are times when I have left it in the pocket of my work trousers and I can’t find the wretched thing for the sleep festering in my eyes still. At such times I marvel at the mans trousers, the ingenious puzzle, with no back or front, cavernous with countless pockets and dropping all manner of paraphernalia such as watches, wallets, pens and cards but no buzzing alarm clock cell phone. This particular morning however, I found the screaming thing on the dressing table without any problem.

 

Under dawn parlor creeping past the curtains, the debate begins. The debate in my head, that is. ‘Did I say I was going to go jogging this morning?’ I will ask my self rhetorically. ‘Yes I did’ answering my own question. Then continue ‘That is why you set the alarm for 6am you schmuck’. I will then start to search for excuses for not being able to jog this particular morning. Thinking things like ‘I can’t go jogging, I don’t know where my shorts are’ or ‘I am not that fat’ or ‘I need the rest so I can be alert at work today. Besides, I can jog tonight after work.’ But then again I will think ‘you know your too fed up from work to go jogging after and you promised you would go jogging three times this week’ and add ‘you didn’t do the big jog this weekend, or the last, and you only went jogging twice last week.’ And the mind will rage with its self, both sides knowing full well that they are each vacillating in order to allow my self to fall asleep again, which I inevitably do. Then I get up in a shock ten minutes later, worried that it is 10am and I am dreadfully late for work. Some times one side wins and I get into my vest, shorts and trainers and run out the door. Some times not. This morning went jogging.

 

This is Monday morning I am talking about. Of late it has come to be the morning of extreme panic and anxiety. Anxiety about both long term and short term insecurities. Worried about my soon to expire contract and worried about my career (or the lack of it) which quickly gets embroiled into worrying about the meaning of my life. Worry about the rent and how much money I have spent that I should not have. The Jog usually emboldens me. Gets me thinking ‘if I could get out and run for half an hour at six in the morning then sure as hell can make a plan for my life’. This, however, was not working this morning. The palpable stress had been building in my guts over the weekend.

 

The weekend did not get to a good start. Late that Friday evening, when I thought I was putting the finishing touches to a master piece Excel spreadsheet I was accosted by the nefarious boss. He roared at me, after reading my progress report email of two days ago, that I was working on the wrong cost centers making my last 5 days of effort near wasted. To rub it in, he then proceeded to lecture me about being in the real world and no longer in an academic ivory tower. “The problem with you Jumani is that you think your in an academic institution” he quipped, as he has done time and time before.

 

I dodged my house mates that evening, as I have done Friday after Friday. Their rapacious appetite for loud music and expensive drinks I have grown tired of. Not least because I can’t barely afford such outings in one of Europe’s most expensive cities. Of course they often are kind enough to cover a few drinks for me now and then. Heck they might even cover my entrance fee. But to save face on such nights I do, now and again buy a round of drinks. The bill is always galling and the pride of providing the water of life never quite matches the financial sting and indignation coursing through my blood ahead of the alcohol. No, instead I met Sheri for just one drink at a pub. Then we had Pizza Express on the south bank of the Thames River.

 

Sheri is my Canadian friend. Or as I say when I introduce her ‘she is my Canadian friend from South Africa who is Chinese from Malaysia and in London.’ Though she is genuinely Canadian. This is proved by her determination to make the world better by means of vegetarianism, social democracy and environmentalism. However, she doesn’t say ‘aiy’ very much (as they do in that movie Fargo).

She is a good listener Sheri. She will absorb all my self pity, even on a Friday night. Best of all she gives advice. She tells me what to do, how to get out of my predicament. She says ‘phone this person’ and ‘dial this number’ and ‘send that email’ and I walk away feeling all the stronger and do none of what she has instructed. This Friday night I did actually try listen to her quite a bit as well. She has a new job on the west coast as a flood managing environmentalist, though her heart is with development work.

