Salted

Friday

A kiss on one cheek, a kiss on the other cheek, and finally a kiss on the forehead.

“Bye, MoMo, enjoy your weekend.” She waves as she walks away.

“Bye, bye, Mbali, enjoy your weekend too,” I reply. A few minutes later comes my other ‘other half’: Gabisile. I open my arms in an attempt to give her a hug, but she pushes me away… and then dishes a slap!

“You two-timing dog! How could you!?”

Dylan, my best friend, who had been watching from a distance, comes running. His blond hair gets in the way of his eyesight and the shoelaces of his black Buccaneers untie. He doesn’t wear Toughees like the rest of us.

“I told you it was a bad idea! I told you,” he says, as he laughs out loud. He has been warning me. He told me it was wrong to two-time Mbali and Gabi, but I didn’t think it was. I was only having fun. I enjoy the hugs and kisses I get.

Maybe I should’ve listened. After all, he is smarter than I am and much more mature. Still, I can’t help it. All the attention I’ve been getting since I received my maroon blazer and was crowned Prep School Head Prefect is insane! My blazer is a babe magnet! The girls have been coming in left and right, eyes on me every single day of the week, my peers pointing at me like, ‘Look, there’s the Head Prefect!’

But that’s how this Friday afternoon goes: not too smoothly. My scholar transport driver drops me off at Gran’s house and I wave goodbye. I walk in and I say hi to Gran. There are fries on the table and I can’t wait to dig in! But first, I have to get the formalities out of the way …

“So how was your day? How was your Friday the thirteenth?” Gran asks.

And only then it strikes me that I got caught cheating by Gabi on Friday the thirteenth. But then again, I’ve never entertained these superstitions.

Gran, in contrast, is very superstitious. She almost killed my little brother when he opened an umbrella in the house. She also says we’re not allowed to whistle in the house, or cut our nails at night, or cut our own hair. The list is endless!

But the salt, the salt, I’d like to believe, is the deadliest. She’ll never, ever, let us touch it.

“Gogo, are you sure that you’ve never watched Harry Potter?” I always tease. She says that one day we will see for ourselves.

“Anything bad happen to you today?” she asks now. “Your brother got a hectic hiding! He flushed his friend’s lunch at crèche.” She laughs. She enjoys it when we’re corporally punished.

Little bro has always been a problem. Think of Denise the Menace and Problem Child. He’s that type of child.

“My day, was … alright … Gogo.”

Of course I don’t tell her about my cheating saga. In fact hell will break loose if Gran and Ma find out that I am even dating. Compared to little bro, I’m a golden child, always well behaved! And it has to stay that way.

I guess if Gran raised you then you’d be like me. You can’t not be a good child if my gran did some of the raising.

Think about it: if your gran survived apartheid, has a visible beard, wears a beret, drinks Hansa Pilsner, speaks Afrikaans on a regular, hates the DA, and walks around with an Okapi in her bra – would you not devote yourself to being your best self at all times? Exactly. Sooner or later little bro will be disciplined. Gran says she will work on him.

“My day was just alright, Gogo.”

I change out of my school uniform, toss it all in the laundry, and carefully hang my blazer – my babe magnet – in the wardrobe.

Finally, I can eat my fries.

But they taste really bad! No salt or spice, just crispy potatoes on a plate. I need salt … except I am not allowed to touch salt. The paranoia over salt in Gran’s house is insane. Whenever she hears any of the cupboards in the kitchen opening, you’re guaranteed to hear her loud voice interject, “Hey, hey, what are you doing in there? I hope you’re not playing with the salt. Your food has enough salt!”

I ask Gran if she can help put some salt on my fries, but she is watching the 7de Laan omnibus, cussing at the TV, shouting and threatening to kill Gita if she ever comes across her in real life. Mom is busy nursing little bro’s feelings; he’s made her feel guilty for giving him a hiding, which he deserved.

The salt is in the very, very top cupboard, out of reach of myself and little bro. I pull out a chair, jump on, and open the cupboard, reach for the salt, put some on my fries. I then go back onto the chair, but something terrible happens.

The chair isn’t as stable as the first time I got on. The leg breaks, and I go down really hard. There is a loud bang. A tragedy …

It’s an accident scene; everything is scattered like the parts of a car after a crash. The chair is there, the broken plate there … and over there, the now-salty-and-ready-to-be-eaten fries, and me right over here. It’s bad. I could’ve gotten really injured, but just have a cut on my knee.

I can hear the footsteps that resemble the sirens. They come running like the paramedics, all concerned about me, I think.

Of course, they are not concerned about me. Black parents only worry about the material things: the money, the medical aid and whatever it is that broke.

“What on earth were you doing? You naughty, naughty, naughty child! Are you insane? Are you trying to exhaust my medical aid?” I hear Mom saying. “First it was the flu and then your brother and his chicken pox, now this. My poor medical aid!”

Then I remember the salt! Did I manage to put it back where I found it? No. It is also part of the unfortunate scene.

Gran looks anxious, afraid, as if she has seen a ghost. She doesn’t move or say anything. Then when she finally speaks, she says, “This is really bad.” She tosses some of the salt over her left shoulder and repeats, “This is really, really bad. Be glad you didn’t break any bones. I promise you it could’ve been worse than this …”

“Ye … ye … yes Gran, I know …” I stutter.

