Coconut (12 page)

“The world is grown so bad that wrens make prey where eagles dare not perch.”

At this point, of course, I had long stopped listening and was writing out my corrections at the back of my test book. I had listened with heartfelt concern the first time he’d come home crying (this was years ago) and taken earnest notice the second time, but by the third or fourth time I realised it made no difference whether I listened or not. He was speaking to himself, and all he wanted me to say was “Yes, Uncle.”

“They use me, Fikile.”

So what if they used him? He had messed up his own life. He had messed up all the grand opportunities he once had to be something and now some kind white people had been nice enough to give him a job and he had the audacity to complain about it. It didn’t matter what the job involved, it wasn’t like he was killing people or anything. I had problems of my own. I deplored school and was trying my best to stay out of trouble by doing my corrections like Mrs. Ralefetha had said, but it was difficult to concentrate with the intermittent “Yes, Uncle,” I had to say.

“I mind my own business, Fikile.”

“Yes, Uncle.”

“I sit in my chair at the security desk and read my books and mind my own business.”

“Yes, Uncle.”

“I love my books. You know I love my books?”

“Yes, Uncle.”

“My Hamlet, my kings – Richard and Lear – my Julius Caesar, my Antony and Cleopatra, my beautiful but yet so tragic Romeo and Juliet.”

“Yes, Uncle.”

“Ah, but some rise by sin and some by virtue fall.”

“Yes, Uncle.” And there he’d go again, weeping disgracefully.

“Oh Fikile, when Mr Dix approached me at my humble security desk and inquired about the books I read, I was only honoured to share with him the might, the mastery and supremacy that lay within those pages.”

“Yes, Uncle.”

“But he is mad that trusts in the tameness of a wolf, a horse’s health, a boy’s love or a whore’s oath. I was a fool.”

“Yes, Uncle.”

“Was I a fool, Fikile?”

“Yes, Uncle.”

“Oh!” he would wail, “You are right, I
am
a fool!”

And then I, startled out of my corrections and back into the sorry reality of the present, would realise that was one of those moments when I was supposed to say “No, Uncle” instead of “Yes, Uncle.” But there were few moments like those, so I paid them no mind, except to quickly rectify things with a “No, Uncle.” Then he would cease wailing and get back to his whining, which was only slightly less aggravating.

“No, Uncle.”

“No, you are right, Fikile, I was a fool. I should have known those heavy white men in their dry-cleaned suits were not interested in my sonnets but in my black skin.”

“Yes, Uncle.”

“But how was I to know, Fikile? How was I to know?” he would ask, his eyes fast filling to the brim, pleading. Such a twerp, I thought. Such a sorry, pathetic, little twerp.

“Oh, what men dare do! What men may do! What men daily do, not knowing what they do!”

“Yes, Uncle.” I loathed this man.

“What a piece of work man is.” He loved this, did Uncle. He loved the backstroke and freestyle in his private soup of sorrow.

“Yes, Uncle.”

“It is a curse, Fikile, to have a heart as big as mine.”

“Yes, Uncle.”

“Today we went to Hyde Park, to the offices of Borman-Nkosinathi. Tall buildings, glass doors.”

“Yes, Uncle.”

“They dressed me up in a brown suit with yellow lines. I chuckled to myself as I put it on in our security officer’s box. Me, in a brown suit with yellow lines, Fikile! I looked like a real Sexwale!”

“Yes, Uncle.”

“But all that glitters is not gold,” he whispered, his thick lower lip trembling.

“Yes, Uncle.”

“We drove in Mr Dix’s car and I sat in the front seat.”

“Yes, Uncle.”

“I always sit in the front seat on the way to the meetings and in the back seat when I am sent home.”

“Yes, Uncle.”

“He said, Mr Dix, he said that he was very proud of me and that I should be proud of myself, too. He said he wished more of the employees could be like me and show such loyalty to the company.”

“Yes, Uncle.”

