Story entry

A Story by ReneeJ

A contest entry

When my face hit the ground it tasted like the sweat of the travellers before me, their pained feet sinking into the sweet dirt, perfumed by the rain’s touch. I was close to nature I could smell the piss on the plants and the herbal remedies that stung the throat and worked its way to my stomach and out of me. I can hear the gentle gurgle of the river and the women afar off chattering in high happy voices, reliving the Saturday market day and the prospect of a different meal.

I could see their jellied arms vigorously scrubbing the fabric until they shone, and the children holding on to the strong arms of their mothers as they raked the comb through their tender heads, ready to be baptized in the clear waters, freshly cleansed for a week of reciting and gazing through the windowless classrooms at the clouds floating lazily across the blue Heave, each waving to the sun as it passed and shaking its stretched out arms.

But there is something wrong with me (something serious they say), and the green plants mashed until the natural juices came out could not help me. The pastor’s hand on my head, calling out until his voice sounded like the end of a husky cough, dry and hoarse “Father help Rose!” with golden liquid running down my face with a little of his spittle and earnest praying could not free the dark forces that run through my mind and dance around me, well that’s what my mother believes. You see, I am alone and although many congregate around me, my two sisters and my mother are so close to me every day that I can feel the hairs on their hand, and the heat of their breath against my face and neck. We sleep in the same bed and I feel them brush against me as we fight for the mirror. I know what my mother wears under her dress every morning before she leaves for her office job in the town near to us, and while I wait for the little monsters to disappear entirely I continue to emulate the grins on the faces, the shake of a hand and whisper thank you.

I lived in a different world before I went to secondary school, a place where it was normal to slide down muddy hills and climb the rough texture of the mango tree and the scars you got from scaling down the trees were embraced and looked at in awe for courage and bravery. My mother didn’t tell me to cook, but I watched her oil her hands and peel pale green bananas while waiting for the fire to light up and the smoke encircle the whole house. I watched the movement of her hands, the estimated measurements and timed each meal as they came to perfection. I saw nothing wrong with sitting on a smooth rock and lapping your skirt between wide open legs as you prepared your meal. I love the smell of smoke on her as I lean on her bosom, absorbing her natural scent and strength.

Where I was from, I also didn’t have a problem with the opposite sex, I didn’t endure snares, I was only human to them, a girl who could do everything, I sang as loudly as I wanted at Sunday school, mouthing the songs that my Sunday school teacher drawled as she sat in the tiny chair fanning her folds. I could spin around in my dress allowing it could go high as I wanted and then drop on the dry summer grass laughing in dizzy happiness. Life was simple, the clouds lazily floated by, and the rain pleasured us with its wet kisses ever so often, making the trail to the river slippery, and we would cling to the branches and plants on the side as we slid and fell into the clear, fresh water.

But when you turn thirteen you take an exam, and if, like me you are smart enough, you are awarded the honour of walking through a modern building, and you get to rub shoulders with those who take baths indoors and were scented with delicate perfume and lotion from somewhere else. Their hair float past their shoulders and they walked with their shoulders stiff and straight. They spoke in a way that was only required on special occasions where I was from and their smiles were tight and laughs were like the screech of an angry animal.

The first time I walked through the gates, my hands were plastered against the rough fabric. I stood with my mouth wide open as girls with big hips swung past me, their necks stiff as ostriches and their pride and prestige looming about.

No one gave me a hard time which surprised me, even when they saw how my uniform hung loosely off my slim shoulders, a way for my mother to save money so she wouldn’t have to buy another next year. They didn’t pay attention to how stiff and brown my stubby twists looked in the sunlight or the faded cartoon characters on my school bag while they carried plain, brown leather hanging off a slicing sleeve seam, obviously perfected by someone who will never climb the social ladder. They didn’t look at my big shoes with the heel leaning, a gift from my aunt whose daughter wore it for five years and the inside smelt like the dead even though I spent a week putting them in the sun for prolonged hours. And they didn’t even glance at my government book, flimsy and on the verge of falling apart. The sad truth is I wished they mocked and taunted me, I would kill for them to rag me until I fell in a child’s pose weeping. But they simply walked past with their heads facing forward and their shoulders and neck high. They didn’t even spit in front of where I walked.

I thought I was rich, I thought the soap we bought that no one could afford in the community was a badge of distinction. Women with sagging breasts and skinny babies with protruding stomachs needed permission from my mother to walk through our yard, a shortcut to the river and wash themselves until their knees were white and scratched and water beads running from the little boys’ hair. When we went to church we were suited in clothes that fit us, with smiles for everyone who wanted to speak with us and they marveled at the way my sisters and I rounded our o’hs perfectly and nodded respectfully when appropriate. We didn’t mingle with the ones who went to market on a Friday, we were like the other working class rich whose parents worked in an office in the city or owned a decent acreage of land to sell food they grew. The only idling we knew was to gaze at the bright blue sky and rest our arms on the windowsill to feel the warmth of the sun lull us and the sound of the teacher’s voice became a faraway sound, ushering us to the land of nod.

