PUBLISH'D AFRIKA MAGAZINE FACEBOOK SHORT STORY - August Edition
THEME: KNOCK YOURSELF OUT
Title: A Stitch In Time
Written by Nosipho Mathenjwa.
It was one of the first things on our list of urgent priorities: Leave South Africa.
We hadn't really given it much thought until we sold the house in Fourways and found ourselves, luggage packed, seat belts fastened, on a one-way economy flight to Toronto.
Canada wasn't always our first choice. But it was our safest choice.
The USA had the threat of white supremacy hanging overhead like a guillotine, Italy were of the mind that God would be crazy to create a black Italian, and we'd never survive being used for spitting practice by homogenous extremists in Hungary.
Canada, with its polite natives, large amounts of land space, and being the home of The Weeknd, was a no-brainer.
I was nestled comfortably in the corner of the large couch facing the fireplace, fully immersed in "Chocolates For My Wife," by Todd Matshikiza for what was probably the millionth time. The heavy sheets of snow falling like white confetti were the tell-tale signs of another year coming to an end. For a long time since my childhood, I'd always wanted to experience a North American Christmas for myself. Getting into the spirit of the holidays was a bit awkward when, after watching Macaulay Culkin torture a couple of small-time crooks under the misty cold weather of wintertime in Connecticut, I'd go outside to invasive flies attacking my watermelon and my body producing gallons of sweat that made for large periods of irritant discomfort under the searing heat of an African summer in northern Johannesburg.
Now that I was here, I quickly realised that the South African winters I complained about every June — compared to the incessant barrage of cold winds and unrelenting snow — were like, well... Christmas.
The crackling embers emanating from that warm glow were the closest thing I could get to the radiant heat of a clear-skied summer in the Highveld which I now realise, I took for granted.
"Myeni wam'."
If you ask me, all marriages are bound to fail for two reasons:
1.) a lack of mutual effort to communicate and to understand each other, and more importantly;
2.) if the wife in question is not Xhosa.
For some strange reason, she didn't look a day older than the first time I met her; her skin maintained a vibrant shine like that of polished mahogany with a healthy layer of roundness about her face. It only occurred to me that she's been five feet tall ever since we met. Her waistline hadn't changed one bit, and she could still fit into those size 4 crocs she wore on our first date. Her youthful, lithe figure and appearance, when weighed against my scruffy beard, made me feel like a filthy old man heavy in both health and pocket, running around with a pretty young thing who — with all her drop-dead gorgeousness — charmed her way into my will.
If anything, I looked like I was the one who got pregnant and had been struggling to lose the pregnancy weight for the past five years.
"You know, one day I'll get you to leave that fireplace of yours and we'll actually go outside and throw snowballs at each other like we promised we'd do when we moved here," she said, standing in front of me, handing me a cup of hot chocolate.
"Every winter, for the last six years, it's always you, that book, and the fireplace! There's no snow in South Africa. We should be outside making snow angels like the other kids. This is not fair!"
I could never get used to how much of a drama queen she could be when she wanted. I suppose playful nagging should be considered a love language.
"It's so cold outside — ah, you remembered to put marshmallows. Anyway, it's like minus 20-something degrees here and my body isn't what it used to be anymore," I replied, feeling the warmth of the hot cocoa percolate my body from head to toe.
"Sir, you're 28."
"And your point is? Not all of us were born with the anti-aging gene. God has his favourites, you know... and besides," I took a slight pause for effect, "home is where the hearth is. Hehe..."
She rolled her eyes at me. "The biggest lie patriarchy ever told us is that men are funny."
"Well then," I put the book down to look up into her hazel-brown eyes, "you must've married me for my handsome face and wholesome personality."
"Ugh, please. I'm the beauty AND the brains of this whole arrangement," she pouted. "You're just here to do all the heavy lifting because I'm too pretty for hard labour."
"Is that all I am to you?" I asked in the most my-feelings-are-hurt voice I could manage, "when you see me, all you see is a manservant to tend to you hand and foot?"
