by Lisa Grekul
So I return to my list of titles. The Story of My Life: Colleen Lutzak. That’s a title for a book by an old person. As For Me and My Travels. Cute. A possibility.
My train of thought is interrupted by the feeling that Mr. Africa two seats over is staring at me. In fact, I’m sure of it now. I’m positive that he’s watching me write. I look up quickly, trying to catch him in the act, only he’s too fast for me. By the time I lift my head, he’s back to his novel.
Nosy jerk. He’s dying to know what I’m doing with the barf bag, what I’m writing on it. He could just ask. I’d probably tell him, even though it’s none of his business. I have half a mind to tell him off. Tell him to keep his eyes to himself, let me have a little privacy.
What I need is a secret code. To hide my writing from Mr. Africa. Numbers, maybe, 1 to 26 for each letter of the alphabet. On the first page of my book, I start to make the number-letter key. Then I rip out the page. Stupid. It will take me forever to write anything down and I’ll lose all my artistic inspiration in the process. Stupid, stupid.
I could switch letters. a=b, b=c, c=d all the way to z=a. Again, I start on a key to the code. Again, I rip out the page. Just as time-consuming, just as stupid.
Mr. Africa watches me ripping the pages out of my book. This time, though, he doesn’t hide it. I give him my dirtiest look. He’s making me waste time, precious time that I could be spending on my book.
Finally, just as the stewardess appears with lunch, I come up with a brilliant way to write my book. I’ll be able to read it, and my family will be able to read it, but to all other eyes it will look completely cryptic. Totally unintelligible. Why didn’t I think of it sooner? Using the Ukrainian alphabet, I’ll write English words. Phonetically, that is. My writing will look Ukrainian; read out loud, though, it will sound English. I almost laugh out loud, it’s such a perfect idea.
As we eat our meals, Mr. Africa decides to strike up a conversation with me. He makes small talk about our food, and the service on the plane. I’m not interested in talking to him. When he asks me questions, I answer, “Yes,” or “No.” Nothing more.
“Going to Johannesburg?”
“Yup.”
“And are you from Paris?”
“Nope.”
“It’s a long flight, isn’t it?”
“Uh-huh.”
He has a funny way of talking, a funny accent – sort of British, I’d say, with a touch of something else. Long vowels. It must be African. South African, I suppose, since he is going to Johannesburg. And he has a lisp. “Going to Johannethburg?” “Are you from Parith?” “Long flight, ithn’t it?”
That’s when it dawns on me that I should be friendlier with Mr. Africa. What have I been thinking? Here is my first up-close encounter with a real-life victim of apartheid, an oppressed person – with a speech impediment, no less – and I’m not even acting civil. He probably lisps because his family has no money for speech therapy. Maybe his lisp is a result of ill-treatment by the white regime. Really, now that I’ve come up with a way to protect my privacy, he’s no threat to me. And I wouldn’t want him to mistake my behaviour for racism.
“I’m Colleen.”
Mr. Africa’s mouth is full. He nods as he finishes chewing his food, then reaches out to shake my hand.
“Siya,” he says, smiling. Thiya.
Siya talks a lot, and he talks quickly. He explains that for the last six weeks, he’s been travelling in Europe. When he pulls out his passport, I see that nearly all the pages are covered in stamps. Siya was in London first, visiting friends of his grandparents; then in Berlin with friends of his parents. He spent Christmas in Geneva, New Year’s in Brussels. After Brussels, he travelled around by train through the Netherlands and France.
It occurs to me that if Siya can jet-set around Europe, his family has more than enough money for speech therapy. The more he talks, in fact, the clearer it becomes that he must be rich. Prior to his holiday, Siya was finishing his last term at Oxford. I hear about nightclubs and jazz festivals; about driving at top speed on the autobahn; about the gardens around the Palace of Versailles – the Palath of Verthailles – and the red-light district of Paris, and Le Louvre. Buckingham Palace, Hyde Park. Shakespeare’s birthplace in Stratford-upon-Avon. The Berlin Wall, and Lake Geneva. Swiss girls in Switzerland. French girls in France.