But here, they came from cars that were cleaner than me, they had someone to carry their bags and their skin were clean as babies. They spoke of shopping trips to the Downtown and promised gifts of new books, pens and journal and “a brand new satchel from Woolworth!” for improved academics. They didn’t even bother to ask where I was from, I didn’t look like and talk like them or know the appropriate response to dining etiquette or Sunday brunch in the garden. I was an outcast, deemed unfit for conversations or sitting too close to those who knew rosary prayers or attended mass on Sundays. I was the one who found enjoyment in shaking tambourines and hollering how good Jesus was until I was hoarse.

But I became so lost in all of my sadness and unsuitable upbringing that one week at church I didn’t feel the glee in shaking the tambourine when sister Joy handed me with pride, and would glance out the faded doors of the church of the hill to see if any of the posh girls might just see me, but then I started shaking it lightly, the sound straining under the sounds of the drums , I shook it harder, beating it mercilessly against my palms and bellowed “Write my name up there,” oh absurd of me to think they would end up here.

It was a visit to my mother’s office one day that I met one of them, have her actually speak to me. She had skin like toffee and wavy honey gold hair that flowed over her shoulders, freckles were sprinkled over her face as though she was using brown paint and flashed the brush too hard. Her nose was quite large for her small face and she had hips that made her uniform swing and sway as she walked. She often sat with the other girls licking lollipops that made their mouths blue and then they would look in their compact mirrors and laugh, casually brushing their hair from their eyes. Sometimes they sat in the sun by the gazebo and buried their heads in romantic novels, disguising them with library books so they wouldn’t get in trouble with the sisters.

I was walking towards my mother’s office gate when the royal blue taxi pulled up and she got out and slammed the door. She waved to the burly security guard who gave her a gold tooth smile and polite wink and then she waltzed to the entrance as though she owned the building. He had a less pleasant face for me and even though I told him who I was visiting, he wrote it in a book and made me sign anyway, slamming the pen on the book as though I was bothering him. He didn’t even tell me to go ahead when I was through, It was when I stood there fidgeting with the splits on my bag strap that he gave me an impatient wave. My mother types for the assistant to the boss, a woman who clacks her way through the halls in red pointy heels and often fidgeted with her black skirt even though they never move past her knees. She was friendly and would always rub my head and even though it was almost the end of the term, she always made sure to congratulate me for passing high. She gave me a blue lollipop once that my mother insisted I shared with my sisters.

I was walking through the halls when I saw the girl from school, she looked shocked then smiled politely. I could feel her pause and the urge to ask a question lingered in the air.

“Hey,” she patted me on the shoulder and I almost move away like a wild animal frightened at the human touch. “You go to my school right? She asked this with genuine concern on her face and her thick brows scrunched making her freckles seem as though they were colliding.

“Yeah,” I answered hanging my head and watching little ants run through the tiny crack in the tile.

“Ah” she said with a smile, a perfect row of teeth and blue mouth, then she swung her gigantic hips and disappeared around the corner.

I began visiting my mother every day because they had a library where I could do my homework. Our first real interaction was when she dropped a pile of books on my table and began chatting with me. I told her all the details, my country home, rides on the packed bus and my absent father. She took in all of this with such interest, her face propped up on her elbows and a serious expression, as though my life was a horror picture and even when you wanted to turn away you just couldn’t resist the action.

She didn’t say anything after that, I thought maybe it was how horrendous it all sounded. Her father is the head of this business and maybe she didn’t want me to feel bad. But to my surprise she said “I like your life,” she said in a small still voice and we sat staring at each other until her eyes seemed as one and all the little freckles across her yellow face became one big brown circle. I laughed, a nervous laugh, one that made your whole body tremble and your throat dry, then we just sat there in silence, not knowing what to say, until we went back to scrawling notes on the pages, mine flimsy so you had to write slow while she marked away on the rough, thick white pages.

“Whats your name?” she asked before she left.

“Rose.”

“Ellie” she said and I shook her moist outstretched hand

She would sit beside me every day in the library and made me tell her stories of the river, the women fighting over another man and how a girl we called “Cattie,” gets pregnant every second. She would laugh when appropriate and her eyes would get watery and she looked as though she could vomit when I told her of how they slaughtered the pigs and goats. She never told me anything but she would often glance at the door every few seconds and if I asked her a question, she would give a little laugh and wrap a finger around her hair then say “my life is boring, I like yours better.” I would go on and tell her about all the things we did, it was as if a pipe had burst and all the water broke through, spilling everywhere.

