Whiplash

by Tracey Farren

  His hands in the air, singing a cool gospel song. It’s the People’s Church in Claremont. Full of ironed people, spoilt kids with tongue rings. A couple of black people with nice, smooth skin. Me, they’ll never guess about me. I bathed for an hour and ironed my skirt three times. I try sit so it doesn’t crumple, but the music loosens me up, you know. I drum with my toes, try tell my hips to keep still. My fingers itch to go in the air, like Dumi’s. Cause I believe in Jesus, and all those other ous who came to earth to remind us what we are. To tell us again, ‘Hey, you’re not a body.’ I just wish there were more chicks, you know? More women. There must have been some. They must have trashed all the proof of the holy women. I reckon Jesus’s mother, Mary was one. She knew what the hell she was doing here. She knew she had a special job. She went, Here everyone, here’s a kid who can help you remember.

  Guess who recognises me in the church? Someone I’ll never forget. The woman with the knuckles and the deep, worried line. The one who sped me and Josie to the police. She’s killing herself staring, tryna see if it’s me. I just smile. Don’t say, ‘Hi, there.’ Don’t even say, ‘Thanks for the lift.’

  ‘What happened?’ she says.

  My smile turns to cardboard, melting glue underneath. Does she flippin expect me to talk about rape? But she says, ‘I mean, I mean, what happened to you? You look glorious.’ I’m not used to good words like that. I die inside, try shrug her away. Dumi says next to me, serious as anything, ‘She’s been born again.’

  Geez, he sounds as bad as Draincleaner. But I don’t mind today. Cause it’s true. I feel like it’s true, but not in the way that the Christians say. Cause I was always holy, even when I thought I was dirt on the road.

  They have killer chocolate cake at the church. Dark and wet. The preacher comes over to us. Thank God I’ve never had sex with him. He’s wearing a black shirt, collar up like a rock star. He’s tubby, short hair with a tiny bald spot like someone dropped something hot on his head. He’s insanely happy, like he must be on pills. No flippin fear in this man, just like bloody Phyllis. He has soft, soft hands when he shakes mine. Chats a bit, asks me what I do.

  ‘I’m a dancer.’

  ‘Ah, you can tell.’ Careful not to look at my bod. Blushes a bit.

  Dumi puts an arm around me, ‘She’s got that dancer’s posture.’ The preacher nods, off the hook. When Dumi drops his hand, it brushes my bum. Sends a pitch fork into my electrics. I think it was an accident. Eeesh. Desire.

  My upside down life’s got beautiful balance. I dunno how to explain. There’s pain but it’s not like a monster, you know? It’s not hogging my whole damn life. And I’ll ride it in my own good time. With no Syns.

  And I am a professional dancer, Ma. We dance gigs for bucks. I get five hundred a night, no jokes, and we dance for less than one hour.

  Like, we do a birthday party in a white marquee tent, like at the races. But this time we are flippin celebs. After we’ve danced, we climb into Phyllis’s car in our tinkling, shimmering outfits. It’s the women who see us off. They wave, wish us luck, like family at a flippin wedding.

  We do a big office party in Long Street. You should see how quiet the men go afterwards. You should see how they shrink in their suits. The belly gives them respect, I swear. They get scared of the chicks. Not horny, like you’d think. They get scared of their spirit. They get scared of their hips. It’s so funny, Ma, how the men gang together and drink.

  You’d love to hear all the stories about our gigs. I know you would, Ma. Maybe I can tell you sometime.

  Christmas time the South Easter comes back. Bastard bashes our thoughts together, whispers its violent whispers. But it’s got no chance. What I do now, is I go to my own peaceful place. I mean, inside me. I tell the South Easter, try your best. You’re not gonna blow me crazy. I’ve seen three miracles. Three in a row to keep one child alive.

  Okay, they felt like flippin disasters.

  First the condom popped. Then Battery Man. Then Merrick.

  They felt like hell. But they made me have Luke. Made me give up sex work. Made me give up pain.

  Made me dance, see?

  On Christmas day I wake up buzzing like I’m plugged into heaven. The matric dance girl, Margaret, on my mind.

  I scratch through the trunk, find my abortion file. There’s her number scribbled there.

  ‘This is Tess, the chick from the hospital.’

  Her silence says, go away. Get off the phone.

  ‘How’re you?’ I ask.

  ‘No, fine,’ but soft. Maybe someone’s listening.

