Coconut

by Kopano Matlwa

  So the day has not started off as well as I would have liked, but so what? ‘Failure isn’t falling down, it is staying down’, right? Isn’t that how the saying goes? Well, I am no failure. I am all cleaned up now. I’ve touched up my make-up, fixed my hair and cleared my throat and am ready for my first table of the day.

  “Good day, my name is Fiks. Is this your first time here? Well, welcome to Silver Spoon Coffee Shop.

  I will be your waitress for today. I will be taking your orders and serving you your food. Here are our menus, there really is just so much to choose from so please do not hesitate to call me if you would like me to tell you a bit about the various dishes and some of the house favourites.”

  It’s the thing you take for granted that turns out to be the most important thing in your life. I really believe that. Life is just shady like that. Like, I’m just thinking, now. Your accent, for example. It’s not something most people give much thought to, let alone wish to change. But for me, my whole life has become about how I speak, about what sounds the words make as they fall on the listener’s ear.

  People don’t realise how much their accent says about who they are, where they were born and most importantly what kind of people they associate with. Seriously, when we have those brief exchanges of words at the petrol station or in the bread queue, it is what you sound like that helps people to place you and determines how they’ll treat you. Trust me, the accent matters. Don’t let some fool convince you otherwise.

  It is always exciting when we have virgins in the shop. We call them virgins, those people who come to Silver Spoon for the very first time. It is especially thrilling for me because each virgin represents a new opportunity, a shot at being discovered. I am always at my best when virgins come in. I want to give them the finest service and most sensational eating experience they have ever had in their lives. You never know who they may be, so that is why you never take chances. Some have been film producers shooting scenes in South Africa and we’ve even had a famous Australian actress on holiday here with her parents. But of course you only find out this stuff as they are about to leave, when they sign their bills or hand us their credit cards. By then it is too late, the impression has been made and, if it’s bad, you have lost out on a potentially grand opportunity. So I never take chances. Always the best service, me at my best, always as if I am serving the Queen of England.

  The family of virgins I have now do not look very spectacular or very rich. Actually more bland and Orange Farm-ish, than rich and famous. When I brought them their food, they held hands and prayed. Rich people don’t pray. But you never know with these celebrity families. They may just be doing that to throw us off.

  I do not pray. Gogo did enough praying to cover me and all my descendants from here to Kingdom Come. It was strange because she wasn’t terribly religious during the day, in fact she was pretty unscrupulous in the way she lived her life, and Uncle, who was very religious during the day but not so holy at night, would tell me not to listen to a word Gogo said because her way of life would secure me the presidential suite in hell. I wasn’t too sure about that, because the way Gogo prayed at night, dragging me out of bed and making me kneel down beside her, the candle in my hand burning hot wax into my skin, well, I didn’t think any god I’d ever heard of would deny such desperate prayer even just a mattress in heaven.

  “Father, I do not doubt that you love your children,” she would say.

  “I do not doubt that you love all your children.” Stressing the ‘all’.

  “I do not doubt that you made us all as equals, I do not doubt that when you created this earthly home, that all within was for us all to share.”

  “I do not doubt, Lord, that some day it will be as you intended.” And then she would begin to sob.

  “But which day, Lord? On which day will it be as you desired?”

  Gogo must have whined that same prayer every night of the school holidays I spent with her in Hammanskraal, and she probably whined it just as often when I wasn’t there. I didn’t get the point. Surely you ask God for something once, twice, maybe even three times, but when you still don’t get what you want, then maybe, just maybe, it’s safe to conclude that God’s answer is ‘No, Gogo’. You don’t just keep nagging and nagging for the same thing every night for the rest of your life. There’s just no sense in that. You simply accept your lot and move on. Poor God, having to listen to Gogo beg and beg night after night must have been agony. God must be glad she is now dead so that He can tell it to her face: “No, Gogo!” But knowing Gogo, she’s probably there in heaven, still nagging Him and nagging Him, hoping He’ll change His mind.

  Maybe things were never intended to be equal. That was Gogo’s first mistake. She just assumed that God intended things to be equal amongst all his children. That is why she lived her life in gloom, always hoping that tomorrow God would find the time or check His diary and remember, ‘Oh yes, got to sort out the inequalities on earth’, and zap his wand and fix everything. Gogo, she never considered that perhaps God made some races superior, as an example for other races to follow. If only someone had suggested that theory to Gogo, then she would have spared herself (and me!) a whole lot of carpet burn and time spent sending off bootless prayers.