 

Saturday was taught with anxiety. Not about my wasting life this time, however. Instead about the third installment of house party set for the evening. The house, as usual, was a mess. Shopping to be done, grass to cut, bulbs to replace, music to mix and chicken to spice. The guests came, the music was loud, I got drunk, I danced a lot, I couldn’t find any good music on my house mates computers, two boys nearly fought, Sheri left early, Laurence was stressed about disturbing the neighbors, I slept in my clothes next to a girl who also slept in her clothes with a promise never to have sex before marriage.

 

Then it was Sunday, and the house was a mess again. The hangover from all the vodka and beer was surprisingly light and perhaps a symptom of all the dancing I did. I danced with my self mostly. Laurence was gone to work by 10am. He made me jealous for a job I would dare attempt on a Sunday hangover. Instead, my week days are spent longing for Friday, and my weekends lost to dreading the approaching Monday. I tried to read a book about slavery and failed. Together with the remaining house mates and a girl friend of one of them, Barbara, we shopped for African Ndeo, cooked a pap with chicken, Delele and Rape. We watched tv, settled bills and went to bed. All of us sullen and fully aware of the inevitable Monday to follow.

 

That is how Monday came so quick. I expected to live a whole life between Friday evening and Monday morning. And when that fateful morning finally came, I felt, yet again, I had failed to live. Failed to be drunk enough, save enough, read enough and laugh enough.

 

Work today was not long though. Or my ten hours there did not feel so long. To be honest Mondays never a drag. Tuesdays drag though. And so do Wednesdays. They are in the middle of nowhere. Neither just after the weekend or just before another. Monday is still the first working day of a new week. The office was busy today. Meetings all over the place, new faces and others returned from holiday. There was Veron, the nefarious bosses private assistant to chirp everyone up with enquiries and enthusiasm for the mediocrities of your life. “Hello Jumani, how are you doing? Everything alright” she will ask, like a nurse checking in on her favorite patient. We all get the same treatment however. Again I lied to her and told her I was fine, which is what I think she wants to hear.

 

Best of all, I spoke to the boss not once all the day.

 

It rained this afternoon. Cloudy all day, and certainly raining when I got out the building. The trip home is the most pleasant session of the day for me. A bus ride, a wait at Victoria for a train and then, best of all, a train ride. An over land train, from where you can see all the builds twist and turn in a slow dance as the train winds past. To float above all the dreary red bricks and rain soaked high streets. It is the best part of the day for two sure reasons. Firstly, I can read a book right through it and always do so. Secondly, work is behind me and home is ahead.

 

The cozy mood was lost though when I found my bike, or what was left of it at the station. The front wheel had been stolen. The back wheel and frame remained locked to the pole with my D-lock. I had been visited by one of the charms of South East London. The bus driver let me on the bus with my one wheeled bicycle.

 

Tomorrow will be Tuesday.

Marble Arch

I get an hour off for lunch. I would rather spend it with Facebook at my desk but using the internet is against the rules my archaic office. So instead it is two bananas and The Kite Runner on the bench next to the Marble Arch. And I mean right next to the very arch, with its surrounding flags and traffic. A maelstrom of black cabs and London buses circling the moribund arch and its grass and benches.

The tunnel, under the traffic, up to the arch smells of urine and tourists can’t figure out which exit they want, while standing next to the gypsy begging for money. I sit in my usual spot, not quite in the sun and not quite in the shade of the tree. Hyde park is beyond, green and lush.

A loud guttural belch rocks the bench before I can take in even a paragraph. To my right is a white male, with stubble for beard and hair.

I smile and say “Well done!”

He smiles with a messy grin that reveals pink gums and teeth in a muddle.

“Thank you” replies with an English accent. A kind of blue collar accent though.

We make eye contact, that rare exercise on big city streets. There is usually a punishment for showing such weakness. This could bring on any number of unwanted experience such as conversation about the weather, the weak end (coming or gone) or worse still…the transport system. This man on the bench instead has an unusual follow up to his on usual manners.

“Your half Indian aren’t you?” he asks me.

“No” I say.