  ‘I just wanted to say don’t worry. The baby doesn’t mind. I gave mine away.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The daddy didn’t want it and I didn’t want it either. But the mom and dad, they wanted it so badly. So I gave him to them.

  ‘But mine’s …’

  ‘You gave him back to God.’

  ‘I’ve been so sad.’

  ‘Why? He’s happy. Both ways.’

  ‘He?’

  Shit. She didn’t even know.

  ‘It was a little boy, like mine.’

  Silence.

  ‘But he’s still alive with God.’

  ‘Do you think so?’

  ‘I’m a hundred percent sure.’

  Christmas afternoon, Dumi and me go swim in the sea. We body surf like we used to when we were kids, race Josie. We only get out when the siren goes. They’ve spotted a shark from the top. I fly out the sea, shit scared. Then kill myself at Dumi and Josie, running on water to get to shore. Sharonne’s there in a lime green bikini, putting sunblock on her white boy’s back.

  Dumi sits beautiful, dripping. ‘How many cows would fit in your mother’s back yard?’

  Oh my God. He’s doing it again. He’s saying, Shela uzonquonywa? Will you be my Zulu wife?

  But I do it again, I stuff it all up with ugly words. ‘Why? Do you wanna swap some meat for some meat?’

  Dumi doesn’t laugh. I try fix it, keep joking, ‘You know what? I’m gonna take a cow to your mom. I’m gonna buy you with a cow. See how that feels.’

  That gets him laughing. Josie thinks we’re crazy, runs down to play in the wet sand. We slide off the subject, talk about how maybe Dumi can get off the aeroplane with me at Durban. We can both go see Gladys, Ma. Even if you don’t wanna see me.

  We’re getting ready to fly. Ready to dance in front of thousands of people. They’ll have a monster screen, project us onto it. I’m wearing white this time, white and silver. I tell Noel if he stays away from the trains, starting from now, I’ll sew all his little presents onto my bra. I’ll feel like a queen, I tell him, in Cairo. Noel’s English is getting bloody good. He says, ‘You and my sister are the same.’

  Sheez, that gives me a helluva fright.

  But you know, he’s a bit right.

  I tell him to tell his sister in French that when I get my Cairo money, I’m gonna get her a machine that sucks silver from the sand.

  And I’m going to, I swear.

  I’m gonna send this tomorrow Ma. I’m sending it registered so you’ll have to sign.

  I’ll phone you from Cairo to see if I should come see you on the way home.

  I hope you say yes.

  Don’t worry, I promise not to tip Graham’s wheelchair over. Push it off that steep bank outside Angie’s Pancakes. That solid red cliff. No bushes to catch him.

  Seriously, Ma. I’d like to see you and Ange.

  I miss you.

  GLOSSARY

  Guide to foreign languages and slang as they appear in the text. Unless indicated otherwise, the translations below are Afrikaans to English.

  B

  Bakkie: truck

  Bergie: homeless person

  Bleddy: bloody

  Bleddy onnosele munt. Ek sal

  daai houtie donner: Bloody rude African. I will beat that

  African (‘munt’ and ‘houtie’ are racial slurs)

  Boet: brother

  Bok naai: s
ex with a woman (derogatory)

  Bompies: frozen suckers

  Bossies: Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome

  Braai: barbecue

  Broeks: pants

  C

  Cha: no (Zulu)

  D

  Daai: those

  Danke: thank you (German)

  Dankie vi’die kaartjies, Meneer:

  Thank you for the tickets, Mister

  Dikbek: sulky (direct translation: thick mouth)

  Dinges: thingy

  Dom: dumb

  Donnering: beating up

  Dof: dim-witted

  Drol: faeces

  E

  Ek wil’ie daai oppy hier hê nie:

  I don’t want that African here (‘floppy’ is a racial slur)

  Eina: ouch

  F

  Flak: trouble

  Flossie: loose woman (derogatory)

  Fynbos: vegetation indigenous to the Cape

  G

  God-weet-nie-wat-nie: God knows what

  Goeters: things

  Gooi: throw

  H

  Hakking: hacking

  Harregat: aggressive

  Hayi wene, isifebe: Hey you, bitch (Xhosa)

  Hemel: heaven

  Hoer: whore

  Houding: strength; backbone

  Hubbly bubbly: marijuana pipe, smoked through water

  I

  Impis: Zulu warriors (Zulu)

  J

  Ja: yes

  Jol: party

  Joller: partygoer

  Jou ma se poes: your mother’s vagina (derogatory)