"Uh-huh, precisely. Speaking of which," she handed me a pair of winter socks and threw herself next to me in a heap, "I need you to put them on for me."
"Lemme get this straight: you made me hot chocolate the way I like it, brought it straight to me here in the living room... but putting your own socks on your own feet is where you draw the line?" I pondered on this train of reasoning for a few good seconds. "Is that a woman's thing? Is it the thing that makes your gender ask if I would love you if you were a worm?" I could feel the stress lines forming into permanent contours on my forehead.
"Yes." She smiled endearingly. She had this way of looking at me with a childlike grin on her face that caused momentary amnesia.
I instantly forgot that she was a grown adult who should be capable of wearing things for herself.
I rolled back the sleeves of her pyjama trousers. "I guess it's not all bad though. Your feet don't smell, and they can fit into the palms of my hands."
"Hey! I have big feet! I'm Bigfoot!" The corners of her lips were turned downwards. She looked like those adorable little sad-faced emojis children draw to express sadness. I wanted a wife and I got a popeye instead. Thank the heavens I love cartoons so much.
The soles of her feet are quite ticklish. You could say they are her... Achilles' Heel (and she says men aren't funny). I ran a few fingers across the sole of her left foot.
"Stop that," she giggled. "We're too grown to be tickling each other."
"Says the person who wants to go and make snow angels in below zero weather. How does that feel?"
I stroked her feet again, this time with a little more vigour. She squirmed and kicked out away from me. "Sir, if it's the tickles you want, then it's the tickles you will get!"
What ensued next was a battle for the Tickle World Heavyweight Championship. One moment I was up, then she was up, then my ribs were under attack, and for some reason, I had her knee cap in my mouth. This went on for a few good minutes, and we would've probably continued in our funny bone battle with reckless abandon if that little voice didn't snap us out of it.
"Mommy? Daddy? Why are you two wrestling with each other?"
Kids have never had any timing. You put them to sleep so you can read, and they wake up finding you flushed red in the face in your pyjamas on the floor engaged in grown-up games, like tickling and drinking hot chocolate and complaining about snowballs...
My wife was the first one up. "No, baby. We're not wrestling. We're just, uh... testing the floor to see if it's safe enough for you to play with your friends on when they come over for sleepovers. Isn't that right, Daddy?" She focused one of those hard stares at me which meant I was supposed to agree without any further questions.
"Yes," I mumbled. "Sleepovers."
She shook her head, bemused. "Don't mind your Daddy over there. Being the only boy in the house means it gets a little lonely for him sometimes. Silly Daddy!"
"Silly Daddy!" Imani parroted in agreement.
Mommy lifted our little parrot and together, we went to sit near the fire, my cup of hot cocoa now annexed by the adorable terrorist who decided that she was cold and in need of some chocolate-y goodness for herself all of a sudden. This dimpled, light-skinned bundle of joy with a head full of thick hair and a full set of milk pearly whites, completed our little trident. My genes are quite strong, I thought to myself.
"Mommy," she began, "why do you and Daddy keep a toy bunny up there over the fire?"
On the mantelpiece, between a jar of jelly beans and a framed picture of us in front the Camp Nou in Barcelona, was a stuffed, light-blue toy rabbit in a seated position. I'd expected the child sooner or later to ask this question, first; because stuffed bunnies aren't usually what you'd find on a mantelpiece (but then again, neither are jelly beans), and second; there is an unwritten rule that all the stuffed animals belonged to Imani. This one managed to hold on to its place on the platform because the Conqueror of Unguarded Cups of Hot Chocolate was still too unsure of how to ascend to higher territories.
"It's a cute little story, baby. It didn't always belong to Mommy." Imani tucked in safely between us as Mommy began her story.
"Growing up, I was a very curious child. I wasn't afraid to ask questions and I was always looking for new adventures. When I was in grade 2, I saw this strange man at the gates of our school during lunch break. I didn't think much of it because the gates were always locked so I knew he couldn't do anything to us. Soon, I noticed that he was always at the gates. Watching us devouring our food with a longing hunger in his eyes."
