Story – PurplePretoria

“You are not aware of your surroundings. You drove at 20 miles per hour on a 55 mile speed limit. You drove in and out several times during the parallel parking, you run a red light.” As she turned away, she added in a high pitched tone, “And you almost got us into an accident!… For these reasons, you have failed your test. You need A LOT of practice.”

“Thank you so much.”

She looked back at me puzzled.

I left the driving test lane parking by myself, the second time that morning that I had driven alone in more than a year. The drizzle that had blurred the windscreen as soon as the test began disappeared. Inside the office, I was directed to the front desk, a huge curved marble island where two receptionists sat.

“Okay,” the one said as she picked my form on which was written in bright red ink- NEAR ACCIDENT. FAIL. She was the young woman who had been helpful to me that morning guiding me through the forms and desks. “We have Friday as the nearest date. What time would you like to schedule?”

“Re-schedule?”

“Yes.”

“Uhh.” Friday was in two days. Had she read the form?

“We have next Monday? Would you like to reschedule then?” Her voice going a little higher as she took a glance at the line behind me.

“What about mid-September?”

“Ohh, okay,” she looked up briefly from her computer. “Mid- September? Alright.”

I had been driving since I was nineteen. It was the first holiday after the first year of University and father had pointed to mother’s car of many years. It was to be replaced with another one for her and I could have this one as my own. So began my foray into the world of car ownership.

A car. What a strange thing to share. What a strange thing it is to share anything. What a stampede it became. Blood drawn; the Axis powers versus the Allied powers. To my companion; a combination of steel and rose flowers; a lover of adventure, eager, impatient and magnetic- the height of testosterone, enforcing an unwritten agreement was a matter of will power. As for me, one third of three witnesses, the first who would not repeat the statement, the second, raising the weighty preliminary issue of birth order [which would arise again five years later on a more auspicious occasion], I would have gladly handed it over.

Eventually, we maneuvered an import of a little precious parcel of a car, which also narrowly survived a takeover during a season of Uber, ‘succession’ blood rites and our unspoken joint venture. After that, it was just us, then a child, then two, then three. Then it became just me for a while, driving up and down the school route, the hospital route, the home route. When I came here, I was glad to be immobile, a settled certainty after a whirlwind. I didn’t need to be anywhere, not on a Monday or a Sunday. A year went by.

The day before third baby’s first birthday I went for the road test. I really was not aware of my surroundings but I was hyper aware of internal monologues [which, on repeat become oppressive], the endless chatter of little children from when they awake to the moment that they sleep, the cyclical nature of domestic work and the hormonal rise and fall of prostaglandin. The world inside was small; revolving around smiles, diapers, tantrums and witty sayings. The world outside had changed and was moving at a dizzying pace.

After re-consideration, I upped the tempo for help to my co-driver, my American dreamer. I suspect that the thought of me skipping a red light on a Texas highway brought a chill to his spine, but here I was, here we were, on a five lane highway, YIELD rules, a map to read and fast moving traffic. It was time.

Two days before I went for the second test, the first round of flu hit our household. It was the first time I couldn’t make my own rounds around the house. My hearing on the side where the instructor would sit was almost gone, but, regardless of pale face, weak limbs and little hearing – giants must fall. I went back in the ring. The signs came. The weekend before, the oldest walked to me after church and with much seriousness asked, Mummy, Which car do you want? When I laughed at the question, he insisted, listing all his options. I picked the name I knew least, A GMC, I replied. Then, the night before, the younger one out of the blue turned to me and said, Mummy, make sure you look where you’re going.

I drove towards LEFT LANE again the next day. As I approached the end of the parking lot, I saw a monster of a car, a huge black pickup with nearly five foot wheels, and on a small sign on the front I saw the letters GMC. I couldn’t help but smile. So, it’s a win today.

“I just wanted to tell you, that you passed your driving test today. I’m going to take you through a few things, umm, …” she listed the things I had done right and the ones I had done wrong. Finally, she said, “You’re a safe driver…I’ll just go inside and get your forms ready…”

************************************************************

I had started to believe, some of the things.

Is it better to be ‘too little’ or ‘too much’ for a friendship?

The past three weeks have been draining. I’m kind of in the gutter. Do mothers get a day off? Is this the most rewarding job or just the most intense one? First it was me, then one by one, the fevers began. It feels endless.

The spiritual awakening at the helm of Nathaniel Bassey, Nigerian shakers in hand, traditional drums and dramatic dancing, we are spoiled for choice at what to criticize, what to love and what to hate. The world feels once again in subliminal suspense, almost as it did two years ago.

Happy 7th birthday Zedd R Z

For we wrestle not against flesh and blood, but against principalities, against powers, against the rulers of the darkness of this world, against spiritual wickedness in high places.

We are the World

Nobody speaks English at the play park, almost nobody. As I walk towards the merry-go-round, a modern version of one, I catch a glimpse of the only blonde hair in view and determine that they must be the only ones here whose native language is English. As I get closer to them, I hear their mother call out to them in Arabic. Maybe, they are Lebanese, I think. She speaks more, and I realise that they probably Russian or of some Eastern European descent. We could easily be on a set for the song ‘We are the world’. Besides my own fluffy hair, all else is long black, and flowy when not covered. A secret agent must have landed here last Sunday. His email read, The worker bees behind the Tech World Order are pigmented and gather here. Thanks to this, an hundred thousand dollar block was slapped against more migration.