“Where you from then.” At this point in conversation I usually hesitate. Most of them not heard of Zambia. And then I explain the geography which mentions the name Zimbabwe, which brings on unnecessary alarm. “it peaceful” I assure them. But no, this man is not interested.

“Your like me” he says, smiling with his cluttered teeth and showing those pink gums. “half white – half black, right?” I smile to confirm.

“I knew it!” he beams. “Let me guess, your mums white and your dads black right?”

“Not quite” I reply. It is the other way around. “My mums black. She is from Zambia” To my relief, he is not interested in Zambia.

“I am from India he says”

There is the smell of alcohol from somewhere. The man on the other side of me on the bench makes his leave. He had only just sat down. I wonder if he knows where this conversation I am in might lead. He leaves me wondering what I have gotten my self into.

“You’re a from fucking Zambia then?” he says smiling. He says everything smiling. He has only a slight slur. He is so pale, his near bold head glistening in the sun. “You must know a lot of things then?” he says more stating than asking.

“You must know about Castro and communism” he blurts out, and takes a swig out his bottle of drink in a plastic bag.

“Well I know who he is” I reply, not quite sure what to say. But before I can add to that he says
“Castro was a fucking cunt.”
“He was I ask?” no really getting interested in the conversation. I think he noticed this because he talked about Castro a lot that afternoon. Always, calling him a fucking cunt.

“Yes he is a fucking cunt” he says again.
“Why do you say that?” I ask.
“You know why? I will tell you why, because he fucked up Cuba. He fucked it up. You there and everything is fucked up.”
“but I thought the people of Cuba loved Castro” I interject.
“yes they love him but he is still a cunt. Fucked everything up. I been there you know. I been to Cuba. Have you been there? No? Well I have and its all fucked up. Castro is a fucking cunt”

“Well he has done a lot you know. That revolution and the people of Cuba are happy right?” I ask him, trying not to let him run the conversation all the time.

“I don’t give a fuck. He’s a fucking cunt. He is Spanish you know.”

“Who Castro? Really?” I say generally surprised. Now I don’t know so much about Castro actually. Maybe there is a good bio out there I should read. And perhaps this gentleman has read such a biography or who knows, be Castro’s grand child. But still, I had good reason to be suspicious of any man in London freely dishing out conversation.

“He is from Spain. I am Spanish you know” he says, as if to validate his claims about Castro’s nationality.
“But I thought you said you were Indian” I said, hoping to catch him out.
“My mothers Spanish. I grew up in fucking Spain my man” he said.

Oh God I thought. I am now his man. How am I ever going to get out of this I thought. I had already given up on the book by now. This Kite Runner by Khaled Hosseini was not all it was hyped to be I was beginning to discover. The story, with all it betrayal and loyalty between men, looking right past all the women sidelined in the story, was beginning to seem very ordinary. So I did not mind so much chatting away with the fucking cunt talk. But he half Indian was getting very excited and animated. He was moving closer to me on the bench. Our elbows, which we both threw back over the back support of the bench, were now almost touching.

However, other encounters with strange men in big cities before have not been very pleasant. Three young men beat me and robbed me just 5 months earlier. In Cape Town two men (yes they were black) gave me such a fright I just ran. One in Geneva, who only spoke French to me, put his leg between mine and jiggled it and chanted a football song. He was amusing himself and his friends. They all laughed and so did I, though I thought I was being molested. Ten minutes after that I realized my phone was gone. But he back laughing and gave it back. That is Geneva for you.

“Castro and I were born in the same village in Spain. In the same fucking hospital. Can you believe that man. HE is a fucking cunt. He fucked up Spain. Spain was fucked up in the 40’s and 50’s man. Castro fucked it up”

Now I was beginning to wonder. Spain? Even for lunch time entertainment, this was beginning to seem rather fanciful. I took to reading the not so enthralling book about honor and betrayal.

“What you reading man” he asked like we known each other long and I replied like he was an old friend. I showed him the cover too.

“Don’t read that book man” he said. “That book is fucking shit”

“Really” I asked, genuinely looking for his opinion.

