determination, my mind attentive for any opportunity that may come my way. Perhaps today will be the day, that day, the one I will call ‘the day my life turned around’, the one I will look back at when I am rich and famous living in Project Infinity and laugh and shake my head and take a sip of a frozen martini and think to myself, ‘Did you ever imagine it would be like this?’ I have not a cent in the bank nor very much of an education, but a heart so heavy with ambition that it may just fall to the depths of my stomach if Project Infinity is not realised.
Yes, I have been weak and lazy of late, feeling tired and crying into my pillow. But all that has come to an end now and I am officially back in the game. I have realised that there is no gain in feeling sorry for oneself, it really is a shameful thing to do, common to the likes of Uncle, who sit and nap their lives away and then cry into the night expecting the rest of us to comfort them as if they did not bring their wretched states upon themselves.
I knew in advance when it was going to happen. I could tell because Uncle would always have that sorry look on his face when he came back home from work. I’d be sitting on the kitchen floor still in my school uniform writing out my mathematics or practising my English readings when I would hear him dragging his feet through the dirt past the Tshabalala’s house to our one-bedroom hovel at the end of the Tshabalala’s garden.
Ous Joy, Mr. Tshabalala’s eldest daughter, would squeal her usual “Very good evening to you, Uncle, and you are how today?” from their kitchen window, hoping that the man she’d flirted with for years would say more than his usual “Very well, my sweet Joy, very well. Good night, good night! Parting is such sweet sorrow.” But on those evenings when it happened, Uncle would not respond to his sweet Joy, whom he also secretly admired. He never had the guts to do anything about it in fear of Mr. Tshabalala’s quick temper. On those nights when it happened he’d simply nod a sad hello to her and pass.
Of course there was always the chance that I had not heard his “Very well, my sweet Joy, very well. Good night, good night! Parting is such sweet sorrow,” so I would close my books, clear the floor and stand facing the front door so I could see what kind of expression he had on his face when he walked in. And if it was that sorry look… that sorry, pathetic ‘Oh, woe is me’ look, then I would know that tonight would be one of those nights when it would happen.
I would try to cheer him up. I would try to cheer him up with all my might. I would run and take his bags and hurriedly return with his worn slippers in my hand. I later realised that the look of those tattered slippers at his feet intensified his doleful mood so I took to returning with his weekend push-ins instead. I would shout with glee, “Uncle, we sang your flavourite song at assembly today.” And then I would sing, “Jesus loves me, yes I know, floor the bible tells me so!” And while I sang with all the enthusiasm my little body could muster, I would open up my school books and show him each “Well done, Fikile” and “Excellent, Fikile!” that I had forged on every other page. And when it seemed as if I might be losing him, I would begin to recite the Our Father: “Our Farther who heart in heaven, hello be thire name,” because it always pleased Uncle to hear me say it and roll the r ’s the way he liked them.
But it seldom worked. When Uncle had that sorry, pathetic look on his face, there was very little that one could do to make him feel any better. Uncle would look down at me as I knelt at his feet smiling and laughing and screaming Hallelujahs whilst I undid his shoelaces and then he would sigh a very deep and desolate sigh and shuffle towards our bedroom.
But of course I would not give up. I would not allow his regretful state to discourage me. I would stretch my
Yes, I have been weak and lazy of late, feeling tired and crying into my pillow. But all that has come to an end now and I am officially back in the game. I have realised that there is no gain in feeling sorry for oneself, it really is a shameful thing to do, common to the likes of Uncle, who sit and nap their lives away and then cry into the night expecting the rest of us to comfort them as if they did not bring their wretched states upon themselves.
I knew in advance when it was going to happen. I could tell because Uncle would always have that sorry look on his face when he came back home from work. I’d be sitting on the kitchen floor still in my school uniform writing out my mathematics or practising my English readings when I would hear him dragging his feet through the dirt past the Tshabalala’s house to our one-bedroom hovel at the end of the Tshabalala’s garden.
Ous Joy, Mr. Tshabalala’s eldest daughter, would squeal her usual “Very good evening to you, Uncle, and you are how today?” from their kitchen window, hoping that the man she’d flirted with for years would say more than his usual “Very well, my sweet Joy, very well. Good night, good night! Parting is such sweet sorrow.” But on those evenings when it happened, Uncle would not respond to his sweet Joy, whom he also secretly admired. He never had the guts to do anything about it in fear of Mr. Tshabalala’s quick temper. On those nights when it happened he’d simply nod a sad hello to her and pass.
Of course there was always the chance that I had not heard his “Very well, my sweet Joy, very well. Good night, good night! Parting is such sweet sorrow,” so I would close my books, clear the floor and stand facing the front door so I could see what kind of expression he had on his face when he walked in. And if it was that sorry look… that sorry, pathetic ‘Oh, woe is me’ look, then I would know that tonight would be one of those nights when it would happen.
I would try to cheer him up. I would try to cheer him up with all my might. I would run and take his bags and hurriedly return with his worn slippers in my hand. I later realised that the look of those tattered slippers at his feet intensified his doleful mood so I took to returning with his weekend push-ins instead. I would shout with glee, “Uncle, we sang your flavourite song at assembly today.” And then I would sing, “Jesus loves me, yes I know, floor the bible tells me so!” And while I sang with all the enthusiasm my little body could muster, I would open up my school books and show him each “Well done, Fikile” and “Excellent, Fikile!” that I had forged on every other page. And when it seemed as if I might be losing him, I would begin to recite the Our Father: “Our Farther who heart in heaven, hello be thire name,” because it always pleased Uncle to hear me say it and roll the r ’s the way he liked them.
But it seldom worked. When Uncle had that sorry, pathetic look on his face, there was very little that one could do to make him feel any better. Uncle would look down at me as I knelt at his feet smiling and laughing and screaming Hallelujahs whilst I undid his shoelaces and then he would sigh a very deep and desolate sigh and shuffle towards our bedroom.
But of course I would not give up. I would not allow his regretful state to discourage me. I would stretch my
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