Transplanted

Brook Street is a picture; static and silent that even the trees that line the smooth grey lane seem to hold their breath. The houses, are symmetrical, in rows directly opposite each other, bushy round shrubs along the designated concrete pathways that lead to the front doors. The roofs are identical in matte black and brick pattern. The hiking trail in the valley behind, is a neon green lean-forest backdrop and the sky above the houses, is high, bright and deep blue, sometimes with not even a cloud in view. The small stack of post office boxes at the top of the slope actually brings the post.

Children do not run outside, naked or screaming, except mine sometimes. I have seen our neighbour to the left, twice the past year. Once I heard the bang of a door and a young woman of approved colour, stealthily climbing out of her house under the cover of dawn, with a big black dog beside her. The second time, I saw the silhouette of her workout clothes disappear behind the car. I have seen the packages brought to her door, Amazon, food but I have not see how they get inside.

The neighbours to the right side are different. Their compound is a riot against the backyard of the house on their right. Overgrown pumpkins, chillis, luffa gourds and colourful Punjabis drying in the sun opposing the cool pool, hanging lights and matching plants of a lounge area. Sometimes I see a small old man at a sewing machine making or repairing clothes. Every time I stand by the window in the children’s room, I see a new adult or child. They are the only people on the street sometimes, in the evenings, carrying children back and forth from their house to another house on the street with a family of people just like them. With this web of true community and their reverent dedication to frugality, it will probably take them five years to own all the houses on the street, including the one with the pool.

Lost

“You mentioned that he is taking a medication called N. I. L??”

I’m at the dentist with three children, the six year old reclining on the patient chair. Getting here took three phone calls, some redirected and connected to another, on hold for minutes, questions about in-network and out of network and finally an appointment. Seven pages of documents to fill and sign online, we were to arrive at least fifteen minutes before to fill more paperwork. If we were late, and they had to cancel, we would be charged a fee.

The nurse asks me more questions about the forms, about this medication called n. i. l. “en i l?” I ask, a laugh stuck in my throat. “No. I meant, no.” I want to explain that nil means no and that we were taught to write nil in formal written documents and I have been doing this for years but I don’t think she’ll understand so I keep quiet. I ask her about x-rays. Does he need four more x-rays just to take out his tooth? She can’t answer. “Oh sorry, the doctor will tell you about that, I’m just the hygienist.”

The dentist says that, the radiation from an x-ray is about the same as a flight from here to New York, or even eating a banana. How many bananas do people from where I come from eat? He has a Southern twang. I tell him that growing up I thought one should have few than three ex-rays in their life. The technology has changed. X-rays are now digital, he adds. I nod and attempt a smile. He turns towards me and stares deeply into my eyes, the way gentlemanly Texans do, the way the Pastor at our church did, and in a firm calming way says, If I ever have questions about x-rays or anything else, I should never be afraid to ask him.

“What did you do for the summer? You guys travel?” He had asked enthusiastically at the beginning of the consultation.

“No.” I try to relax my face.

His beach blonde hair, the brownish tint to his pink skin and the lines on the side of his eyes, he had probably spent summer at the ocean somewhere. He probably came from a long line of dentists and doctors, ones for whom Texas has been home for generations. Domestic flights have been a hot spot for nationalist rules this summer. I’m usually unprepared for small talk. I’m exceptionally unprepared for small talk on domestic migration for international migrants. The media is awash with stories. The laws are changing. He shows me a chart of the bone structure of the child’s teeth. They are fine, developing properly. It will take maybe six months for them to get out. If we would like, he can do a teeth cleaning. Oh no, next time. Thank you so much. It’s been ten minutes.

Being here somehow reminded me of the series LOST. So at first, I asked everyone their background story. What did they do before they came here? I wanted to know how they got here. The real equation I wanted to answer was, who they were. One plus one equals two, two plus two equals who. I asked less and less over time and now, I know not to.

Yet somehow, I have found the answers to my intrusive inquiries, not because of the vague, loose adventurous stories of how we escaped the previous world, but in the way appear at gatherings and disappear in between and the exceptionally unsophisticated way, the symbols of power and longstanding, the OGs isolate, destroying by tongue or by craft, those who uncover the veil, those whose vulnerabilities cause them to seek anything other than an abstract idea of friendship.

Power

Is love stronger than power? Is love stronger than pride – Sade? I find myself, once again in a chaotic pattern of confusing dissonance and open doors with questions that have no conclusions, an ever changing battle between true and false. There are giants behind the doors. I have not taken my offerings to the gods of this place. They are never enough.

There used to be a line drawn between those who stayed and those who left. Each one the antagonist in the other one’s story. One, a partaker of the fallen system, a beneficiary of the fallen meritocracy and therefore corrupt, the other an escapist, a coward, an overworked pilgrim of underground work with felled dignity. My background disqualifies me to many, of pride and waning allegiance to a past where old wounds would rather be forgotten by those who came. Now there are green cards, mortgages and electric cars- level ground and, most of all, there are no tribal montages here, here we all are the same.

************

My almost one year old demands that I actually spend time with her these days and not hide in virtual spaces. Nothing I give her is enough to keep her attention- not my milk, not smiles, not kisses, not clapping. She noticed that I hold something in my hand most of the time, so she cries for it, eats it and holds it and looks at it the same way I do. Sometimes she grunts as she stares at me staring at the phone when I’m feeding her and I turn to her and wonder how long she’s been there. She demands that we sleep at the same, next to each other, effortlessly, my scent on her nose her hand on my ear or her head on my head.

Happy Birthday Zaza.

******

I turned a year older too.

His mercies are new every morning, His faithfulness every night.

Love never fails.

Category: Story

Defrosting

Wisteria Lane