When Siya excuses himself to go to the toilet, I watch him walk down the airplane aisle, trying to imagine what sort of girl would find him attractive. He’s fat. From the waist up, he looks fairly trim but from the waist down, his body widens like a pear. And he’s short. Shorter than me, even. So he walks on the balls of his feet, to make himself seem taller. If Siya tried to have a real, two-way conversation with me, he might improve in my eyes. He talks about himself too much.
“Have you seen the statue of David?” says Siya, settling back into his seat.
I shake my head.
“You’re joking.”
I shake my head again.
“You mean you really haven’t seen the statue of David?”
This, I think, does not make for a real, two-way conversation.
“You haven’t lived until you’ve seen the statue of David. Have you been to the Leaning Tower of Pisa?”
I shake my head.
“You mean you really haven’t been to the Leaning Tower of Pisa? I don’t believe it! But you must have been up the Eiffel Tower.”
Our entire conversation follows suit. Did I know that the drinking age in Germany is sixteen? That marijuana is legal in the Netherlands? That Jim Morrison’s grave is in Paris, France? That London Bridge isn’t in London at all but somewhere in the Mojave Desert of Arizona, usa?
I should fight fire with fire. Ask him about places and things he’s sure to have never seen. Only, I can’t think of anything good. I’ve hardly been outside of Alberta. West Edmonton Mall? The giant pysanka in Vegreville? I could try the Rocky Mountains but Siya would just one-up me with the Swiss Alps, the Andes. The goddamn Himalayas.
Really, my only line of defence is to start ignoring Siya. So, after an hour of his bragging, I tune him out altogether. I stop nodding, stop answering his questions, stop pretending to be interested in his stories. With my book open to the first blank page, I start to write. Siya, though, doesn’t catch on. Like Gladys before him on the flight from Edmonton to Toronto, he keeps talking.
Writing English words with a Ukrainian alphabet is harder than I thought, especially with Siya babbling at my side. I’m out of practice. Plus, for some English sounds – like “th” and “j” and “w” – there are no corresponding Ukrainian letters. I have to substitute “dat” for “that,” “dyust” for “just,” “vell” for “well.”
The title of the book, I decide, will come later. For now, a chapter heading will have to do. I start with Hepter Von, Sitìn’ Vit Sì[. Chapter One, Sitting With Siya.
“What are you writing?” says Siya.
I take a deep, annoyed breath. “Nothing much.”
“Is it a diary?”
I pretend that I haven’t heard his question.
“It is a diary, isn’t it? You were writing in it earlier, before we ate. I saw you.” Siya leans over, thrusting his nosy head down, inches from the pages of my book. “What language is that? Russian?”
I pull the book away from his eyes. “It’s Ukrainian.”
“Uker-ain-i-an. As in, the Ukraine?”
“Ukraine,” I say, correcting him. “Not the Ukraine, just Ukraine.”
“Ukraine,” says Siya, like a parrot.
“Wait, now. Don’t tell me, let me guess. You’ve been to Ukraine. Not once but, what, twice? You’ve seen it all, done it all. And, let’s see, you speak Ukrainian, too. Yes? Am I right?”
“Not at all!” says Siya, ignoring my sarcasm. “I’ve never been to Eastern Europe. But I’d love to go. You are Uker-ain-i-an, then! And all this time I thought you were American. Tell me about Uker-aine, tell me all about it. Say something in your languag
e!”
I stare at Siya, speechless. How could he miss the sarcasm in my voice?
“Actually, I’ve never been to Ukraine. My grandparents were Ukrainian immigrants but I’m –”
I pause for a moment. How do I explain to Siya that I’m Ukrainian, even though I’ve never been to Ukraine? I could say Ukrainian Canadian. But then I’d have to explain how it works, being two things at once.
“– I’m Canadian,” I say. “Not American. Canadian. This is my first trip away from Canada, away from home.”
“And you’re going to South Africa,” says Siya.
“Swaziland.”
“Swaziland?”
I nod.
“You’re really going to Swaziland? This is too much! We’re going to the same place, you and I! This is too much!”
Yes, I think. Yes, this is too much. Siya has the rest of the world to boast about. Swaziland is my only claim to fame, and he’s just taken it away from me.
“How long are you staying in Swaziland?” I ask.
I’ve already resigned myself to the fact that Siya will be with me in the Jan Smuts transit lounge, on board the plane from Johannesburg to Manzini. I’ll need a new chapter title. Sitìn’ Vit Sì[… En Epik. Sitting With Siya: An Epic.