“Shut it! You don’t know anything! In fact …” Gran pauses, still deep in thought and shaking like crazy. “In fact … brace yourself. It only gets worse from here. This broken plate, your knee, it’s nothing. Ask me, I know.”

All because of the salt!

Saturday

It’s Saturday today. I think everyone is up except me. I try to get up but my pants are heavy. It’s happened again. After four solid years I managed to wet the bed again! I can already hear people talking about me behind my back, “The Head Prefect wet the bed!”

I admit it, about four years ago, when I was nine, I had a problem controlling my urinary system. I’d just let go and as a result I wasn’t allowed to sleep on the bed. I’d sleep on the floor.

What people don’t understand is that when one wets the bed, you genuinely dream about the toilet. It’s basic philosophy: sometimes one can’t tell the difference between a dream and a waking experience. Sometimes dreams feel so real, very vivid: the seat is even up and so you just let go. When you realise that you’re still in bed, it’s too late.

But you see it’s understandable if a drug addict or alcoholic relapses after a couple of years. I guess that’s likely to happen, right?

Wetting the bed? No, no, no! I’ve never believed in the supernatural or magic, but this is witchcraft! I’m now scratching my head and I’m trying to make sense of it all. How could it be, after all these years?

I’m lost in thought. What am I going to tell Mom?

I stop for a moment and finally it all comes back to me: “… brace yourselves. It only gets worse from here.”

Gran’s words! It all makes sense now. It’s the salt. The bad luck. I’m cursed. But still … a part of me refuses to believe in these superstitions.

I get out of bed and there’s the familiar, shapeless piss-mark I last saw four years ago. I feel cold now. I walk slowly towards the lounge where everybody is. No-one seems to notice me and my wrinkled, wet pyjamas.

I try to get Mom’s attention: “Ma!”

Still no-one takes note of me.

Then I can’t help but notice the sugar on the floor. Someone must’ve spilled it. The TV is on, SABC 2 – Morning Live – like every other morning, but it’s not Leanne today. She doesn’t come in on weekends.

On the table I see a stack of lottery tickets. FYI, superstition holds it that, if you accidentally spill sugar, it means that good fortune is coming your way! So you can already tell why Mom and Gran are so eager to play the lottery today.

Little bro is sitting quietly and seems to be fascinated by whatever it is that is going on between Gran and Ma. I’ve never seen him this still – except at the Barney show last year – so it must be interesting, this thing.

I try again, “Ma?”

“Wait, not now,” she says.

“Come on dear, think. What else did you see in the dream?” I hear Gran say.

Mom seems to be thinking very hard. “I’m not sure if it was a horse or a cow, but it was black …”

“It was black you say?”

“Yes.”

“Okay then that’s a seven. Black animal is a seven.”

Ma ticks off the number ‘7’ on the lottery ticket. They seem to be matching dreams and numbers. This goes on for about 20 more minutes and by this time I am almost dry. Maybe I could keep quiet about my situation … but Mom makes the bed so she’ll notice the stain.

Smh!

I finally get some attention.

“Yes dear?” Mom says.

I don’t know how to tell everybody about my situation. It’s embarrassing.

“You were saying?”

“I dreamt about the toilet again but I promise it’s the salt! I even woke up to pee during the night. It’s the salt; Mommy it’s the salt!”

* * * * *

The day goes by fast. I’ve been preparing for tonight. The airbed is all pumped up and ready for me. Mom throws a pillow on the couch. I’m guessing that’s for me. I drag the coffee table to the corner and leave enough space for the airbed.

Mom comes rushing out of nowhere. She grabs the TV remote and increases the volume.

“6; 32; 14; 11 …”

“Arg!” she says in disappointment, “Who wins this thing?”

Gran had been certain that we would hit the jackpot today. Or maybe, maybe, the spilled salt is standing in the way of all the good that’s supposed to happen in our family, from all the spilled sugar.

I just don’t know what to believe anymore. Maybe Gran has it all wrong.

Sunday

It’s Sunday, sometime in the early morning. It’s still dark but I wake up feeling the coldness of the floor tiles under my back. I spent the whole day yesterday wiping the dust off and trying to pump the air bed. I think I didn’t seal it properly and some air escaped. Its deflated and now I’m sleeping flat on the cold tiles.

My pants are still dry – one less thing to worry about. I find myself smiling. I think the curse has worn off. It’s only been a few days since the incident, but maybe it really is all over. I hope I’m right.

I hate waking up in the middle of the night. I hate sleeping on the floor. I’m all alone; the rest of the house are sound asleep. Their bedroom doors are closed.

I’m frightened by every little thing: shadows caused by the street lights, sounds on the roof, taps leaking and cars hooting. It’s scary. I hear all sorts of things. Gran reckons it’s the witches running around and digging up their muti in our yard.

But Mrs Viljoen said there is no such thing. She said it’s only ‘The Things That Go Bump in the Night’, just like the poem suggests! Plus the movement of the atoms and protons. Still, I cover my head with the blankets.

