Jonathan and Other Weird Stories

Thabisa (one)

Madam Kholwa looks at me through narrow, feline eyes. I do not like the look in her eyes, and I wonder why her lips are tightly squeezed, like she is chewing bitter leaf. She leans over and sprawls her hands on the table between us—they are large, her hands, and look like they can strangle a lion. This woman is making me force saliva down my throat. Her lips are finally moving, slowly. She smiles.

'Can you dance?' she asks me.

It is a weird question from a storekeeper. Yes, I can dance. I have had eighteen years to practice. I danced a lot while growing up in Nigeria, but eventually I had to stop. People do not like it when I dance. Many say I dance like a girl. They say no boy should move their waist like that.

I shake my head. 'No ma,' I say. 'I just want to buy pepper.'

Madam Kholwa's smile remains still. I do not like her smile anymore. It looks crooked, and the wrinkles on her ebony face do not compliment the smile. 'Just wait. I'll give you now-now,' she says, and clears her throat. 'When I was a little girl, my grandfather had an elephant. A big, old elephant. It was slow and ate a lot, but it did nothing entertaining. One day, I wanted it to dance, but it wouldn't dance. You know what I did with it?'

I shake my head.

She continues. 'I went to it, and I poured pepper sauce on its penis, and you know what happened next? It finally danced, like a masquerade.' Her smile fades away and her face tightens again. She glares at me.

I begin to understand what her weirdness is about, but I do not want to jump into conclusion. I show her the money in my hand and ask for the pepper again.

'Voetsek! Get out, before I make you dance,' Madam Kholwa says.

Now, I jump into conclusion—like a dolphin into the sea. Rumors about me must have reached her. I turn to leave her store, fighting the tears struggling to escape my eyes as she mutters harshly behind me. I should be used to the discrimination by now, but I am not. It hurts more each time it happens. I meet Jabu, Madam Kholwa's son, waiting outside and laughing. I quickly wipe the wetness around my eyes. He must have been eavesdropping. He roars in laughter, somewhat forcibly, and holds his side as though his ribs would collapse.

'Howzit?' he says, smirking. Jabu has light skin, like chocolates blended with cream, that glows under the scorching sun. He towers above me, about a head taller, and has muscles like yam tubers. He wears a tank top, and his chest stands intimidatingly firm. 'I l—like your hair,' he adds between snickers.

I try to ignore him. I walk around him, but he grabs my neck and slams me against the wall housing his mother's store. He holds me down. His body smells of cocoa butter that tickles my senses. His friends watch from under a big tree, laughing amongst themselves.

'Let me be,' I cry.

'Shut up!' He ruffles my hair and pulls on the short red extension I had attached to the top. I love the hair because it matches the red shorts I am wearing, and I have seen a celebrity wear it in a magazine. But Onyebuchi, my friend, said the hair makes me look like a chicken—a black cock. Jabu pulls harder, amusing himself. It hurts me. It feels like he might tear my scalp off.

I hit his arm with my fist. He releases my hair. His laugh subsides, and a scowl takes over. He looks a lot like his mother when he frowns. I flee, going through his underarm. He gives chase. Passersby watch. They point fingers and laugh. I do not want them to laugh. I want them to save me, but they do not. The South African locals are not all so friendly to Nigerians like me. In fact, I should be lucky they are not chasing me as well. There have been ugly clashes between the locals and some Nigerians.

Jabu is a fast runner. His strong calves give him an advantage over my slender legs. I hear him stamp the sandy road behind me. The chase causes a cloud of dust to fill the air, and chickens to run here and there. Soon, he draws close enough and catches me by my hair. I grunt and try to fight, but the more I struggle, the more my fine hair hurt my scalp. Stupid hair.

He laughs. 'You domkop!' He kicks my leg, brushing me off my feet. I fall on my side and bruise my elbow. It stings. He spits on my face and walks away. I lay on the floor, staring at the sun hanging behind the clouds. When the clouds clear, and the sun's rays strike my eyes, I stand up, wiping dirt off of my body.