They keep on arguing. What’s men’s business, what’s women’s business, which one is everybody’s business . . . What’s being black, what’s being white, what’s being human . . .
Now Aunty’s cursing at the clock. She’s gotta get to sleep ‘cause she’s gotta get up. She’s real gooli-up that she’s gonna be tired in the morning.
Uncle says stuff being tired. Stuff the time.
Aunty says, ‘Stuff you!’
I’m laying back saying nothing, awake for the rest of the night.
Since the train station, Aunty’s been hugging me lots. When she leaves of a morning. When she comes home of a night. She checks on me before she goes this morning. I’m pretending I’m still fast asleep. She goes on out.
Uncle’s off next. I still got m’head under the pillow. I wait till I hear that front door slam, then get up.
I’m cold in bed alone. I got used to snuggling up to someone warm and soft. I’m wanting to be downstairs. Down there where day is night and night is day and you can pretend there’s no tomorrow.
I stumble round the kitchen for some food. Take it out the back steps. The morning’s bright as. I never remembered the day could be so bright. Rhonda’ll still be sleeping, somewhere. I remember me trying to explain to her what sunrises look like up home. That sun coming up over the great long horizon, golden light, round ball of fire cruisin’ up over the sea. She reckoned, ‘You mean there’s two parts to the day? A morning and an evening? I thought there was just evening.’ I’m wishing I was back there with her and 2 Quack and their munyard ways.
My cereal tastes like cardboard. I can’t make it go down. I put the bowl over to one side for later. Lay back and let that sun take me in its arms. The sun, just me and the sun, keeping me alive.
Laying back here, I’m getting a good look at m’self. Seems I got bits of me going in all directions. I can’t get my mind to stay inside my head. I’m jigging about even when I’m supposed to be slack as.
I sit up. I’m still jigging.
There’s something moving at the bottom of the steps. Down there on the cement. A speck, some little thing, looks like me, jigging around in circles on the one spot. I’m making my way down the steps. Closer I get, I’m seeing it’s alive. Something struggling with what’s hanging on to it, holding it down. Trying to wriggle out of its cocoon.
I’m watching the poor little fulla, that chrysalis there, busting his guts to get out of that hard shell. I can’t take my eyes off ‘im. He don’t look like he’s gonna make it. That shell’s real tough. Won’t get off. He’s all limp and floppy. A butterfly, I reckon. Could be.
I get a twig. Hold one side of the cocoon with it, real gentle. Then, slowly, lightly, with my finger and thumb, try to open out the hole where he’s pushing the most. I’m feeling that little fulla struggle, then give up, struggle some more, then go quiet.
‘I’m with you, little brother. Don’t worry. I’ll help you. I’ll get you out, bro’.’
I peel the hard bits back. Got it. He’s out. Saved the little fulla. I give him a nudge, gentle as. He lays there, but. No life in him. Not yet. I’m crouching down, blowing the softest breeze on his wings. He’s gotta get up. He’s gotta get those wings going and fly. With each breath I’m willing him to fly.
No-more, he don’t.
Something warm and wet trickles down m’face. I’m wondering where those tears are coming from. I’m feeling naked, stripped bare of everything I was ever thinking I was. Maybe I’m not dead, but.
I’m feeling sorry. Real sorry. For that little fulla. For my clumsy hands. For not knowing which way to go, or where I am, or what I can do. Sorry for me, whoever that may be.
We’re laying here, me and that dead could-have-been butterfly. The sun gone out on both of us, gone down behind some building.
I’m hearing that voice, that one I’ve been thinking is teasing me and I’m not understanding. Real distant. I give in trying to make out what she’s saying, my girragundji. I’m giving in to the sound, without making nothing of the words. I’m just glad I can still hear something going on inside me.
Could be minutes, could be hours or days, I’m laying here.
When I come back to where I am, I’m knowing I’ve got a feeling for something. A feeling for sound or some meaning to words. Not so much words, but a feeling for a message that don’t need no words.
It’s only you . . .
I’m getting a feeling for taking one step back up the stairs.