I unlock my phone, and quickly reduce the brightness before it does damage to my eyes. It’s only 3.30am and I’ve run out of sleep. On WhatsApp Gabisile isn’t talking to me. She blue-ticked me. Mbali says she misses me and can’t wait to see her “Head Prefect.” Dylan doesn’t have data otherwise he’d have bombarded me with text messages and endless emojis. I play a few rounds of Candy Crush until I run out of lives and boom, I’m asleep again.

Three hours later I’m woken up by the radio, Lesedi FM. Gran blasts it from 6am until 12 noon on Sundays. On the couch I can see my church clothes neatly laid out, ready for me to inhabit, but I don’t feel like going to church. I’m not sure if I’m really into the whole going to church thingy. I don’t mind going on Easter and on Christmas. Gran says even atheists go to church on these two days.

I think I go because Mom wants me to go. Otherwise, hayi, I don’t know, I just fall asleep during sermons. I decide that I will act sick and stay behind with Gran. My plan works and after two hours I hear the gate open. I know that’s Mom and my bro leaving for church. We have one of those fences accompanied by a loud gate that makes a specific noise when it opens and another type when it closes. So we know exactly when someone is coming in or leaving. Gives us enough time to tidy up and fix things before the knock.

“Quick, close my bedroom door,” Gran likes to say. “Get rid of the tissue on the table, hide my beer!”

I close my eyes and I try to fall asleep again. After 20 minutes or so I am knocked out. I’m smiling in my dreams. It’s a wonderful dream.

“Lincoln!”

“Lincoln!”

That’s Gran calling from the kitchen. My dream is ruined.

“Morena!” she calls again, using my other name. If she used my other name, she must be mad.

I feel the blanket move across my body as Gran aggressively grabs it, and the warmth is replaced by a sudden breeze. “Voetsek, get up. I know you’re not sick!”

I stretch my back and my neck. My whole body hurts. Sleeping on the floor really isn’t pap and vleis.

“Go buy me a Med-Lemon and two cold beers before your mother gets back.”

I know: ‘Alcohol Will Not Be Sold To Persons Under The Age Of 18’. But no-one cares about that here in the township. They’re just interested in making money.

Mom also hates it when Gran sends me to the tavern. They always fight about it, but it’s no big deal. I don’t mind. Gran gives me R50 every month from her pension money. So it’s cool.

She sneezes really hard, “Whew! This cold is going to kill me.”

Gran refuses to go to the doctor. She says you can go to the doctor complaining about a headache and you leave with cancer. “These doctors only make people sicker, so they can make money out of them!”

She stops me as I am about to head out. “Buy Colgate too so you can brush your teeth when you get back.”

I drag my legs as if they’re heavy. I hate going out. At least my day has been going smoothly indoors so far. Nothing bad has happened, nothing to remind me of the salt. It feels as if everything is back to normal and hopefully I’ll be sleeping on the bed tonight.

I already have my trip planned out in my head. I’m going to start at the tavern and then go to the shop. An easy trip ahead of me.

On my way to the tavern I see the guy from house number 402. He’s painting his walls and has his back turned away from me. I walk as fast as I can so that I don’t have to greet him.

And I do make it past him without having to go through the trial of putting on a temporary smile for the greeting. It really does get irritating, this greeting business. The problem is that it’s inevitable around here, in fact around any township. From the moment I walked out of our gate, I’ve been smiling and singing hellos. Felt like Beyoncé for a moment.

There are always people out on the streets, giving you different types of looks, making comments if you’re wearing a pair of brand new Nikes, staring if you’re carrying a KFC packet. It’s not like the burbs where you can walk freely, where you can walk for almost an hour without bumping into anyone and having to greet them. No. Here the streets are always full and that’s why I hate going out.

The gents are always chilling at the corner playing their house music out loud. I can’t just walk past them. I have to greet them and so I do.

“Hola, gents!”

“Eita, daar bafanas! Dankie man, dankie man,” they respond.

The kids bro’s age, and younger, are always running around, kicking stones, getting up to mischief and asking us older ones for R1 to buy ice lollies. And again I have to greet.

“Hello bhuti!” one shouts, running towards me with her dirty hands and feet.

“Hello nana.”

“Bhuti please can I have R1 so I can buy ice.”

“Sorry, don’t have,” I say.

And then there’s the hustlers pushing their trolleys full of the fruits and veggies they sell.

“Ama veg ama veg ama veg ama veg! Zambani, tamatie, cucumber lettuce for the successful!”

“No thanks my brother! We’re good with veggie. Eita daar.”

You see if you don’t greet anyone, people just assume that you’re a snob or that you’re pompous. Sometimes that’s not even the case.

I’m heading to the shop now and I realise how slow I’ve been walking so I pick up the pace. I have to be back home before Mom returns from church. The faster I walk, the harder the beers bang against each other and the louder they get. I can’t run with glass bottles in the bag. They taught us better at school. If I fall and they break I could get injured. So I walk faster.

Outside the shop there are a couple of guys chilling there like always, talking their smack and whistling at young girls, making them feel uncomfortable, by calling them ‘yellow bones’ and ‘red bones’.

I greet the lady and start to ask her for two Med-Lemons … I think Gran said two … or is it one she asked for?