“Don’t read that shit, I will tell you what to read” he said. I knew he hadn’t read this book. It was just an opening for him to tell me what book he has read.

“I will tell which book to fucking read. Read this book by Herman Hesse. Its about the guy who started Buddhism. Can you fucking believe that? It’s a great fucking book. Read that book. Fucking read it! I am telling you man, it a good book, a great fucking book”

“Ok I will read it”

“Write it down” he said. Through all this he smiles, showing his pink gums. I smile too, with a slight frown. A frown in part because I can’t believe this conversation but in part from the bright sunshine making a rare July appearance. I take out a piece of paper, some old boarding pass that is doubling as a page keeper. He spells the name and title for me. Siddarta by Herman Hesse.

He then proceeds to prattle on about how good the book is. He mentions no other book, except one other book by Herman Hesse he says he has half read. But still “Read that fucking book”.

Just then the hobo spread-eagled on the grass in front of us come to life. His long unkempt beard and hair like an extension of the grass under him. His skin red from drink and exposure to the sun. He too has a plastic bottle of something cheap and foul in a plastic bag. It says on the side in bright red ‘$2.35’.

Then my half Indian friend says “He Mick! You want a fag man. I will give you a fucking fag.” In response Mick only grunts.

Mick is slowly coming to life. Freeing himself from the grass. It is a struggle. The grass is pulling at him, holding him down. The Mick fumbles through his untidy clothes of red sweater and scraggy trouser. Both too big for him and decorated with bits of dead grass. Mick pulls out a cigarette finally. I see that my Indian friend is rolling his own cigarette from a bag of Tobacco.

“Mick, you want a fag man?” to which Mick replies in grunts. It seems Mick only speaks in grunts. But the Indian man understands what he wants. Mick wants a light. Mick collapses back into the grass. The grass has won. The Indian gets off the bench, bends over to light Mick’s cigarette and returns to my bench. Sitting even closer to me this time. I am glad that my wallet is in the opposite pocket from the Indain.

The conversation goes on about cunts and bastards. The English are arrogant he says. They want to build an empire. I told him their empire has already crumbled. He smiles. He does most of the talking while I point out little things from his already long list of observations. He is pleased by these interjections. He taps me on the shoulder in appreciation. We are like brothers now.

“Religion is the root of all evil” he said when he denied being a Budhist (since he like the book by Herman Hesse so much).

He had opinion about many things. He said I was intelligent, that is why he liked talking to me. It made me wonder where people get the notion that I am intelligent. I cannot not escape this ubiquitous assumption people make about me.

The Indian told me he would visit a whore house later. “Only twenty pounds in Soho, man.” He said there were lots around. He would take me if I wanted, which was where the me getting robbed would take place I thought.

Many people had sat next to us and left in the mean time. I think in part to escape the site of two strangers having a conversation in a city. A girl sat next to me across the bench. She ate a sandwich and read a book

“Look at those tits man” he said, not hushing his voice enough. “You can have that whore for free man. Go tell her you want to suck her tits” he said.

I looked at her and considered sucking her tits. Then I considered asking her. Then I turned to the Indian and said “I would rather not”

“C’mon man!” he said. He smiled some more, showing more pink gums and his tiny teeth. How could some one so pale be from India and Spain I wondered.

“Ok I will tell her” he said and stood up. I jolted into action. I was smiling and indignant, feeling embarrassed already.

“No!” I protested. “Sit down I said.” I had just met the man and already I was policing him like a younger brother. Yet he is thirty. He told me so, right before I told him my age. “twenty six” I said, feeling silly for telling the truth to a stranger.

“Look” I pleaded. “Some people just like to sit by themselves and not talk to any one for lunch, just like you said.” I was using his own wisdom against him “they stone wall you as you said.”

“Ok I won’t” he said, very pleased with himself. “I like you”

Later a middle age couple in sun glasses sat next to him. They were from Spain. And would you believe, the Indian spoke Spanish to them. Not well, but the had a whole conversation. I got up to leave.

“Nice talking to you” he said. My name is Antonio”