“I laughed to myself, Fikile, sitting there in the front seat of Mr Dix’s Jaguar. It was really me! And Mr Dix, the CEO of Lentso Communications, was telling me that he was very proud of me and that he wished more employees could be more like me. Ha! Imagine that!”

“Yes, Uncle.”

“But then when we arrived at Borman-Nkosinathi and were getting out of the car, he took me aside and said that it would probably be better if I did not speak at the meeting that day. I was dismayed at that because, well, I don’t know if you know, but I do like to speak very much. But nevertheless, what can one say? The boss had spoken.”

“Yes, Uncle.”

“He said they would once again introduce me as Silas Nyoni, their Black Economic Empowerment partner, and newly appointed Operations Manager of Lentso Communications. Today’s plan was that Laurie, Mr Dix’s personal assistant, would rush in during the meeting with Borman-Nkosinathi and say that I was urgently needed at the offices. Then I would be hurried out and taken back to my security box. I imagine they were afraid I would say something senseless that would give them away, so Mr Dix signalled to Laurie earlier than planned and I was rushed out soon after the introductions.”

“Yes, Uncle.”

“I would not have said something senseless, Fikile. I do not know why they think these things about me. I would never do anything to jeopardise Lentso Communications! That company is my bread and butter.”

“Yes, Uncle.”

“I managed to steal a brief look at the agenda for the meeting, Fikile, and there were some pretty compelling topics on there. I deem if they had given me half the chance, let me stay just a little while, I might have been able to add something useful, something salutary, to their discussion.”

“Yes, Uncle.”

“Of course they only think of me as a security guard.

But there’s things about me those white men do not know, Fikile. And I just think sometimes that maybe if I spoke up, said something profound or gave an insightful suggestion, then maybe they’d see that there’s more to the security officer than black skin and Shakespeare. Maybe they’d see that I belong in that brown suit with yellow stripes.”

“Yes, Uncle.”

“In my mind’s eye, I am Silas Nyoni.”

“Yes, Uncle.”

“But they see nothing.” He’d say this with such despair that I might have felt sorry for him if I didn’t know better.

“Yes, Uncle.”

“Laurie made me take off the suit in the back seat, Fikile. How does a grown man such as myself undress like a child in the back seat of a car?”

“Yes, Uncle.”

“And then they give me another radio and a pat on the back as if I were some circus animal, rewarded for performing a clever trick. If it wasn’t for me, Fikile – me, Silas Nyoni – they would never be making the deals I am making for them. Those white men don’t realise that I am compromising my moral beliefs to make them billions. One day they’ll lose me and they’ll be sorry.”

I did not respond this time. I was afraid if I opened my mouth I would retch. If he resented the job so much why didn’t he simply stop doing it? ‘Oh, I’m a godly man, Fikile.’ Sniff-sniff. ‘Just trying to live an honest life, Fikile.’ Sniff-sniff. ‘I am a man more sinned against than sinning.’ Sniff-sniff. Bullshit. Absolute bullshit! Uncle knew very well that from that first day when Mr Dix asked him to read him passages from his books and asked him to recite the poetry, Uncle lauded over everyone; he was being interviewed, assessed and evaluated for the position of black fake senior partner/CEO/co-founder/ financial director or whatever position it was that spoke of transformation at Lentso Communications.

Uncle reads the papers. In fact, Uncle reads more papers than most! This whole thing of using nameless black faces as pawns for striking black economic empowerment deals was nothing new and he knew it. He delighted in it. The man celebrated it! Sweet, gentle Uncle with the ‘world’s biggest heart’ was no security guard: he’d weep right through any break-in. No, Uncle loved the soft life, yearned for the soft life, lived for the soft life, just like everyone else. He revelled in those moments when he’d be wearing striped suits and sit in the front seat while Laurie sat in the back. Uncle was just another hungry black man, hungry for a piece of the pie just like the rest of us.