. . . can save you . . .
If I can take one, might be I can take another.
It’s only you can save you.
Might be I can choose to climb back up.
The next step I gotta take is to get my butt out of bed and be ready to face m’uncle. I got it in me to lay it out straight with him.
Aunty Em shuffles out of the bedroom first, puts her rubber mat out in the lounge. Starts that stretching.
Me and this time of day, we’re still strangers. I’m rubbing m’eyes, watching m’Aunty Em down on the floor, twisting herself around in a knot. That morning light’s hugging round her bare arms, soft, cradling her into the day.
I flop on the couch, stretching out, hoping she might ask me to join her while there’s no one watching. She don’t seem to notice my thoughts. Keeps on going about her business, one position into the next.
It’s me that decides to ask. ‘Can you show me how to do that?’
‘What, yoga?’
‘Whatever?’
‘Sure. Take your socks off first.’
‘It’s cold, but.’
‘It’s your choice.’
I take m’socks off.
I got m’head down and m’moyu up doing that dog-pose, feeling like a goose, all m’muscles yelling at me to get back on the couch. That’s when Uncle comes past. Wouldn’t you know it? I lay out flat on the ground, gammin’ I’m resting, been sleeping there all night. He don’t seem to notice if I’m moyu-up or moyu-down, he keeps on a steady course to the shower.
I wait till he’s dressed, gets a bowl of cereal, milk and sugar, and’s sitting down taking his time.
‘I’m really wanting you to teach me dances.’ I blurt it out, trying to be casual.
Something’s fluttering inside me. I’m struggling with the words, tough as shrugging off a cocoon.
‘To go with you to some schools.’
He don’t seem to have heard me. I’m standing my ground, but, knowing one puff of wind could blow me over.
Then he looks up at me, into me.
Then he looks back down into his bowl of Weet-Bix.
‘You be up and ready Monday, after the weekend.’ I’m not that sure whether he’s talking to the Weet-Bix or me. ‘Tomorrow I wanna see you down the courts first.’
He washes his bowl, grabs his bags and heads out the front door.
Me, I’m standing there, not knowing whether I should be jumping for joy or running like crazy the other direction. It’s one thing to be wanting something real bad. A whole other thing to get it and have to live up to having it.
Today, I got my work cut out for me, down the Pavilion doing work-outs, getting ready for the brothers.
I got the rock in my hand. I let it fly. It hits the bottom of the net, making that swish-sweet sound of leather sweeping through nylon. That sound all shooters dream about.
I’m in! Me! I’m number nine to get a basket. Means I’m in the second team playing the first mob. Uncle shot one just ahead of me. We’re on the same team.
‘Yo, man.’ I high-five Leaping Leroy.
He’s on our team. Listen to me. ‘Our’ team like I was born part of it.
‘I’ll give you “yo”.’ My uncle mutters under his breath. He don’t let me get away with nothing.
No matter, but. I’m in.
I start running all over the court. I’m going where space is, so I don’t clutter everything up and get in no one’s way. I reckon I’m doing great, finding a rhythm, blocking out, eye on the ball . .
. Trouble is, the game hasn’t started yet. People are watching me like I gone wongy. And I have!
The brothers make their way onto the court. Best shooter from each team shoots. First to get a hoop, that team starts with the ball. Leaping Leroy gets it for us. And we’re away.
I’m getting into the flow, getting my rhythm, cutting hrough the key, getting bumped, yelled at by m’uncle. He’s coming at me from all directions.
‘Get your feet set.’
‘You’re shooting like the Leaning Tower of Pisa.’
‘Tuck your elbow in.’
‘Follow through.’
‘Block out!’
‘Seal your man off!’
‘Go to space.’
Space? Feels like I’m in outta space, some two-headed alien or somethin’. I’m trying to shove all this stuff in my head, what he’s yelling out, and still keep playing basketball. I thought we were on the same team. Even my opponents aren’t bagging me this much. I’m wishing I’d been doing some more training.
Richie Rich, he’s on the other team. They’re ahead. Leaping Leroy, on our team, he’s going off.