She never talked to me at school. She would glance at me and give a little smile, being careful to look at her friends first. I watched her hop in the blue taxi after school and even though she knew I was going the same place, she never offered me a ride. We had the same homeroom but she sat over the corner by the window staring at nothing and if I happened to arrive after her, she would pretend as though she was looking in a book.

She seemed to panic if I came to close, and would always be nervous if I stood behind her in the lunch line, then one day I was placed in a group with her, we were told for our science class to find different types of plants and paste them our books, after which we would present to the class our findings. I was with her and two other girls, both were quiet ones who were like her, but they never seem to care about anything but looking in their mirrors and poke every part of their face. But today as we walked through the low grass and touched the different plants, one said “This feels like the wild countryside, you know I hear they don’t even have proper water, they drink the one that everyone s***s in.” and they all laughed, she arched her back and lifted her head, her teeth looked pointed in the sunlight and all her freckles came alive. I could even see the pointy thing dangling at the back of her throat and she cackled like a wild animal. I stared at her, my hands growing sweaty with hurt and I wanted badly to hit her, to strike the lump in her throat and make her choke, but I could only feel the tears welling at the side of my eye so I turned and walked away while they berated the place I worshipped.

As we stood in front of the class that afternoon I watched the formation of their words, the lips lubricated with hatefulness and how angelic they appeared to the teacher. She would glance at me once or twice and I stood staring at her, but I knew she wasn’t sorry, she had a smirk and sometimes a closed mouth smile of victory, then they started sitting in a circle and look at me, all were silent when I entered the class, sometimes they would snicker, burying their heads together, their shiny plaits jiggling, and their wicked backs trembling with laughter. They could hate me here, but I knew if we were to visit another country, the white people there would probably ask us the same thing “where are you from?” With confusion in the brightly coloured eyes and hands partly stretched out, to touch the melanin that could not be bought, because to me we were all the same, except for the water that cleansed us.

I don’t mind the tickle of the grass, and it wasn’t true, we didn’t s**t or piss in the river, we loved the river, we even made sure not to make too much suds fill it as we washed our brown bodies, dry and grey after we were done, and I like walking in the dark, the pale moonlight guiding my feet and the sound of the patoo impatiently urging me to walk faster. I had no problem singing the choruses and reading from a ratty Bible even though nearly half the words were gone. There was no real hate for those who couldn’t speak well or go to school. I wanted to kill all these girls who thought that their lives in a box was worth more than a run down the hill while the orange glow from the sun settled in the far side of the sky, the wind blowing you along and the grass caressing you as you pass.

But as I walked off the bus today, taking everybody’s stale odor and troubles with me, I frowned at the garbage by the side of the road, and the browning of the grass because of the onset of summer. The road was rocky and I felt the stones dig in my heel almost penetrating the soft flesh, and as I approached my house I saw how the paint was peeling and the zincs were rusty, the entrance needed badly to be cleaned and I heard the shout of a mother and the contact of a hand against frail, delicate flesh followed by a long and painful whine of pain. I felt my own eyes grow moist and my whole being felt like it was crumbling under the weight of their laughs, her betrayal and the fancy life I don’t have. I began thinking of how easy it was to go into Woolworth and pick anything you like, to sit in a garden and smell mother earth, the sweet fragrance of the flowers and carefully prepared food on white plates. The tears slowly streamed down the corner of my eyes and settled on my chin, tickling me, but I didn’t feel like laughing. I glanced at the mangoes ripening on the tree, and the flies buzzing around the rotten ones. I felt a pain, a sharp sting in my stomach and I could feel it travelling to my chest and a cramp in my legs. I was tired

I heard a voice yell “Rose!” and I turned at watch them waving at me in the ugly and red uniform, the ones who didn’t pass as high and had to go to the school a little out of our community. They waved their arms wildly looking like creatures appearing out of their hiding place. Their grins could be seen from a far, the white teeth shining brightly against their black skin, but they seemed happy and in a group where they belonged. With wide eyes and yearning in their voices they often expressed their envy at me going to a better school and seeing better people, we thought they were better than us and boy was I wrong.

And usually I would laugh and try to exude confidence as much I could, but this time I was too tired and I kept seeing her face in my head, her yellow skin and long hair glaring in the sun, and that laugh, like a hyena seemed too vulgar for someone who should be able to play the piano and recite poetry in a small voice while standing at a large window while a white curtain blows around her face. But today I was tired and I walked away without answering them, I stepped in my yard, the door creaked loudly as I opened it and I slammed it against the wall. Inside smelt like old clothes and fried foods and a glass of water had turned over because someone left the window open and the breeze must’ve done it.