“Now that I’ve finished my studies,” says Siya, looking down at his hands, “I’m going back to live in my country.”
“Well, you might live in Swaziland. But you don’t own it. I mean, technically, it’s not your country.”
This, I think, may well be the pettiest, cattiest thing I’ve ever said to anyone. Ever. And yet, I say it.
“Well, technically,” says Siya, “Swaziland isn’t a country at all. It’s a kingdom. Therefore, technically, I do own Swaziland. Or at least my family does.”
Siya’s face becomes stern. “I am Prince Siyabonga Mabandla Liteboho Dlamini.”
“Right,” I say under my breath, returning to my book. “And I’m Abracadabra Yabba Dabba Doo, Queen of the Prairies.” I know all about the royal family in Swaziland, but Siya doesn’t look anything like a prince.
“The last king,” Siya continues, “the great King Sobhuza II, was my grandfather. His Majesty King Mswati III, the reigning monarch, is my uncle.”
I read about King Sobhuza in the information booklet from the college. He was the last king. His name is all over the paperwork I received from Waterford because he’s the person who came up with the “Kamhlaba” part of Waterford Kamhlaba United World College of Southern Africa.
“Yeah, well.” I feel myself stammering. “If you’re a prince, shouldn’t you be flying in a private jet? Or, I mean, first class or something?”
Siya smiles.
“And shouldn’t you have, I don’t know, bodyguards or something?”
Siya chuckles. “Look, Sobhuza had over one hundred wives. All of his children are princes and princesses, and their children are princes and princesses too. There are scores of us Swazi royals. It would cripple the economy if we each travelled with an armed entourage. Besides, who would ever want to harm a Swazi prince?”
I don’t answer.
In the Jan Smuts Airport, Siya helps me drag my hockey bags off the luggage carousel. His luggage is small, dark green, and designer. Together we stand in line at Customs. Just as I suspected, just as I dreaded, we are taking the same flight from Johannesburg, South Africa to Manzini, Swaziland. Waiting for our bags to be searched, Siya tells me about his country.
Did I know that Swaziland has the second largest man-made forest in the world? I should go see it. The Usutu Paper Mill, too, if I have the chance. For camping out, there is the Malolotja Game Reserve and Mkaye, which is better but more expensive. Did I know that Swaziland has ritzy casinos in the Ezulwini Valley? Live entertainment nightly; world-class dining. For souvenirs, the Swazi Candle Factory, Ngwenya Glass. African Fantasy by Armstrong Artworks, in Mbabane, and Endlotane Studios on Oshoek Road.
I couldn’t possibly remember everything Siya tells me, not without writing it all down, and I’ve long since given up on my book. Once I’m settled in at the college, while my memory of the trip is still fresh, I’ll bring it out again.
When my turn comes up at the Customs counter, I’m ready with my hockey bags open, passport and plane ticket to Swaziland in hand. Two fresh-faced teenagers in army fatigues greet me. One has platinum blond hair cropped so short that patches of his blotchy-pink scalp show through; the other has darker, slightly longer hair. Both are tall and broad-shouldered, both carry rifles. And beside them, tethered to a chain, alert and menacing, sits a large German shepherd.
The dark-haired soldier takes a quick glance at my passport.
“Canadian,” he says. “Don’t believe what you’ve heard about us.”
The dark-haired soldier gives me a wink as he waves me through. He doesn’t so much as touch my bags. Then Siya steps up to the Customs counter, and both soldiers turn their attention to him.
They ask Siya to open all of his bags; with the tips of their rifles, they poke through Siya’s clothes and toiletries. One of the soldiers, the blond, lifts out a framed certificate. The writing on the paper is Latin, I think, and there’s a gold seal on the bottom right-hand corner. It’s Siya’s degree, from Oxford.
With the framed degree in his hand, the blond soldier says something to the dark-haired soldier – in Afrikaans, I think. I don’t understand what they’re saying. My guess is that they’re going to make trouble for Siya. For a moment, I glance around the airport, trying to spot someone official who can help us. But there’s no one to turn to. The soldiers are the officials.
“It’s mine,” I say to the soldiers, blurting out my words. “There wasn’t room in my own bags, so Siya here agreed to take it for me. It’s just my degree. From a university in Canada. Right, Siya?”