  Junne: neutral exclamation

  K

  Kaalgat: naked (direct translation: bare bum)

  Kaffir: African (racial slur)

  Kak: faeces

  Kak n’ betaal: pay up

  Klap: smack

  Knuip: clench

  Koeksusters: syrupy doughnuts

  Koppie: mountain outcrop

  Kopstamped: head-butted

  Kwaai: nice

  L

  Laaitjie: child

  Lappies: cloths

  Lekker: nice

  Lobolo: payment by groom to bride’s family (Zulu)

  Lossit: leave it

  Luister: listen

  Lus: want

  M

  Maar: but

  Maats: friends

  Mal: mad

  Mal hond: mad dog

  Marcha: money

  Meid: maid

  Mielie: maize

  Moer: beat up

  Moerse: huge

  Mof fie: feminine man; homosexual

  Muti: medicine

  My kind: my child

  N

  Naai: have sex (derogatory)

  Naartjie: fruit similar to an orange

  Nee: no

  Nooit: never

  O

  Onbeskof: rude

  Ou: man

  Ou meid: old maid

  Ou rol: slut (direct translation: old roll)

  P

  Pap broek: cowardly (direct translation: limp pants)

  Pasop: watch out

  Poes: vagina (derogatory)

  Pomp: have sex (derogatory)

  Punda: meat (Zulu)

  Putu: maize cereal

  R

  Ruks: rips

  S

  Saak: worry

  Sies/Sis: expression of disgust

  Sisi: sister (Zulu/Xhosa)

  Shela umquonwa: Be my Zulu wife (Zulu)

  Skaam: shy; shame

  Skell: reprimand; shout at

  Skollie: baddie; gangster

  Skraal: thin

  Sluip: slink; drag

  Slap: soft

  Slat: hit

  Smaak: like

  Snoek: species of fish

  Snot en trane: snot and tears

  Sommer: just

  Soos: such as

  Staal: steel

  Stoep: veranda; balcony

  Stompies: cigarette butts

  Stukkie: girlfriend (direct translation: piece)

  Suka: go (Zulu)

  ’Swaar: it’s true

  T

  Tannie: auntie

  Tjoep stil: dead quiet

  Toe maar: don’t worry

  Tok-tokkie: species of beetle

  Tronk stories: jail stories

  V

  Veld: field

  Vloek: swear

  Voetsek: go away (derogatory)

  Vok: fuck

  Vokken: fucking

  Vreeting: devouring

  Vrekked: died

  Vris ou: strong man; good fighter

  Vrot: rotten

  Vuil: dirty

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  I am deeply grateful to:

  The women who trusted me with their survival battles, both psychic and physical,

  Maire Fisher for her genius for connecting people, creating the nervous system for miracles to materialise. Without her this book would have remained on a flash drive,

  My parents for teaching me that all people are equal,

  My brothers and Scott for their simple belief,

  My children, Tao and Grace, for letting me write a book they can’t read,

  David for providing the safety for my melodramatic imaginings,

  My agent, Ron Irwin and my publisher, Colleen Higgs of Modjaji, for snubbing intellectual prejudice and going with their gut,

  To Francois Loots and Maire Fisher for their editing work. A special thanks to Maire for her affection for Tess, and letting her commit shocking grammar and punctuation sins.

  To Janey Moore and Karen Boden for additional editing input,

  To Julia Nowicki, a natural healer and belly dance teacher, for teaching the magnificent power of the feminine,

  To my friends who raved about the rough draft and gave me the stamina to stomach rejections (especially Chris),

  To Anne Shuster for teaching me the nuts and bolts of fiction writing, and how to seduce that inner critic to shut up.

  I acknowledge the following sources:

  ee cummings, ‘Somewhere I have never travelled’

  Anne Emslie, The Owl House

  Tao Farren, school essay, ‘The Cereal Killer.’

  Georgia Harkness, ‘Beliefs That Count.’

  Shere Hite, The Hite Report on Female Sexuality

  Stephen King, Carrie

  Avril Lavigne, ‘Something Inside So Strong’ and ‘Knockin’ On Heaven’s Door’

  Bob Dylan, ‘Forever Young’

  Engelburt Humperdink, ‘Blue Spanish Eyes’

  Evanescence, ‘Bring Me Back To Life’

  Red Hot Chili Peppers, ‘Porcelain’

  Skwatta Kamp, ‘Feel Like Dancing’

  Wheatus, ‘Hump ‘Em And Dump ‘Em’