‘No, man, no, man . . . nooo! That was a foul, man.’
‘Man, no one even touched you!’ Richie’s serving it back up to him.
‘So, nigger, you saying that ball just jumped out of my hands? It’s got a mind of its own, right? You expecting Leaping Leroy to believe that, man?’ Leroy walks away disgusted. ‘Hands foul, man. Our ball.’
People are coming from all around the gym to listen to these fullas talk their talk. And I’m right there in the middle, part of everything. This is awesome.
Richie’s on a fast break, with the ball, and with a load on his mind he’s looking to be dumpin’ off. He’s steaming down the court. He’s got the rock in his hand heading straight for the hoop with dunk in his eyes. I’m the only one standing between him and two points. I hear m’uncle yelling.
‘Stay set. Stay set. Don’t move.’
I’m thinking that’s okay for him. He’s in that safe place, trailing behind Richie. Me, I’m in that other place. That front-of-train place. That place you can’t say nothing from.
I stay set to take the charge.
It’s too late to run and hide.
M’uncle’s yelling again.
‘What?’ I look over.
Next thing I hit the floor, flat on my back, this great big knee stuck in my chest, sucking the wind out of me. I can’t breathe. His knee feels like part of my body. There’s no room for air to get in even if it wanted to. I’m gonna die! Like fully!
‘Yo, boy, yo . . .’ Voices swirl overhead.
‘You ain’t gonna die on us, are you man?’
‘He not gonna die. He’s the man!’
‘Hey, kid, you’re the man.’
I can hear Richie in there. ‘He d’man! Took it straight up.’
I may be a man, I’m thinking. I’m not sure I’m the man, but.
The brothers crowd around me, picking me up.
I hear Uncle Garth somewhere there. ‘He done good.’
There’s a lot of yo-ing going on.
Leaping Leroy takes over. ‘He’ll do all right, man. He got the stuff inside to make it in the game. Didn’t back down. Took the hit and he’s still alive.’ He’s got everyone listening. ‘But it’s our ball.’
He charges out onto the court. The brothers are back in the swing.
I’m trying to keep up. I’m weak. M’knees have given out. I’m feeling sick in the stomach.
Uncle cruises up beside me. ‘Good on you, m’boy. You’re learning. Sometimes you’ve got to put yourself on the line.’
After, I’m sitting there panting up big.
Leroy slaps me on the back. ‘You’re phatt man, phatt.’
No one’s ever been calling me fat before. I’m too bony to be fat!
Uncle translates. ‘That means you’re cool. Phatt means cool.’
The Guru takes a seat next to me. Starts talking halfway through a sentence like we’ve been having this talk all along. He could be telling it to anybody, his shoelaces, or the basketball at his feet. He’s talking, but. And I reckon I’m the one that’s listening.
He tells me these Saturday afternoons are more than what they seem. I’m ready to agree.
‘The brothers, they’re the ones that know,’ he reckons, ‘if you make it in here, you can make it anywhere. So, they don’t go easy. They give it to you tough, man, because out in the world there you gonna need to know you can take it tough and still get up and play the game. That’s why they’re called the brothers. They’re watching out for you.
‘Maybe you could look at being a point-guard. I’m starting to think you might just have the mind-set for that. You gotta have courage, like the courage to go into the belly of the beast and find out the weakness. You think you got that kind of courage?’
I’m looking lame.
‘I can see in your eyes you been to some of those dark places I been. You know what tough is. You might look shy, but inside there you’ve had to fight to stay alive, right?’
He’s not holding up nothing for my answer.
‘Where I come from, New York, you gotta get down and get dirty to survive. You gotta learn to walk round with your chest puffed out, never back off. You don’t, you die. That gives you the courage to be a point-guard. Get it? No L.A. pretty boy’s gonna be satisfied dishing off the ball so their team-mates can look good when they make an easy bucket. You gotta be prepared to sacrifice your own scoring when you’re a point-guard. You gotta keep your cool in the middle of a riot out there.’
I’m nodding. Getting it. I think.