I flung my bag on the floor and the boards groaned then I almost ripped the light blue material from my body, taking off their hatred and snobbish behavior off my pure, clean country self. And as I walked alone to the river and heard it calling me. I ran on the moist mud and fell, and I could smell the earth and everything that gave me joy, then I ran to the cool water, brushing the damp mud from my knees and dribbled cool water over my naked self, the water glided along my slim thighs and the bruises over my knees, then I immersed myself and rubbed the pebbles against my toes and felt the force of the water unravel my hair, making me breathe. I couldn’t hear or feel anything from the outside so I stayed under until I could no longer puff my cheeks for air.

One week we had the boys from Saint Joseph Christian Boys school visit our school, they called it “mingling Monday.” Where we had to learn how to conduct ourselves in the company of gentlemen. We stood in the hall the morning with the sun stinging our faces and seeping through the polyester, making liquid run down our legs. But we could not move, we had to present ourselves as ladies, stiff and voiceless. They stood on the stage matching our five perfect lines. I could smell the testosterone, the grease in their hair and pants seams attempted to slice us if we went to close. Every girl would be matched with a boy, and they scanned the room separating the desirable from the ugly. I held down my head as they looked around and my heart racketed against my chest as the partner names were called. “Rose Williams and Jim Burley.” The principal said in her high, screeching voice and I slowly held up my head to see a boy whose skin looked like grounded coffee and grease shining down his face. He smiled nervously and glanced around the room to see the girl who would walk towards him. He brushed his hand against the beige pants, maybe they were sweaty. I made the first step, my foot slippery with sweaty moisture attempting to fall off my feet. I had worn my best uniform, the one that didn’t fall off my shoulders and my face was smooth from the water and my hair oiled and tamed. His smile disappeared as I walked towards him, he had a serious expression, one that wasn’t hateful or happy either, then when he shook my hand, he whispered “pleased to meet you Rose,” and my hand trembled against his, “pleased to meet you Jim” and he took my hands in his cold palms while we walked out listening to the other names. I could tell that he was disappointed when he walked passed Ellie.

We had to spend the morning together, so he was polite, he handed me a bright blue blow that was too big for my hair, I could see it sitting perfectly in Ellie’s hair. He asked me questions, asking me where I was from and what I liked to do. He brushed against me, and I rustled my skirt each time a teacher passed, observing us. He laughed when I told him about my church and the river, I could feel him getting warm and my smile brighter. He told me of his home and his helper and the trips they were planning to take across the country. He didn’t speak boastfully, it was his life, and he didn’t know anything else. I noticed the tiny spilt between his front teeth when he laughed and how bright his eyes got when he was interested in anything I said. So often he would touch my hand and it would feel as though electricity was running through my skin, then we were silent and I felt at peace.

When the session ended, he shook my hand and kissed me on the cheek and it made me warm. “It was a pleasure speaking to you Rose,” he said with a big smile.

“Likewise Jim,” and he waved goodbye. Then they gathered in a small group with Ellie and another pig nosed girl who laughed too loudly and made sure everyone knew how much money she had. I heard words like, tennis and Sunday school and assumed they lived in the same community. Then Ellie became alive and her whole started jiggling which made a teacher frown at her. I stood there stiff, not knowing why I didn’t move then the girls started talking loudly to Jim “how did you feel when you got her?” and they glanced back at me, I felt the sun on the top of my head and my face grew hotter, then they all started laughing and Jim stood staring at me, not knowing exactly what to do, but I could see the pity in his eyes, I have never felt embarrassed in the way that I did that morning. The bell rang, and made me jump and they scattered like ants, he glanced back and gave a smile, one that I read as “I am sorry for how you live.”

A few weeks have passed and I still haven’t recovered. I see her and feel her everywhere and everyone thinks something is wrong with me. They probe and touch and my mother took me to see an old skinny doctor with his cheekbones threatening to pierce through his skin. He stretched my cheeks and eyes and I only stared in the distance, waiting for him to say what I already know “she needs rest,” I could hear him and my mother speaking in hushed tones and the words like “stress,” “anxiety” and “fluids” floated pass me then fall to the ground. I needed rest, but not the kind where you had to lie in bed and stay at the ceiling, I needed to be some place where they outstretched their arms for me and we licked lollipop and drank syrup, the sticky residue clinging to the hairs on our hands then we would dip our entire body in the cool clear waters and laugh….and nobody would hate us for it.