The nun, she offers me a Life-saver. I stare at the torn paper, the sweet pink musks. I could do with something to suck. Something that’ll connect me with m’self.
There’ll be a price, but. And I’m not wanting to pay.
I give in and take it.
‘Where you from?’
See! She got me. Sucked in again. That sweet pink musk turns sour as.
I’m about to tell her I’m from Harlem, New friggin’ York, but I look in her eyes and I see that aunty-look and the words choose themselves. I tell her the truth. Before I know it, we’re chatting up big. She knows half my mob. All those fullas that live down round Sandgate and that. She keeps on about one fulla there, must be an uncle of mine. I got that many uncles. I heard of him, but she knows a whole lot more than I ever heard. The way she’s talking up about us mob, I feel real deadly just to be related.
Then her eyes glass over, all teary. The end of her nose pinks up and starts to run. I’m wanting to help her out but I don’t have a hanky or tissue or nothing. I’m thinking of anything to get her mind off whatever it’s got itself stuck on that’s making her sad.
I’m asking her if she knows how the emu got its name. It’s an old joke my uncle used to tell. Reckon it’s worth giving it a go. She’s looking at me blank. Just at the right time, someone walks past in the aisle.
I point and say, ‘You know what us mob call that?’
She looks where I’m pointing and all she sees is the back of the person walking past.
She looks confused. ‘A person?’
‘No! His moyu. That’s what we call that one, that backside, bottom, bum . . . moyu . . .’ I sound it out for her. ‘Moo-you.’
‘Mooyou.’ She sort of gets it right. ‘What’s that got to do with emus?’ she giggles.
Got her! That first giggle flows out without her noticing, like water trickling over rocks way below a forest of trees.
‘Listen up and I’ll tell you.’
She wipes her tears on the back of her veil.
‘Not so long ago, what do you call them fullas that write down stuff about us, you know, whitefullas that write books about blackfullas and . . .’
‘You mean anthropologists?’
‘Yeah, that’s him. Well, this anthro . . . opolo . . . One of those fullas was up there studying our mob. Writing down the names of plants . . .’
‘A botanist,’ she butts in, nearly knocking me off my story track.
‘Nah, that other kind of fulla, that anthro one. See, he’s trying to cotton onto how we were talking and our language. Anyway, one time there, us mob was having a big dance, all painted up and that. He asked about the patterns on our bodies, the designs and what they mean. He was scribbling all this stuff down. Us mob was dancing up all over the place.
‘He had this old fulla sitting down next to him asking him to tell him what was what.
‘“What are they doing there?” he asked, pointing at the dancers.
‘Old fulla looked up at him and said, “They been doing Hunting Kangaroo Dance.”
‘The bloke scribbled it down. After a few moments he looked up again and asked, “What’s happening now?”
‘“He been doing Goanna Dance now. He been go down waterhole, look for dat snake dere.”
‘The anthra . . . anthropo . . . that fulla, he scribbled it all down. He scribbled and scribbled, getting down everything the old man said.
‘When he looked up this time, one of the dancers was doing the Emu Dance. He was pecking the ground, facing away from that writing-down-fulla. His backside’s sticking up. When that whitefulla looked over, he pointed at that dancer doing the Emu Dance, he pointed straight at him and said, “And what do you call that?”
‘Old fulla, he looked up where that fulla was pointing and he was real shame. “Eh? Dere?” He whispered, “Dat’s ‘e moyu.”
‘The whitefulla looked again and said, “What?”
‘“Dat’s ‘e moyu.” The old fulla was embarrassed.
‘And that anthro-opo-ist wrote down, “e-mu-u”. Emu. And that’s how that emu got its name!’
I’m raising one cheek off the seat, slapping my butt. She’s choking, those tears flooding down again. This time it’s from too much laughing. I better go easy on this one with the jokes, I’m thinking. She might pass out.
But then, soon as she’s recovered, she’s onto telling me one of her own. The one about what the bishop said to the nun. I didn’t think nuns were meant to tell jokes like that, but.
I’m laughing m’self stupid. I tell her another one, one of m’best. Then she’s got one better. We keep on, laughing into the dawn. Us two, me and the nun, we’re out there in space, free of time and place.