  Shame. It wasn’t all bad. In fact on some holidays the evenings spent praying would actually be quite a bit of fun. During those holidays Gogo would be restless and impatient and we would not bother with the candles or kneeling. Instead we would march around the house, Gogo leading and me repeating after her. It was especially fun when Gogo heard news of young black boys going missing in the cities, or news of another one of her maid friends being raped by the baas of the family they worked for. Then Gogo would grow so mad she’d stomp and yell and shout right at God, right into His face, so loud that I was afraid God might come down any minute and strike her down with His mighty hand and yell in Grandpa’s voice (who was at that stage long dead), “O a nthasetsa, ke bogetse bolo!”

  “How long, Lord?” she would scream, drunk on emotion.

  “How long, Lord?” I would scream too, excited at the performance that was to begin.

  “No longer can we wait.”

  “No longer can we wait,” I would agree.

  “For I fear, Father.”

  “For I fear, Father.”

  “I fear for the patience of your children.”

  “I fear for the patience of your children.”

  “They grow restless, Lord.” Her voice would be trembling now.

  “They grow restless, Lord.” I’d try make my voice tremble, too.

  “They tire of waiting.”

  “They tire of waiting.”

  “I do not doubt you, Lord!” Here Gogo would throw her body to the ground.

  “I do not doubt you, Lord!” And my body would follow.

  “You, Father, are mighty and great.”

  “You, Father, are mighty and great.”

  “But Father…” and her voice would tremble again.

  “But Father…” mine would as well.

  “I cannot say with such certainty the same for myself.”

  “I cannot say with such certainty the same for myself.”

  “No, Lord, I cannot be sure.”

  “No, Lord, I cannot be sure.”

  At this point, Gogo, now exhausted from her demonstration, would just lie there on the floor sobbing softly. I did not know how to sob like her so I would just lie at her feet, repeating after her and trying to sound as sad as possible.

  “I do not know, Father…”

  “I do not know, Father…”

  “…where this new self may take me.”

  “…where this new self may take me.”

  “Suddenly I am filled with a rage that delights me.”

  “Suddenly I am filled with a rage that delights me.”

  “I do not know how much more I can swallow.”

  “I do not know how much more I can swallow.”

  “In my dreams I sp
it vengeance.”

  “In my dreams I spit vengeance.”

  “Oh no Lord, it is not you I doubt…”

  “Oh no Lord, it is not you I doubt…”

  “… but me.”

  “… but me.”

  It’s the virgins at the table by the fan, and next to them the Potgieters, who love their steaks all soft and bloody and prefer to sit as far away from the smoking section as possible because Nerissa, their youngest daughter, is asthmatic. Mrs Potgieter is expected to give birth March third so remember to ask about the baby. Then comes in Mr Wilkinson and his daughters Tammy (berry smoothie without the lumpy stuff) and Monica, who is going to grade one next year. Next is Pamela, with her crocodile skin purse lined with credit cards, whom I seat near the Wilkinsons because I know she has a thing for Mr Wilkinson and loves the way he loves his little girls. After Pamela is Megan (Savanna without ice, change ashtray frequently) and Sheila (peach and apple tea and choc-bit waffle with cream, man-trouble so sympathise). At around 10.30 a large group of virgins walk in who don’t look like they are going to eat much, so I seat them outside in the sun so that they do not stay long. The virgins are followed by James. I’ve saved him the table by the window with the view of the gym swimming pool downstairs. He’s a disgusting pervert but tips me well, so I grant him his little indulgences. And then some more virgins.

  These are my kind of people. People with stuff to show for themselves. Lots of stuff! Ja, they all have their bad sides, like all people do, but they do not let that get in the way of them making something of themselves. I can really relate to these people, that is why I am so good at this job. We have so much in common, so much to talk about. I understand them. They understand me. Not like the people at home whose minds are still lodged in the past.

  “The virgins at the table near the cakestand, dahling, have been waiting for their order for about ten minutes now.” Miss Becky says this while walking up to me with that smile on her face that you know is not for you but for the customers, who may grow uneasy if they see how angry she is.

  My stomach sinks. I forgot about them. Shoot. It’s just so busy today, and with Sarah and Dave sending me back and forth because they can’t make up their minds about what they want to eat (as usual) and little Monica repeatedly throwing spoons onto the floor and Mr Wilkinson insisting I keep bringing her new ones, well, I am kind of battling to keep up with it all. But I’m not complaining, I love Sarah and Dave and Mr Wilkinson’s girls, and I guess they’re allowed to throw stuff around? It’s just a bad day. Shit. I can’t believe I forgot to place that order, virgins for that matter; guess I can forget about getting their tip.