I look at Siya, the soldiers look at Siya. Siya nods.
“It’s from the University of Alberta. In Edmonton. Alberta.”
The two soldiers exchange words, again in Afrikaans.
“You know,” I add, “the city with the famous mall.”
The soldiers seem to ignore me. For several minutes, they continue to poke through Siya’s bags. Then the blond finally tosses Siya’s degree in the direction of Siya’s suitcase, missing the bag altogether. I pick up the frame, its glass cracked now right down the centre. Siya snaps his suitcase shut before he moves along.
As I’m about to follow Siya, the blond soldier steps in front of me, blocking my way. He stands so close to me, and he’s so tall, I have to lift my chin to meet his gaze.
“Kaffir-lover,” he says, spitting the words in my face.
I push past him, rushing to catch up with Siya. My legs tremble as I run.
According to Siya, the flight to Swaziland is a piece of cake. “Up and down,” he says. “Forty-five minutes and we’re there.”
But his hands are shaking, I notice, as we buckle our seat belts in the Royal Swazi plane. Beads of sweat have formed on his forehead. My own pulse is still racing. Kaffir-lover. I’ve never heard such awful words.
“Those soldiers,” I say. “They wouldn’t have – you know. They wouldn’t have really done anything to you, right? I mean, you’re royalty. And you’ve flown through Jan Smuts lots of times. They wouldn’t have – they’re not really allowed to – they can’t do anything. Right?”
Siya pulls a handkerchief from his pocket, wipes the sweat from his forehead.
“Tell me,” he says, ignoring my questions. “How do you say ‘thank you’ in your language? In your Uker-ain-ian language? I’m curious.”
“Come on. I told you, Ukrainian isn’t my language. I want to know about the soldiers. They wouldn’t have taken your degree away from you, right? What would that prove? You’d just get another copy sent from –”
“In my language – in SiSwati – we say ‘Siyabonga.’ To you, I would say, ‘Siyabonga, Sisi.’ Which means, ‘Thank you, Sister.’”
“Wait a second. That’s your name. Isn’t it? S
iyabonga.”
Siya nods, sweat trickling down the side of his chubby face.
“Well,” I say.
Slowly, Siya wipes the sweat with his hanky.
“I guess, in Ukrainian, your name would be – here, repeat after me. Dee-yak –”
“Dee-yak –”
“Dee-yak – oo –”
“Dee-yak-oo –”
“Dee-yak-oo-yoo, Diakuiu.”
“Diakuiu. Diakuiu.”
Two
By the time we touch down in Swaziland, Siya knows half a dozen words and phrases in Ukrainian. Hello, Dobryden. How are you? Iak sia maiesh? Merry Christmas, Happy Easter. Khrystos rodyvsia, Khrystos voskres. Cookies, korzhyky. Ia pechu korzhyky. I bake cookies.
In return, Siya teaches me Swazi words, and how to act when I’m with Swazi people. Once we arrive in Swaziland, Siya is back to his old, know-it-all self again.
“Remember,” he says, as we make our way across the tarmac, “Swazis will greet you all the time. Nearly everyone speaks English, at least in Mbabane and Manzini. But, nonetheless, wherever you go, they’ll greet you in SiSwati. You must greet them back in SiSwati. It’s the custom. They say, ‘Sawebona.’ You say, ‘Yebo.’”
Siya drags out the vowels of the SiSwati words. Saweboooona. Yeeeeebo.
While Siya talks, I stare straight ahead, across the runway, over the airplane hangars, and up along the horizon into the hills stretched out before us. Dark, wet-green hills speckled with blue-grey rock and clusters of tall, leafy trees. I didn’t expect this. There were no photographs in the information booklet from the college, and when Dad talked about the different ecological zones in Swaziland, I didn’t really pay attention. I expected savanna. Dry, flat grassland, like in movies about Africa. Almost desert. The odd spindly shrub; a few baobabs with bone-thin, twisted trunks.
Siya is giving me a ride to the college. On the plane, right before we touched down, I told him that I was prepared to take a taxi – Dad said that there should be lots of taxis around the airport – but Siya wouldn’t hear of it. He said that the taxi drivers will know I’m a foreigner. They’ll know that it’s my first trip to Swaziland, and they’ll adjust their fare accordingly.