I ask for two just to be safe, “Two Med-Lemons and Colgate please.”

She walks over to the shelf and she comes back with the two sachets.

“What else?” she asks.

“Colgate please.”

“Uhmmm, which Colgate?”

She points to the red and white toothpaste which is of course Colgate: “This Colgate?” And then she points to the blue, red and white one which is Aquafresh, “or this Colgate?”

“The first one please.”

She opens the box but it seems to be empty.

“Eish, we only have the blue, red and white, let me go to storeroom to fetch the red and white one.”

Time is running out. Mom and bro are probably on their way back. This lady here is taking her sweet ass time. The gents are crowded right next to the gate and my right ear couldn’t help but to eavesdrop on their conversation.

“Hai mara, Sifiso brah, this cough is getting worse. I was sweating the whole of last night, temperature on and off my gazi. I mean if Med-Lemon didn’t work, then someone obviously wants me dead,” the one guy says to the other.

“Eish ja my gazi, I feel your pain,” Sifiso responds.

“I remember my old timer, he also died from a cold. The doctors tried their best, maar fokol. Went to bab’ VusiMuzi, threw the bones and there it was … die hele waar.”

The third guy, who seems rather irritated, interjects, “Let me guess, someone gave him a cold and killed him because he was jealous of him?”

“Exactly that! They say this ou mos gave my timer pneumonia of iets.”

“There you go again! You two with your witchcraft stories! He made me sick, she made me sick, he wants me dead, he’s jealous of me! Arg just go to the doctor already!” he says and bangs the door with his hand.

“Before we went to the party this past weekend I told you ouens to take a jersey or something to wear on top! I told you it was going to get poes cold. Any party animal knows that it gets cold at midnight. Maar nah, ouens is mos ignorant! Check now you’re sick and you’re blaming an innocent somebody!”

“Hai mara Steve, los my, my gazi. You’ll never know if you’re sick or bewitched here in the kasi.”

Whew, she’s finally back with my ‘red and white Colgate’.

I run home as fast as I can. Forget that I’m carrying glass bottles! But if Mom gets home before I do and sees me with beers, there’s going to be unnecessary tension in the house and I hate that.

I’m running as fast as I can, almost like Usain Bolt, jumping over rocks like hurdles, dodging people. I see our little fence, maybe I should slow down, but no, mom can walk in anytime now. I’m motivated to run.

It only takes a few seconds until my tears too start running down my cheeks. I’m on the ground, full of dust and dirt. I can smell the terrible stench of the Hansa Pilsner. But, at least one bottle survived. I take it out, put it aside and throw out the broken pieces of glass. I’m not crying because I’m hurt. I’m crying because I broke Gran’s beer. Only the Lord knows what’s going to happen when I get home.

I tell Gran what had happened, and to my surprise she says it’s no big deal.

“You probably saved a life,” she said.

“You’re not mad at me Gran?”

“Of course I am! But your grandpa used to say, ‘One broken bottle, one life saved’. Now go brush your teeth.”

So … superstition holds it that when one accidentally breaks glass, he or she might have just saved a life. I don’t know how, but ja.

By the time Mom and bro get back from church, it is very late. The repeat movie on eTV is already done. Wrestling is also done. I’ve already had my Sunday kos.

Mom seems to be limping. She says that on their way back from church their taxi collided with another, but luckily no-one was badly injured.

I think about all of this and I wonder now. Does all this make me a hero? Should I brag about it and tell Mom how I saved their lives?

But then again it could be my fault that they were in an accident. I should’ve listened to Gran. I regret ever messing with the salt. Innocent people are getting hurt.

Monday

Some people say the week starts on Sunday and some say it starts on Monday. I don’t know which one it is. I should ask Mrs Viljoen about it today. I’m wearing my maroon blazer with shorts. No matter how cold it gets, we’re not allowed to wear long pants unless it’s winter. I did choose a white school. In the township schools they do as they please. You can even wear a leather jacket, as long as it matches the school colours. Swag!

I see Gabisile and Mbali together. Gabi must be telling her how I’ve been playing them. They must be conspiring against me. I change direction so I don’t have to face them, at least not now. But Mbali is in my class.

The bell rings and we race to the assembly quad where we sort into our classes: Grade 7A, 7B all the way to 7G. The teachers aren’t yet out of the staffroom, so myself and all the other prefects have to ensure order in the assembly quad. That’s one of our duties.

As soon as the teachers come out of their meeting we head to class. Mrs Viljoen is our homeroom teacher. She’s my favourite teacher and I know that I am one of her favourite learners. Don’t get it twisted though, I am not a teacher’s pet.

We stand behind our chairs before we sit down and wait for Mrs Viljoen to greet us. We then sit down and watch her as she writes on the greenboard the week’s events to look out for.

1. Raffle

2. Pet Day

3. Spelling test

   
   

I’m not really interested in the last two points. I am more interested in the raffle. We have a couple of raffles that run throughout the year and Gran said I should be smart about it. She said when she gives me the R50 at the end of the month, I should save it so that I can buy tickets worth R50. That way, my chances of winning will be higher.

“They will shuffle and shuffle and no matter how many times they shuffle, your number will come up because you bought more tickets than everyone.”