‘I can see that in you. You got the heart to be a point-guard.’
I’m not knowing which way to look, like fully. I’m just looking straight ahead.
‘You’re gonna make it, man.’ He’s nodding, looking down at his laces. ‘Because you’re choosing to make it, right?’
His laces aren’t arguing. Me, same. He gathers everything up. When he’s ready, the Guru walks off.
Every bit of me is aching on the way home. ‘Cept my heart. It’s full as.
Uncle’s talking up. ‘If those migaloos don’t respect you for anything else, they have to respect you for being faster and more agile than anyone else on the court . . . basketball, football, running . . . don’t matter what it is. We’re all equal when it comes to going for the ball or the finish line. It’s only the best wins, no matter about colour.’
Sunday night I can’t get that feeling for going to sleep. I wander downstairs. Rhonda’s light’s on. I’m thinking, gotta be more than a week’s gone by.
I knock on the door. She sneaks a look through. Takes the chain off the lock.
‘Hello, nephew.’ Could be that first day we met, her soft voice floating across to me.
She’s got her glasses on. Reckons she’s busy studying. Says she’s ready for a break and do I want a drink?
We sit out the back. Drink some cordial. She has a smoke. 2 Quack stays on the couch watching TV.
I tell her that I’m gonna be going out with m’uncle to a school in the morning. I’m gonna have to dance, like Murri-fulla dance.
‘You better get a good night’s sleep then,’ she smirks.
I agree.
She gives me a kiss on the forehead and walks me to the front door.
I climb back up the stairs, m’mind running back over what’s changed between us and the good old days . . . or nights . . . or days that were nights. I get to the top of the stairs and remember . . . I think I just called her aunty then when I said goodbye. No-good, Aunty Rhonda?
Maybe she’s not my jalbu no more. Not like under-the-doona kind of jalbu. More like friend for swapping stories or talking about what’s goin’ down.
Or more like . . . Aunty! Good-go!
This smile rushes across m’face, tripping me up the stairs.
9
Not much room in here in the boys’ toilets. Not for me and m’uncle
and all our gear. Funky boys smells’re thickening up the air, true.
I’m asking m’uncle if I can leave m’clothes on.
‘Why?’
‘I’m too shame.’ I admit right up front.
M’uncle just grins.
I’m thinking I’m not ready for this. This painting up. And painting up’s not ready for me. I’m not a traditional kind of blackfulla. I know I’m black as, as in the colour of m’skin. I’m wondering how deep that black goes, but.
‘Here, put this on.’ Uncle throws a bit of cloth at me. ‘We gotta get started. That there,’ he’s pointing at the scrap of material in my hand, ‘that’s your real ticket. That’s what’ll get you on that bus ride, the most important one. The one that takes you back to yourself.’
My mind’s spinning, taking me out bush somewhere, long way from anyone, just me and m’uncle teaching me things, important things.
I take m’clothes off. Try working out which way to tie that scrap of material round me. We call ‘im judda-jah. Dancers up home wear them. They look like they been born in their judda-jahs, but. Me? I try and get a look at myself in the mirror above the washbasin. I’m naked except for this little red thing covering m’boy’s bits. I’m thinking no one better look up when I bend over.
M’uncle takes the dry, powdery rock, the white ochre, and wets a bit on the lid of the container.
‘This here, that’s your mother.’ He takes two of his fingers, drawing the wet paint over my skin. I shiver. Not from the cold. From the power of it, but.
‘Mother earth from up home.’
He paints big butterfly wings in circles on m’thighs. Us fullas, Kunggandji mob, when we dance we shake our legs like imbala, the butterfly. I’m thinking of m’brother, that could-have-been butterfly, dying on the cement. He needed that struggle to make him strong enough to live. I didn’t know that then.
Uncle smothers both palms of his hands in white ochre. Places them against my belly all the way up m’chest. The white hand prints of the ancestors holding me tight. He takes the yellow ochre and draws a rainbow up the middle. All the time he’s talking, telling me things.
Njunjul the Sun Page 9