Cheryl S. Ntumy - Unravelled

Ntatemogolo isn’t your garden-variety grandfather. He’s got a head of greying hair and a neatly trimmed beard with flecks of white. He’s tough, brilliant and completely uninterested in etiquette or political correctness. It’s a miracle that he’s even giving me a lift home today. He never drives me anywhere; he thinks anyone under forty should be able to make daily cross-country treks. It just happens that he’s heading home to Serowe, so I got lucky.

The ancient Toyota Venture bumps along the road, making my teeth rattle, and pulls up in front of my father’s house. It’s an old house, painted a colour that used to be white but is now closer to grey. We have a couple of trees, but no garden, no flowers, no carefully designed yard. Instead there’s lots of bare sand, some overgrown grass, and a few weeds. My best friend Lebz says our yard is unkempt, but I prefer to call it unpretentious.

I step out of the car, glad to have made it home in one piece. I slam the passenger door shut and the entire vehicle trembles. For a second I’m afraid it will collapse, but somehow it holds. Ntatemogolo’s gaze passes over the empty space where Dad’s red Volvo is usually parked. He glances at me for confirmation that Dad is out, and only when I nod does he open the door and climb out of his car.

Eish. You’d think he and my father would have resolved their issues by now. They keep saying that they’re too different to be friends, but that’s not true. They both insist on driving cars that are older than me. They’re both academics, far more concerned with acquiring knowledge than making sure their socks match. And they’re both incapable of accepting that their world view might be wrong. In all fairness, Ntatemogolo’s worldview is far more balanced than Dad’s, but it’s difficult for a man who believes in reason to accept that the world is full of things that science can’t explain.

Ntatemogolo doesn’t venture into the house. He lingers at the gate as if he thinks Dad might have left a pair of bespectacled eyes behind to keep watch. “OK, my girl. Remember what I said, eh?”

I nod, stifling a yawn. Ja, I remember: It is the responsibility of the gifted to never stop learning. It’s his new mantra, drummed into me at the start of every practice session. I couldn’t forget it if I wanted to. “Bye, Ntatemogolo. Give my regards to everyone at home.”

He smiles. “Yes, I will.”

To be honest, I’d rather keep my regards to myself. With my freckled caramel skin, mass of unruly curls and preference for English, I don’t quite fit in with my grandfather’s people, and they never let me forget it. But it doesn’t hurt to be polite. I wave as Ntatemogolo gets back into his death-trap car.

The house is quiet. Auntie Lydia, our house help, is long gone, and Dad must be at his office at UB (aka the University of Botswana), where he teaches Biology. I doubt he’s working on university stuff, though – lately he’s been absorbed in research for the Salinger Biological Institute.

I close the front door behind me and turn on the lights. I don’t mind being home alone. It doesn’t really feel like I’m alone when I’m here, surrounded by Dad’s stuff and things that remind me of my late mother.

My stomach is growling, so I head to the kitchen. Auntie Lydia has taken out yesterday’s leftovers. I pop them in the microwave and reach into my pocket for my phone. I’m tired, but not too tired to talk to Rakwena.

Hey. I’m home. Feel free 2 drop by

Sender: Conyza

Sent: 19:23:45

I’m at the petrol station around the corner. Ten mins

Sender: Lizard

Sent: 19:24:01

Talk about perfect timing. I can’t help smiling. I haven’t seen him all week because he’s been busy registering for his first semester at UB, and my grandfather has been monopolizing my free time with these training sessions. I miss Rakwena. I miss his cocky grin, his freshly ironed clothes, the badass scar that runs down the left side of his face, the black lizard tattoo on his left forearm and the way he always pushes my buttons. Technically he’s my boyfriend. Actually he is my rock-steady magic touch, my hero, my superstar sidekick. Rakwena is too cool for school.

The microwave emits a shrill PING! I retrieve my day-old potato wedges and steak. I wolf the food down, wash the plate and bolt to my room to make myself presentable. I swap my dirty cargoes and T-shirt for pyjama pants and my favourite Snoopy shirt, which is so old it’s stretched to twice its original size. I pull my hair out of the black scrunchie keeping it tame, run my hands through it and shake it out so I look like a seventies disco-diva.

The trick with Rakwena is not to get dolled up. No lip gloss, no subtle mascara, no Wonderbra. I want to look like I couldn’t care less that he’s coming over. It’s not enough to look relaxed and casual; I must look as if going through the trouble of putting on proper clothes and combing my hair never occurred to me. I’m going for a cavalier, don’t-give-a-damn kind of attitude. I wear the pants in this relationship. I can be as scruffy as I want but I expect him to show up looking as fresh as a kiwi and lemongrass smoothie.

I sprint to the living room, rifle through my Rachel McAdams DVD collection and select something at random. The Notebook . I snicker – he hates that one. I put on the DVD, go to the kitchen to make myself a cup of Milo, then settle down on the sofa with my legs curled under me. Just in time, too – I hear his car pull up outside. I’m itching to run to the door and watch him walk up the driveway, all tall, dark and mysterious, but I have to play it cool. I wait an agonising three minutes for him to knock on the door, then wait till he knocks a second time before I get up to let him in.

I sneak a peek at the time on my phone and fling open the door with a mock scowl. “You’re six minutes late.”

I’m tall and skinny, but he’s taller, with the lean, muscular physique of a runner. He offers me an apologetic grin and leans over to plant a half-hearted kiss on my cheek. He seems a little preoccupied. School stress already? “Where’s Dr Bennett?”

“Out.”

“Good.” He steps into the house, closes the door behind him and sweeps me up into a movie-worthy smooch.

Well, so much for playing it cool. I melt into his arms, losing myself in the sheer pleasure of being with him after five long days. Sigh! Rakwena’s energy seeps into my skin, sending delicious tingles through my body. When he touches me, sparks fly. Literally. How many other girls can say that?

“I missed you,” he says, pulling away to look at me. His eyes are bright with earnest emotion, a look so intense that my heart plays a two-second game of hop-scotch in my chest.

“Of course you did.” I think I need to kiss him again. Five days is a long time.

He runs a finger down the side of my face, and out of the corner of my eye I see blue light dancing on his fingertips. I pull him towards me and kiss him. Ah. Much better.

He raises an eyebrow at me. “Can I assume you missed me, too?”

“That would be pushing it,” I tell him happily. “Hungry? We have leftover steak.”

He holds up an anonymous white plastic bag. Through it I can see several chocolate bars and three fizzy drinks. “I came prepared. What are you watching? Not The Notebook again!” He rolls his eyes. “Can’t we watch the Discovery Channel?”

This is what happens when all the men in your life are super-smart. “I just spent all afternoon working – I want to give my brain a break.” I reach into the plastic bag for some chocolate and settle down on the sofa. “So. Tell me all about your escapades at UB. What did you register for?”