But what infuriated me and drove me absolutely out of my mind with indignation was that Uncle wanted to eat his pie and then have us feel sorry for him because it was making him fat. Uncle is a liar and a fake. He dotes on his new position as fake black bigshot of

Lentso Communications. He knows very well it’s all he’s good for. Hell, he should be grateful for such an opportunity! Not everybody gets a second shot at the good life. He is pathetic as a security guard and probably would have been fired by now if they hadn’t found out that he spoke English so well. He should be bloody grateful, the bloody twit.

I am relieved that the time for sleep is over and I am already thinking about all the great happenings that today may have in store. Waking up is always a thrilling time for me because it presents a new and fresh chance at life filled with endless possibilities. Sleep is an unnecessary luxury and I generally do what I can to avoid it. In sleep you lose all control and are vulnerable to the many monsters of the night. In sleep you waste precious hours that may have been used to plan great things and make purposeful strides towards your dreams, like my Project Infinity. Only infants and senile people really need sleep. The rest are simple, weak and lazy.

I am glad it is time again to leave this hole. I have been possessed by a spirit of vigour in the night and today will go out filled with courage and determination, my mind attentive for any opportunity that may come my way. Perhaps today will be the day, that day, the one I will call ‘the day my life turned around’, the one I will look back at when I am rich and famous living in Project Infinity and laugh and shake my head and take a sip of a frozen martini and think to myself, ‘Did you ever imagine it would be like this?’ I have not a cent in the bank nor very much of an education, but a heart so heavy with ambition that it may just fall to the depths of my stomach if Project Infinity is not realised.

Yes, I have been weak and lazy of late, feeling tired and crying into my pillow. But all that has come to an end now and I am officially back in the game. I have realised that there is no gain in feeling sorry for oneself, it really is a shameful thing to do, common to the likes of Uncle, who sit and nap their lives away and then cry into the night expecting the rest of us to comfort them as if they did not bring their wretched states upon themselves.

I knew in advance when it was going to happen. I could tell because Uncle would always have that sorry look on his face when he came back home from work. I’d be sitting on the kitchen floor still in my school uniform writing out my mathematics or practising my English readings when I would hear him dragging his feet through the dirt past the Tshabalala’s house to our one-bedroom hovel at the end of the Tshabalala’s garden.

Ous Joy, Mr. Tshabalala’s eldest daughter, would squeal her usual “Very good evening to you, Uncle, and you are how today?” from their kitchen window, hoping that the man she’d flirted with for years would say more than his usual “Very well, my sweet Joy, very well. Good night, good night! Parting is such sweet sorrow.” But on those evenings when it happened, Uncle would not respond to his sweet Joy, whom he also secretly admired. He never had the guts to do anything about it in fear of Mr. Tshabalala’s quick temper. On those nights when it happened he’d simply nod a sad hello to her and pass.

Of course there was always the chance that I had not heard his “Very well, my sweet Joy, very well. Good night, good night! Parting is such sweet sorrow,” so I would close my books, clear the floor and stand facing the front door so I could see what kind of expression he had on his face when he walked in. And if it was that sorry look… that sorry, pathetic ‘Oh, woe is me’ look, then I would know that tonight would be one of those nights when it would happen.

I would try to cheer him up. I would try to cheer him up with all my might. I would run and take his bags and hurriedly return with his worn slippers in my hand. I later realised that the look of those tattered slippers at his feet intensified his doleful mood so I took to returning with his weekend push-ins instead. I would shout with glee, “Uncle, we sang your flavourite song at assembly today.” And then I would sing, “Jesus loves me, yes I know, floor the bible tells me so!” And while I sang with all the enthusiasm my little body could muster, I would open up my school books and show him each “Well done, Fikile” and “Excellent, Fikile!” that I had forged on every other page. And when it seemed as if I might be losing him, I would begin to recite the Our Father: “Our Farther who heart in heaven, hello be thire name,” because it always pleased Uncle to hear me say it and roll the
r
’s the way he liked them.