I really am looking forward to the raffle.

“Tickets will be sold right after first break,” Mrs Viljoen addresses us. “Also, we will be having a ‘Pet show and tell’. If you have a pet, don’t forget to bring it, and if you don’t it’s okay. This does not count for marks.”

A few minutes into class we’re already at it. We’re doing, ‘die trappe van vergelyking’ – degrees of comparison. ‘Big, bigger, biggest,’ except the more complex ones, because we’re older now – like ‘good, better, best’. Those are really easy to screw up.

My pencil breaks so I tap Mbali on the shoulder. “Babe…” I begin to ask to borrow her sharpener … and before I know it I am kicked out of class for being disruptive!

Mbali threw a tantrum, said I was disturbing her. I’ve always borrowed stationery from her in the past. Gabisile must’ve turned her against me. I should’ve listened to Dylan.

I never thought my favourite teacher would kick one of her favourite learners out. This has never happened to me. What’s worse is that I am the bloody Head Prefect. Thank God there are no cameras on our corridor but what if the principal decides to do her rounds and sees me? That’s my title gone! It’s the salt!

Mrs Viljoen calls me in. “Come here. Bring me your homework diary and then go back outside.”

I already know what she’s going to write.

Dear Parent

Your child was very disruptive today in class, constantly disturbing other learners while they’re working. Please see to it that he is dealt with.

Mrs Viljoen

“You won’t be allowed back in until your Mom signs this, okay?” she says, in her Afrikaans accent.

All of this because I wanted to borrow a sharpener! Mom and Gran are going to freak out when they see it.

Break is over, and I’m glad Mrs Viljoen didn’t keep me in during break, otherwise I would’ve missed the fight between Morena and Dylan. Yes, we share a name. My name is a very popular one. It’s even in the national anthem. I always feel weird when I sing the part with my name. The other learners look at me and the other Morena, and smile at us like we’re some sort of icons. Childish.

I don’t know what they were fighting over, those two, but as soon as the prefects ran to stop the fight, they fled. That’s because they knew if any of the prefects or the teacher on duty got a hold of their names and classes, it was either after school detention for both of them, or warning letters. So they wisely fled.

I’m still outside, and I can hear Mrs Viljoen talking about the raffle. I have my 50 bucks and I’d like to enter. I get up and I knock.

“Ma’am, I’d also like to enter the raffle.”

“No!” she says. “No, no! Unfortunately for you that privilege is gone mister! Next time Morena.”

Mbali and her friends at the back chuckle.

“Serves him right! Cheater.”

As I am walking out I see Morena Nkhato, the other Morena, buying tickets worth R70, with a R50 note and a R20 note. Damn. I didn’t stand a chance either way. His gran must be smart like mine.

“Shooo! Morena, you mean business this term hey! Good for you.”

Before the end of the day one of the other prefects walks into our class holding a brown envelope. I am allowed back into class so that I can pack my things before afterschool. Mrs Viljoen reminds me to get my diary signed or I will not be allowed back in.

“Oh and this came for you. Give it to mommy to sign.”

I’ve never received a brown envelope before. On my way home I am trying as hard as I can to figure out what might be in it. And then I remember: the cash drive! If your school fees are paid in full before the end of the year, you get a certain cash back reward and it always comes in a brown envelope. I am super excited and I can’t wait to give mom the envelope so we can share the money.

By 3.30pm I’m usually home back from school, in time to do my homework and watch Naruto on SABC 2. I put my diary and the brown envelope on the desk so that Mom can see them. She starts with little bro’s diary.

“Let’s see what mischief you got up to today,” Mom says, as she opens little bro’s diary. He has his days, most of which he is a problem. He’s a little devil that one. Last week after they were taught the dangers of electricity, he tried sticking his little fingers into the electric socket. Today, however, it seems as though he behaved himself and for that he gets a reward.

My turn now. Mom starts with the envelope and I am very excited about it; in fact I am smiling as she opens it. It’s a white piece of paper. There isn’t any money. The expression on Mom’s face changes as she reads it … I’m still smiling … hoping that the money is at least stapled onto the paper or something …

Mom takes off her glasses. A warm klap to my face, another one, and another.

“You will apologise to Dylan and give him back all of his money!”

“But Ma, but Ma …” I try to start explaining.

She won’t give me a chance to speak. “Shut up, shut up. I did not raise a thief! What head prefect steals?”

Dylan is my best friend! That’s what I’m trying to tell her. I would never steal from my best friend.

Mom signs the warning letter and she slips a R70 note into my diary.

Yeah, as you can expect, I am just so confused, I even forget to get my diary signed.

Tuesday

“Hurry hurry … Where’s your blazer! Let me guess – you left it in class again! Morena though.”

I find mom waiting for me at the gate with an umbrella. It’s a stormy afternoon. It’s pouring and the thunder is loud as it ever was, lightning striking left and right, as if God is angry at the world.

Gran and Mom get super paranoid when the weather is like this. We have to turn off all electrical appliances including the TV, radio, tablet, pcs and phones. We’re not allowed to go anywhere near water, even if we get thirsty. The mirrors are covered with towels.