Then the big city of Sydney reaches out its arms to us. Where we’ve been was way past any streets and buildings. In bits and pieces that city takes shape along the side of the freeway, our bus gleaming silver in reflections.
She’s never been to Sydney, neither. She’s heard it’s a beautiful place. Sydney Harbour Bridge, the Opera House, Olympics and everyone friendly and that.
We go quiet waiting for that beauty to come and get us.
Now we’re underground, burrowing through a tunnel they built right under the city. Disappearing into the belly of the big beast. I’m not game to look at her or take my eyes off outside. I’m wondering how they’re keeping up that river overhead. Only little shower tiles on that tunnel wall. Something seems not right to me. I’m holding m’breath.
We escape from the underworld into a fantasy land where buildings grow that tall they shut out the sky. I’m trying to make out something, anything, might make me recognise my new home.
Seems now we’re here, me and her, neither of us is that sure we should have left where we was. I can feel her same as me, unsure. I’m not about to hold her hand or touch her or nothing. But I’m wanting to give her something to make her strong. I tell her what Aunty Milly told me. ‘Sometimes you gotta go away from where you wanna be, just so you can get strong enough to go back there.’ Her eyes look real serious, staring at me. I don’t know if I made it worse, or said something wrong, blasphemed, or she’s about to hug me or burst out crying or what.
‘Yes,’ she says, real solemn, like she’s running through the Rosary with her Hail Marys, Praise the Lord. Now she’s looking at me like I am the Lord, Father, Son and Holy Ghost all in one, or good as. She keeps on saying to herself, ‘yes . . . yes . . . yes,’ nodding her head.
I always knew Aunty was powerful. I didn’t know that power worked on migaloo ones, but. Nuns and all.
3
I got a scrap of paper in one hand with a phone number on it, my port, m’bag in the other, m’too deadly sound machine tucked under my arm, and me in the middle, ready to step out and take on the big city. Sydney, here I am.
Trouble is I got no uncle and aunty running up and claiming me. I’m feeling like lost baggage. The scrap of paper’s getting that scrunched I can hardly read the numbers. They’re just numbers all in a row. Don’t match up with any image in my brain that says ‘here’s your new home’. Could be long way, could be close, could be they live anywhere out there. How far does out there go?
Never thought of it when I got on the bus days ago, but now I’m standing here, I don’t recognise no one. There’s people rushing all directions. I don’t know none of them. Nowhere in the movies looks this lonely.
I’m wishing I hadn’t said goodbye to the nun and told her ‘course I’d be right. She was looking back at me and waving all the way out onto the street. Last I seen of her she had a nun either side of her carrying her bags like bodyguards or wardens or something. And her, she’s turning back, waving over her shoulder, not wanting to let go. And me, I’m standing watching, knowing I’m the last image she has to remind her of what she’s left. Then she smudged into a patch of light. Gone. Vanished.
People keep looking at me like they never seen a Murri-fulla before. They wanna look right into you. Right into your face and through
your eyes, friendly and that, but. Migaloos don’t do that up home. They know us Murris. We know them. We keep to our own places.
Maybe they been thinking they seen me somewhere before. Like I’m a footballer come down to play AFL. Sydney Swans. Or Rugby League. South Sydney. They could be mistaking me for ‘The Man’ Mundine, deadly eh? Don’t mind them thinking that. They won’t be picking on me if they think I can hit. Bet no one’s got me spotted as the basketball legend I’m gonna be, the next Michael Jordan for the Chicago Bulls. Not yet. That’s ‘cause I haven’t got the gear. The basketball boots, the baggy shorts, the singlet. M’Wolverine’s as cool as but it don’t say ‘legend’.
My mind’s gone all wongy now, stupid, making up thoughts so as that worry don’t rush in and drown me. Pretending I’m a legend not a loser keeps that gnawing in my belly quiet.
Eh, look-out! Here they come. Aunty Em’s rushing at me like she’s busting a world record. Now she’s hugging and saying sorry they’re late and hoping I wasn’t worried and there was lots of traffic and they couldn’t get a park . . .