"What does, 'dee-vawa-ring' mean, mommy?" Imani cut in.
"It means, 'eating,' baby," she resumed.
"He watched us eat as if he could sit and have some of our food. Since I had lots of food to share, I went up to him and offered him a sandwich. He thanked me and munched down like he hadn't had a good meal in days. He looked like he wasn't eating properly too.
"He became my lunch buddy. I gave him sandwiches, and he told me stories about his days at the orphanage. He said he'd just been kicked out and he'd also tell me about his mischievous ways of finding something to eat, like snatching a piece of bread from the front counter of a tuck shop, or scrounging for leftovers at the back of a restaurant."
"Isn't eating from the dustbin bad for you, mommy?" Imani clearly was her mother's daughter after all.
"Yes it is, baby, but there isn't anything else to do if you don't have many choices"
"That's sad, mommy."
"Yes, baby. I didn't know I was helping him that much, until one day, he showed up one Thursday and left me," she stood up and reached for the bunny, "with Loony here."
Imani took the plush toy with both arms. "Soft," she cooed. "What happened after? Did he tell you why he gave you this toy, mommy?"
"Yes, baby." She retook her place on the couch and lifted the child onto her lap. "He said it was a really special friend of his and that I should take good care of him. Then, I never saw him again."
She finished with a sigh.
We sat without anyone uttering another word for about a minute. The uncertainty of the fate of Mommy's old friend hung overhead like the threat of heavy downpour on an overcast day.
"But mommy," Imani broke the silence and looked her in the eye, "don't be sad. You were a good friend."
She managed a faint smile. "Thank you, baby. Do you want to go back to bed, baby?"
"Okay, but I have another thing I want to ask: why does Loony have a zip on his back?"
"A zip?" We asked in unison. "What zip?"
The baby parted the fur on the bunny's back, revealing, indeed, a silver spine that ran from back of its neck down to the small of its back.
"I've owned that toy for 21 years, baby. Not once did I ever see that zip." If Mommy's eyebrows were any higher on her forehead, they'd join the rest of the hair on her scalp.
"May I open it?" she pleaded.
"Ewe, sana. Go ahead."
The child pulled the zip down, and a piece of paper fell to the floor. "Oooh, a note." Imani bent to pick it up. "May I read it, mommy? At class, the teacher tells me to do all the reading because I know all the big words," she beamed. "May I? Pleeeeaaaaseeee?"
Mommy's smile broke out into a soft laugh. "Yes, baby," she responded with serene patience.
"Okay!" She opened the note delicately, like it were a piece of written fate from a fortune cookie. "Here goes:
'Dear small friend of mine.
'I don't know when you'll see this, but I have to tell you why you won't see me again. I'm going to find my way somewhere else. I've been alone my whole life, and this toy has been my only friend. That is, until I met you, little buddy. You may see this as just another fuzzy to add to your bed, and I don't mind what happens to it anymore, because your kindness has shown me that there is a world beyond the comfort of a plushy toy. Take this bunny as a gift. He has taken me this far, and I hope he carries you in your darkest hour too. And when you've reached the light, you may let it go back for others who need a way through the tunnel.
'Love,
Enzo.'
I noticed two clear pearls trickle down Mommy's face.
"Mommy, are you crying? Don't cry. Don't be sad." She tried to wipe Mommy's tears with her pudgy little fingers.
"Don't worry, baby. I'm not sad." She exhaled contently. "Guess what? You now have a new fuzzy!"
Imani's eyes grew to the size of saucers and her mouth hung open. "Yay! I have a new friend!" She whisked her new pal away to her bedroom, off to plot new adventures of mischief and grand excitement.
I faced her and looked her in the eye. "You sure you're ready to let Loony go?"
"Whew. Yes. I've held him to myself for so long. I've been clogging up all the light." She returned my gaze with a firm air of resolution in her eyes.
"It's time I let him go so he and Imani discover some light of their own."
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