This part of my life has nothing to do with superstitions. It is pure science and Gran submits to these certain laws of science. The very same laws of science we were taught at school. I remember some of the lesson. That when there is lightning do not walk under a tree, or in an open space. Do not touch water because water is a conductor. Something like that. So I can understand why Gran respects lightning, it’s just that she goes a bit overboard.

At school I am not allowed into class because I haven’t got my diary signed. The principal did her rounds today and found me sitting outside. She took my blazer and said I did not deserve it. Mrs Viljoen was quick to call me a naughty boy when I handed in the signed warning letter, but that’s that and I do not feel like talking about school today.

I ask Gran if I can turn the TV on because I want to watch Naruto. She tells me to piss off and to sit still. “Can’t you hear how strong this thunder is!?”

But I’m really bored and I don’t know what to do. I don’t get my phone during the week, only on Fridays. Little bro, Ma and Gran are in Gran’s bedroom, probably listening to one of Gran’s apartheid stories. Or listening to how the Zulus wanted to take over, and how she stabbed one of them with the Okapi in her bra and then licked the blood that remained on the knife. Ew!

I’m not in the mood to talk or to answer any questions about my blazer. I take out our prescribed English book we have to read this year, Love David. Ai, but David is a moegoe, a troubled young man. I bet Gran would succeed in disciplining him. He’d be straight if he was raised by my gran.

There’s a screeching sound in the kitchen, and then a bang. It’s the cupboard, probably just opened. They’re old and sometimes the doors open by themselves. The paper door-stops that we place between the cupboard doors don’t always hold.

“Haaaaai! Morena! I hope you’re not playing with the water! You’ll get struck by lightning,” Gran shouts, jumping to conclusions from her bedroom. She sends bro to check on me and the little devil runs back to Gran and tells her that I was trying to drink water. I’m summoned to the bedroom.

“What’s going on with you MoMo?” Mom asks. “You’re always getting into trouble lately. Disobeying instructions and giving everybody attitude, getting notes in your diary and bringing home warning letters? Is it that stage? Have you reached that stage? Is it the girls?”

My heart beats fast. What if she’s been going through my phone? No, I deleted my chats with Mbali and Gabisile. She’s just digging.

I look up, and I tell her what I think is going on. “It’s the salt Mommy. It’s the salt. Ever since I spilled it my life has changed, I wet the bed, I got kicked out of class … and Gabisile … I mean I even saw on Google. They say spilling salt is bad luck. Gran was right.”

“Who’s Gabisile?” she asks. It had just slipped out.

I dismiss the question and I repeat, “It’s the salt!”

She laughs so hard! “Not you too!”

She looks at Gran before she continues. “You see Ma, you have all your superstitions and crazy beliefs stuck in my son’s head. Now he’ll always blame the salt for his bad behaviour!”

Mom peeps out the window. “I think the rain has stopped. I should probably start cooking before the power goes.”

Little bro runs out. I know he’s running after the remote. As I am about to head out too, Gran calls me.

“Come.” She taps the bed, showing me where to sit. “Come, right next to me.”

I sit next to Gran.

“Gugu,” she says.

“Gugu?” I ask

“Yes Gugu. Sy’s reg.”

“Who’s Gugu and what is she right about?”

“The one who says the salt you spilled brought you all the bad luck.”

I laugh really hard, until my eyes are teary. “No Gran. It’s Google. I Google-d it; I searched it online on the internet.”

She frowns, still confused. “Well the internet is right. I once spilled salt. I was a sceptic like your mother. Thought it was all nonsense when my mother, your great grandmother, warned me. I lost my puppies, all three of them, and then a week later, my father.”

“And all of this happened right after you spilled the salt?”

“Ja. I know what you’re thinking. It wasn’t a coincidence. It could’ve been, but we’ll never know. Sometimes you just have to listen. Anything that can go wrong will go wrong. When an elder says don’t do something, do not do it. Okay?”

“Okay Gran. But now, how do I get rid of the bad luck?”

“Pray about it. I prayed and it worked. Kept my fingers crossed and prayed.”

Wednesday

I’ve been praying lately, just like Gran suggested. I’ve been praying, for things to get better. I want to be that golden child again. That well behaved, golden child. I don’t want to be a problem like my little brother. I want my life back. I want to sleep on the bed again. I want my blazer back!

I apologised to Gabisile and Mbali and they’ve forgiven me. In fact, Mbali also apologised for intentionally getting me kicked out of class. But she said she was still heart broken and wanted nothing to do with me.

I’m done with girls. From now on I’ll focus on myself, school, Dylan, and trying to get my blazer back.

During lunch time we sit under one of the trees at school, Dylan and I. He tells me how bird shit brings good luck and how he didn’t study for his spelling test and still passed it after a birdy pooped on his shoulder. Hence we sit under a tree, just until a birdy shits on me.

Dylan looks at my lunch, “What do you have today?”

“Jam and peanut butter sandwich. Want some?” I ask.

“Sure.”

“And what do you have today?”

“Also a jam and peanut butter sandwich. Want some?”

We have the same lunch but it’s important that we exchange sandwiches. That’s what friends do, they share. Plus it strengthens our friendship.

“Sure, I’ll have some.” I reply.