‘Nah, no matter,’ I take that worry off her before she’s gonna pass out. When I first met Aunty Em back home, I been nicknaming her Rush Hour. Rushing here and there, always gotta be on time. She still got that pace about her.
Uncle Garth’s sauntering up, grinning. ‘Hey, young-fulla. You knew we’d get here, eh? Murri-time.’
We laugh up big and hug.
‘Yeah, Murri-time, eh?’ I’m sighing with relief, forgetting I was ever worried.
Uncle Garth’s got a powder-blue Merc. True god. Powder-blue, 280S Automatic. Real leather seats. Slides your butt all over the place round the corners. Maybe rich people got some special way of holding onto those seats, like suction butts or something. No wonder they walk all funny!
Me, I go flying across from one side of the car to the other every corner. Whole back seat to m’self. I get to see both sides of the city still heading in the one direction, like fully.
There’s nowhere to park the Merc outside their place. Uncle’s cursing. Reckons Bondi’s getting too busy. I’m cursing, same, backing up m’uncle. Inside, I’m excited as hell to be here, to be where it’s happening, the busier the better.
The front of their block of flats is all trashed. Graffiti, rubbish chucked about by passers-by. No one uses the front gate so it’s rusted shut. You can see from the tracks, most people walk through the corner where the brick fence’s busted up and fallen down. I’m thinking it’s more like home than the flash place I got in my mind. We climb up the stairs. Uncle says something about the bullet holes in the wall. Some fulla come in and shot at some other fulla for drugs or something.
I’m thinking about the big bloke in the bus and watching m’arse. I’m thinking about the nun and Sydney Harbour Bridge and the Opera House and friendly faces. I’m still waiting for that beauty to come and get me.
Aunty Em cooks up a big dinner for us. Reckons it’s to welcome me to Sydney. Stir fry in the wog.
‘Wog?’ I’m going. Didn’t know m’aunty would call those foreign-fullas that.
Uncle sets me straight. ‘Wok. This thing, this frying pan here, you call ‘im “wok”.’
We sit around the table, no telly, just yarning. Aunty’s onto planning the next day. Uncle’s onto eating his dinner. I’m onto anything that’s going. I’m tingling all over with newness, like that snake must feel when he sheds his old skin and struts his stuff for the first time in his new coat. I’m looking and touching and tasting everything.
Aunty’s a school teacher, see. She’s talking up about the special kind of school she teaches at. Kids come from all over the place, all over the world, all different languages and that. Next thing, she’s talking about me going with her, me going to school. Those brakes slam on real fast in my head. I’m onto anything but going backwards. I never planned to be coming down here to go back to school.
I look at Uncle for help. He keeps on eating and smiling and saying something about I might need a sleep-in tomorrow. I’m nodding and trying to get it across that I’ve done with school. I’m not sure that they get my message, but. I’m not wanting to be throwing my weight around on the first night, neither. Not that much of it to throw, weight that is, but I can dig m’heels in when I want. I might be a skinny fulla but I can G-O as good as.
Uncle and I get stuck into the clearing up and washing dishes. Aunty’s got some work to do correcting before I go to bed. See, I got the sofa-bed in her study. How cool is that? My Aunty Em’s got a study, like office, like important person. Books and filing cabinets and stuff everywhere.
Uncle’s frothing up the suds.
‘You still going for Chicago Bulls?’ I been busting to get yarning about basketball.
‘Lakers. I given up the Bulls. I’m following the coach now. Stuff the players. Those fullas are just into money, money, money, must be funny . . . Eh, look-out, sounds like Abba!’
See, I reckon I take after m’uncle. We got that same deadly sense of humour.
‘No, Phil Jackson’s the man. The Zen master of basketball.’
Uncle’s favourite topic is the NBA – the National Basketball Association. You get him talking about those dudes over in America, he won’t pull up for days. And I’m soaking it in. I can feel I’m starting my journey right here in the kitchen, wiping dishes with m’uncle.
Basketball was always better when he was a kid.