  “Where is Ayanda, Miss Becky?” I tentatively ask her, as I punch the virgins’ order into the machine.

  “Don’t ‘where is Ayanda’ me, Fiks. You should be able to run this place by yourself without Ayanda. You’ve been here long enough. Watch your tone with me, madam.”

  What tone?

  “Now go. Go push their order up in the kitchen while I calm them down.”

  What tone? What was my tone? I really need to pull it together. I need to watch what I say. I cannot afford to upset Miss Becky. I cannot afford to forget to place orders. Where is Ayanda? What is wrong with me today? Fiks, stop ‘where is Ayanda-ing’ and focus on work. Work, work, work. Focus, focus, focus. Sort out the virgins order, get cigarettes for Chantelle (Peter Stuyvesant, Extra Mild), offer Emily’s parents the dessert menu and find more sweets for baby Kim.

  “Add two more cups of flour, Fikile.”

  “But why?”

  “Because we need to make another batch, Fikile.”

  “I don’t want to do this anymore, Gogo.”

  “Fikile, just add two more cups of flour, please dear, you can see my hands are full.”

  “But how come you never bake for me, Gogo?”

  “Stop with that, Fikile.”

  “How come you never make cupcakes for me, Gogo?”

  “I don’t have money, Fikile.”

  “But you have money to bake for madam’s children!”

  “It’s madam’s money, Fikile. Now stir that please, and don’t spill.”

  “I don’t want to do this anymore.”

  “Fikile, I am not asking you, I am telling you. Stir please, the children will be back now. So stop with your nonsense and stir. We still need to walk the dogs.”

  “But you hate dogs, Gogo, they give you sinuses.”

  “Yes, Fikile, but Gogo needs money to eat, so Gogo must walk the dogs.”

  “But I don’t like those dogs, Gogo. They scare me. I don’t want to walk the dogs.”

  “I cannot leave you in this house alone, Fikile. Madam will not be happy. You will just have to be brave. Now get those cherries out of the fridge for Gogo.”

  “I’ll walk the dogs for you if you give me a cupcake, Gogo, then you won’t have to worry about your sinuses being blocked tonight.”

  “Stop it, Fikile.”

  “Please Gogo, just one cupcake, just one, nobody will even notice.”

  “I’m sorry, my darly, on your birthday, nê? Gogo will bake for you on your birthday.”

  “You always say that, Gogo, you always say that but you never do. You love madam’s children more than you love me!”

  “I shouldn’t have brought you here, Fikile, you’re just a nuisance.”

  “Fiks, dahling! Won’t you show the gentleman and his lovely wife and daughter to their table, please?” Miss Becky startles me out of my thoughts. I turn around and want to scream out in agony when I see who it is.

  Them. The Tlous. The family that I hate with everything in me. Where is Ayanda? This is his family, he knows I do not serve the black families, they’re just an annoyance and waste of my time. Especially this specific family. I hate them. I hate them so much.

  I don’t know why they come here. Every Sunday they come, nobody knows who they are, they do not fit in here, everybody can see it, everybody knows it, I am sure they know it too, but they come anyway. Such forced individuals. New money is what they are and that is why I hate them. That is why I avoid them. Where is Ayanda when you need him? The bastard. He doesn’t mind them; he actually enjoys waiting on them. It makes him feel better, like he’s reaching out to his own or whatever. But I don’t care about any of that crap, I just want them to leave.

  “Fiks!” Miss Becky yells, pushing them towards me, clearly uncomfortable with the family she knows she should probably be acquainted with better because they are here every Sunday. I groan, wondering if this day can get any worse.

  At first it seems as if there is no table for them. I am relieved. Maybe they will leave and go some place else. But Miss Becky, always the one to find a solution, pulls up the table that we use to keep the kitchen door open and organises three chairs. She gives me her signal and I show them where to sit. The mother, hair and nails all done up, looks at me as she sits and smiles. I do not smile back. I know her smile is fake. I know when they look at me with those pitying eyes they are all really laughing at me inside. “Did you see her?” they will whisper as I turn my back. “Those cheap clothes and those old shoes! Poor thing, we really should give her our leftovers.” I know what they are like, these BEE families. Fake hearts and fake lives all dressed up in designer labels bought yesterday. I place their menus on the table and walk away without a word. I have real customers to serve.

  “Melissa, here is your decaf Moccachino. Now tell me, how was London?”