We sit in silence and enjoy our sandwiches. This silence is however ruined, and replaced by sudden chanting and singing.

“Guri! Guri! Guri!”

The food source has been communicated to the rest and then like ants they come. One by one. It’s a fight. Morena Nkhato and Simphiwe and to make the rest of the learners aware, we shout:

“Guri! Guri! Guri!”

And you’ll see them come, just like the ants came when I dropped my lollipop at home.

I don’t have my blazer, I’ve been dismissed from duty, but I have to go and help stop the fight. It’s just who I am. I get there as fast as I can and get in between the two learners. Morena is stubborn and I tell him to stop already, otherwise there’ll be trouble. They break it off and the crowd disappears. Just like how the ants disappeared after I kicked the lollipop.

Break is over and we head back to class. We do our special handshake before we split. Fist pump, fist pump, high five, low five, do the jive.

“Check you later,” Dylan says and I go back to sit outside, right next to the door. I left my diary at home. Mom signed it, but do you think Mrs Viljoen is going to believe me?

Angelen and her puppy Kruger are up first for the show and tell. I’m watching everything from outside. Mbali’s cat tries to run out, so Mrs Viljoen tells her to close the door.

“Askies my kind,” she says. “You can watch from the window.”

I don’t even bother. I sit down and put my face between my legs. I think about little bro and what he said this morning.

“I wish you sleep on the floor for the rest of the year! I sleep peacefully without you kicking me and taking all the blankets.”

The little devil really has it coming for him.

The door opens, it’s Dylan. He keeps looking up. He says he’s recording everything for me on his tablet and he’ll show me later. I appreciate that. That’s what best friends do for one another, like that cliché scene in movies, where the one tells the other to go on without him:

“Run, run! Save yourself, leave me here.”

And then the other one says no, and that:

“We’re in this together…”

That’s what Dylan is doing for me. We’re not allowed to use our tablets for anything else except to access our e-books. He’s risking it all for me. It could get confiscated, just like that.

Again, he looks up.

“Did you perhaps see a little green, talking birdy fly out the window?” Dylan asks.

“Nope”

“He flew out as soon as Mrs Viljoen let him out of his cage.”

I watch him run off. He runs funny. Dylan leaves the door open. Behind him I see his dog, Britney, run after him. I know it’s Britney. Behind Britney is a puppy, and he seems to be chasing after Britney, his tongue is sticking out and he’s breathing heavily. The hormone levels must be up.

Behind the puppy is Angelen and she’s chasing after him, calling him by his name.

“Kruger! Kruger! Get back here!”

Behind Angelen is Mrs Viljoen. She’s calling out three names.

“Harry! Angelen! Harry, Harry! Dylan! Get back here!”

Harry is the ‘green, talking birdy’. He’s a parrot. In the township they’d think that it’s all witchcraft to have a talking birdy.

The chase is over and in her arms Angelen is carrying Kruger. Britney is walking alongside Dylan; she’s too big for him to carry. There is no sign of Harry, but Mrs Viljoen says he’ll be back. She doesn’t seem to be too concerned. She says parrots don’t go far and they always return to their owners.

Quite some time has gone by. I hear a funny voice but I don’t see anyone. I look around and still nothing.

“Harry wants biscuit! Harry wants biscuit!”

It’s Harry! Mrs Viljoen’s parrot. He repeats, “Harry wans biscuit, Harry wans biscuit.” And he hops onto my shoulder.

I knock…

“How can I help you Meneer?”

I show her what’s on my shoulder.

“Harry wans biscuit! Harry wans biscuit!”

Thursday

“Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you! Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you!”

I’m woken up by three singing voices. It’s been such a hectic week I even forgot about my birthday. Usually I’m excited days before my birthday but this time I forgot about it.

I think this is one of the few times I’ve managed to put on a smile this whole week. I get hugs and kisses from Mom and Gran, and a fist pump from little bro. We don’t hug or kiss.

The TV is on and the SABC is also wishing Jacob Zuma a happy birthday. Hmm … so Gabisile was right, I do share a birthday with him. I don’t know if I should be proud or ashamed.

Hopefully today will be a good day. My birthdays have been the same for the past few years. Always during the week; I can’t remember the last time I had a birthday on a weekend. Stupid calendar. I don’t have to carry a lunchbox to school on my birthday, so it’s the only time Mom doesn’t have to worry about me losing her Tupperware.

I get loads of cash, enough for a cheese burger pie, a can of Stoney, Crazy Pops for me Dylan, cheese flavoured Simba chips, and change to spare for the next raffle.

I don’t know how today will go. I don’t know if the salt is going to ruin my birthday day too. Mom says I should pray and thank the Lord for this day before I get out of bed.

Bro seems to be a bit down. He got a hiding while I was asleep. He wet the bed and tried to cover it all up. He threw his wet pyjamas into the laundry and changed into his other pyjamas. He was caught trying to remove the sheets! I knew it!

All along I’ve been innocent. He used me as bait. When he wet the bed this past weekend, he realised that his pee got to me too, so he got out of bed early, while I was still asleep, threw his wet pyjamas into the laundry and changed into his other pyjamas. But this time it was obvious! He had no scapegoat! Mom apologised and she said I’ll be going back to bed today, and little bro on the floor. He he. Sneaky little bastard.