‘We played on bitumen courts. I’d play till m’toes’d pop out and there were big holes in m’soles from all the lay-ups we were doing. Toes’d be pouring blood but we’d play on. You’d save for weeks before you could buy a repair kit and patch ‘im up, glue a new sole on and sand ‘im down. Eventually the hole would get that big it was beyond repair. Cardboard was the only thing that would work then. You’d have two or three cardboard cut-outs waiting on the sideline. Every time one’d get soaked with your blood and sweat you’d call time-out and reload your sole.’
As if, I’m thinking. In your Dreamtime! M’uncle’s real good at telling stories.
‘You watched basketballers back then. They played for the love of it. Since Jordan retired the game hasn’t been the same. These young kids, they’re all great athletes but their hearts are somewhere else. They’re gifted, but their minds are on the money not the ball.
‘These dudes do all this fancy stuff but most times when they shoot the ball they’re shooting bricks. They forget the basics. They walk out on the court and leave the basics back in the change-rooms in the mouths of their coaches.
‘You gotta remember the basics m’boy. Not just in basketball. But in life. Basketball is life.’
We finish the dishes. He wipes the bench that clean you can see yourself in it. He likes checking himself out, m’uncle. Gives him a good excuse, wiping those benches.
On the way to bed, Uncle slips me ten bucks. ‘In case you need something and I’m not about,’ he reckons. I reckon he just likes having me around.
‘Get your dot into gear by the weekend and I’ll take you down the courts.’
I suppose that’s his way of saying goodnight and he loves me.
I’m laying here, belly full, brain whizzing, heart bursting. I reckon I made it and I haven’t even set foot on the court yet. Maybe that’s what Aunty Milly meant when she said goodbye. When she said about every time she looks up into the sky she’d be watching for me. Maybe she meant those stars, they remind her of me. Maybe I’m gonna be a star!
I’m looking around the walls of books, watching shadows, hearing street sounds I never heard before. Big mobs of people charged up . . . bottles breaking on hard corners . . . noise bouncing off brick walls. Cars honk different down here, more of that anger in them. Tyres make a tighter screech on cold bitumen.
That legend feeling’s starting to slip right through me. I’m getting that heavy feeling in its place. That I’m-a-long-way-from-home, lost-in-the-big-city feeling in m’belly. I’m missing sounds I’m used to. Like . . . small mobs of peop
le charged up . . . bottles breaking on tree trunks or hard heads, tyres skidding on dirt . . . I’m joking m’way out of that sad feeling that wants to settle down on me in the night.
M’mind’s going crazy, but, crammed in here with all these other people’s thoughts. I’m wondering what Aunty Em’s brain must be like if she’s got all these books running round her head.
I don’t reckon I sleep all night. Somehow it’s morning, but. I wander out. The place’s quiet as. No one in sight.
There’s a note on the table, that teacher-writing all neat and numbered.
1.I’ll be back by four.
2.Help yourself to anything you can find to eat.
3.Here’s the key to the front door. Make sure you lock it if you go out.
4.Garth won’t be back till late.
5.Don’t lock yourself out. If you go out take the key. If the door slams shut, it locks.
6.Rhonda is the name of the woman in the flat downstairs. She’s very friendly if you need help. My number at school is . . .
7.Love you. See you soon. Aunty Emma.
I’m wandering around the flat checking everything out, wondering what to eat, where to settle. Too many choices. Aunty’s got me worried about that key now. I’m not wanting to go out the front door in case something stuffs up and I can’t get back in. We always got the windows open at home for climbing in. I’m not used to carrying keys.
I switch the telly on and watch a soap. Same soap as up home. Makes me feel like I haven’t gone nowhere. I switch the TV off. I’m starting to wish Uncle had woken me up and taken me with him to the school he’s performing at.
I’m thinking about writing a letter home. Telling them about the bus and the nun and Uncle’s Merc and . . . I get excited and rush around finding some pen and paper from Aunty’s study. I’m not calling it my bedroom yet.
When I sit down and face that big blank sheet of paper, I’m not knowing where to start. I’m not sure what it is that I’ve been doing. I’m not sure what it is about how I got here that’s worth telling. Seems too early to say how I am. I got no junga, no money to send them up, yet. I hold off on the idea of a letter.
Njunjul the Sun Page 3