I am off to a very good morning indeed.

I’m done bathing and I’ve changed into my uniform. I put my signed diary in my school bag.

“Eww!” I hear little bro say. “Eww!”

“What now?” I ask him.

“Bird poo! Bird poo!” he says.

I look on my shoulder and there it is. Bird shit. Right where Harry was sitting yesterday. It’s dried up now. I attempt to remove it and Gran says no: “Don’t! It’s good luck!”

First things first when I get to school. I take out my diary and I show it to Mrs Viljoen.

“Was that so hard? Welcome back!” Mrs Viljoen says. “On your chair!”

I stand on the chair and the class sings for me. It’s embarrassing but at the same time I feel special. I get hugs and kisses from Mbali.

“Heeey watch it!” Mrs Viljoen warns. “You’ll go back outside.”

Once we’ve been allocated work to do, Mrs Viljoen calls me and the other Morena to her desk.

“Morena Nkhato, Morena Maoka, please come to my desk, and bring your homework diaries please.”

The class moans and makes sounds, wondering why we’re being called forward.

There’s a brown envelope on the desk. My blazer is also hanging on Mrs Viljoen’s chair. I’m nervous. Mrs Viljoen looks at Morena Nkhato, with a serious face, reaches for the envelope and puts it in his diary. It has his name and surname.

Still with a serious face, “You may go back to your seat.”

She opens my diary to April 12.

Dear Parent,

On April 8th your son received a warning letter. Please note that there has been a mix-up. The letter was not meant for him, but for another learner who shares a name with your son: Morena Nkhato. We apologise for this unfortunate error. Your son has been cleared and the warning letter has been issued to the appropriate perpetrator. Furthermore, for the remainder of the year, to avoid such incidents in future, we will be using your son’s second name for admin purposes. Again, we are very sorry. Lincoln is a very good boy!

Kind regards,

Mrs Viljoen.

She reaches for the register and crosses off my first name and replaces it with my second.

“Very sorry,” she says. “Oh, and the principal has also asked me to monitor your behaviour for a few days before you can get your blazer back.”

We have assembly before the end of the school day. It’s usually to reflect on the week, to announce any achievements and to hand out any rewards if any. But today the winner of the raffle will also be announced.

First we sing the school’s anthem, then the national anthem.

It’s time.

Dylan seems irritated. He leans over to me and whispers into my ear, “Arg! We all know who’s going to win.”

“Who?” I ask.

“Morena Nkhato! He bought tickets worth 70 bucks! With the money he stole from me!”

The principal has her eyes closed, and her hand in the box with the raffle tickets … she picks a number, opens it and smiles, deliberately keeping us in suspense.

“Drum rolls please!”

And the learners stamp their feet as hard as they can.

“And the winner of this term’s raffle is … Number … Number 7, Morena–!” she finally reveals.

“That’s my number! That’s my number,” Morena Nkhato jumps in and yells at the top of his voice, all excited and jovial. “That’s me!”

“Number 7! Morena Maoka! Come on to the stage Morena Maoka!”

Mrs Viljoen is biting her nails. I think she was scared they must have mixed up our surnames again.

But no, a little later, we’re sitting on the pavement waiting to be picked up, chewing like cows!

Dylan’s lips and fingers are all brown and sticky. He’s happy. I’m happy. I’m definitely not feeling sorry for Morena Nkhato. I take a look at my shoulder and the bird shit is still there. I think it worked. Things are finally looking up … or is it all just a coincidence? A bird shits on me and my luck changes? I don’t know, but I do know that from now on I will listen to Gran!

A white Mercedes parks next to us. It’s my scholar transport driver! She tells me to hop in.

“The minibus is acting up on me; it won’t start,” she tells me.

I’ve never been in a Mercedes Benz before. I cannot stop smiling. This is the best birthday gift ever! It drives so smoothly, you’d think that it doesn’t have an engine …

She drops me off at home. I felt like a real Head Prefect riding in that Merc.

I get just the reactions I was expecting.

“Yoooooh! He’s going to get sick! All those sweets!” Gran exclaims.

“I won the raffle! I won the raffle!”

“That’s good! Happy birthday!”

And of course little bro too, sucking up to me so that he can get some of my candy.

“I’m sorry big bro! I’ll never set you up again. Can I have sweets?”

Mom is in her own world. She doesn’t seem to notice all my candy. She’s like that when she’s cooking. She zones in. Instead, “Good! You’re home. Here…” she gives me a list.

“Quickly run to the shop for me.”

At the shop I give the list to the lady. I didn’t even bother reading it. I’m in a hurry. I never miss Naruto and besides, my candy is waiting for me.

She reaches for Aromat, steak and chops spice, soup, tomato sauce, and salt.

“No, not the salt.”

“But it’s on the list …”

“Probably an error, we have enough.”

I run back home and I give the plastic to Mom.

She takes everything out, “… and the salt?”

“Oh. The lady at the shop said I should tell you that they’re out of salt.”

Gran looks at me; she raises her eyebrow. I know she knows I’m lying, but she doesn’t say anything. She understands.