Coconut

Further praise for
Coconut

“Matlwa is obviously a talent to be reckoned with…
This is sassy, in-your-face, intelligent writing.”
Margaret von Klemperer, The Witness

“One of the most culturally relevant reads
of the year…”
Lerato Mogoathle, City Press

“So finely wrought, so cleverly revealed and
uncomfortably familiar… Matlwa tackles an
unspoken realm of personal identity in a world where
the traditional boundaries between black and white
are as clear as chocolate milkshake.”

Bobby Jordan, Sunday Times Lifestyle

“Kopano Matlwa... is soos haar boek – ’n mirakel. [Haar] styl is afwisselend liries en dokumenterend.”

Ronel Nel, Beeld

“This is a bold and original novel… This is a young
writer to watch. I thought it was excellent”.

Helen Schlebusch, The Citizen

“It’s a daring and uniquely South African story.”
Zodwa Kumalo, Marie Claire

“Vir my was die verhaal in baie opsigte
’n openbaring...”
Jeanne Hugo, Die Burger (Kaapstad)

Published by Jacana Media (Pty) Ltd in 2007
First and second impression 2007
Third and fourth impression 2008
Fifth impression 2009
Sixth and seventh impression 2010
Eighth impression 2011

10 Orange Street
Sunnyside
Auckland Park 2092
South Africa
+2711 628 3200
www.jacana.co.za

© Kopano Matlwa, 2007

All rights reserved.

ISBN 978-1-77009-336-2

Also available as an e-book
d-PDF ISBN 978-1-4314-0389-9
ePUB ISBN 978-1-4314-0390-5
mobi ISBN 978-1-4314-0409-4

Cover design by publicide
Set in Sabon 11/14pt
Job No. 001515

See a complete list of Jacana titles at
www.jacana.co.za

Table of Contents

Further praise for
Coconut
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Part One
Part Two
European Union
-
Literary Award
Previous winners of the European Union Literary Award, all available in Jacana paperback
Other fiction titles by Jacana

Dedicated to you, child of my country

Oh goodness, oh my, I cannot believe this has happened, is happening, and that you, my dearest Coconut, are now real. Thank you, Lord! I cannot believe you, you are so sneaky; who would have guessed you had this planned all along! Mama and Papa, what and where would I be without you? You are my greatest teachers and my bestest friends, the most inspiring two people I know. Thank God I was born a Matlwa. J. Tumelo, my sister, my confidante, partner in crime and trusty editor, you’ve been so patient with me, your big sister who so often acts like your little one. Thank you for never tiring of my dramas and always having an ear to listen. Monewa, my favouritest brother in the world, your prayers and your hugs kept me going. The Kekanas and the Matlwas, all my grannies, grandpas, uncles and aunts, you all sacrificed so much for us, your children. Thank you, we owe all we have to you. Motlatsi, for your love, for being my pillar and strength, I don’t know how you put up with me, thank you and 458. And last but not least, my dear friend Mampho Motjidibane Bapela, I do not have the words to thank you enough; you believed in Coconut from the very beginning, and urged me on when I tired of trying. Can you believe it?

Kopano Matlwa

Part One

In a pew on the right, a couple of rows ahead of mine, sits a tiny chocolate girl. Her scraggy neck and jabbing elbows make me think of sticky chicken wings served with Sunday lunch. The sermon is not particularly riveting so I am easily distracted by anything that is willing. Braids: plastic, shiny, cheap synthetic strands of dreams-come-true make their way out from her underaged head. Sponono, in a burdensomely layered satin floral dress, sits silently beside her mother, running her fingers through the knotted mess of a little girl’s desires. An old and tattered woollen hair-band makes shapes of eight into and out of the blackness. Over and over again it goes, gawky arms moving almost rhythmically, juxtaposing greedy fingers.

Kate Jones had the most beautiful hair I had ever seen in all my eight years of life. Burnt amber. Autumn leaves. The setting sun. Her heavy and soft hair, curled slightly at its ends, would make proud swishes as she rolled around the playground.

Kate was overfed and hoggish. Kate was spoilt and haughty. Kate was rude and foul-mouthed. But with that hair, Kate was glorious. Dazzled by its radiance, class teachers overlooked the red crosses in Kate’s school workbooks, monstrous bullies exempted Kate from the pushing and prodding that all the juniors endured, popular kids made no fun of Kate’s podgy face and swollen ankles, and little black girls scattered helter-skelter, doing her favours in return for a feel of her hair.

I still do not know whether it was earnest, malicious, or out of some sort of contorted curiosity but Kate asked me one day, during Music, if I could plait her hair into thin plaits like the braids that adorned my head. She said my braids were pretty and that she wished she could have hair just like mine so she could be as beautiful as I was. Flabbergasted, I smiled a very broad smile, endeavouring to process the words. I immediately got to work, little hands moving swiftly, but not too swiftly, careful to make every one look exact.

The bell rang. Kate abruptly stood up to leave, and then caught her reflection.

But I was not finished yet!

First tears, then heads turning, then silence, then more
tears, then shouting.

“My hair!”
But I am not finished yet!
“What is the matter, dear Kate?”
But Mrs Reed, I am not finished yet!
“My hair!”
“Fifi, what have you done?”
Please Mrs Reed, I am not finished yet!
“My hair!”

“Fifi, you insolent child, what have you done to Kate’s
hair?”

“My hair!”

Please Kate, let me just finish, then you will see!
“Fifi T, answer me! What have you done?”
“Take it out, take it out, take it out now!”

Something that the preacher says momentarily gets me stuck in the sermon again but my mind soon wriggles back out. My little chocolate distraction, now frustrated with the inept woollen hair-band, yanks it forcefully out of her hair. She flinches. The hair-band falls to the ground, landing at her mother’s feet. Entangled in the hair-band is a long black braid with a tuft of hair at its end. Sponono sees it and begins to cry. The choir ladies are not happy. They rotate their necks around their curved backs and look first at Sponono, then at her mother and then at Sponono again. Sponono continues to cry. When the choir ladies begin to shift uncomfortably in their seats, Sponono’s mother, finding no other solution to the problem, picks up her handbag, the braid (still entangled in the woollen hair-band) and Sponono, and they all leave together.

Pain is beauty, grandmother used to say. Well, not
my
grandmother, but I am certain
somebody’s
grandmother used to say that, and if my grandmother cared for such, I am sure she would say it too.

Ous Beauty would seat me on a high stool, so I could swing my legs while I waited for her to finish washing, blowing, dyeing, cutting, perming and styling her other customer’s hair. Month End was always a frantic time at Ous Beauty’s, because at Month End everybody felt rich. In the drawer at the level of my knees Ous Beauty kept a comb with the finest of teeth. In the mirror in front of me sat a girl with the coarsest of hair. That the two could work in harmony, I would never be convinced. Such pain. Teeth gritted, I watched her artificial red nails part my wiry hair so that she could base my scalp with Vitamin, Shea Butter and Lanolin Hair Food. I held my breath at every pull and attempted to concentrate on the snap of the gum she chewed so explicitly. I knew that by now the palms of my hands were an unbearable shade of red, from digging my nails in too deep. I hid them under a ten-year-old bottom, and shut my eyes tight, refusing to let out the tears that wrestled violently within. The Black Queen hair-straightener cream could be smelt long before it was seen. The black American TV girls on the box of the relaxer cream had hair so straight and so long that Mama assured me it could not be real. Ous Beauty then began to smear the cream on my hair. I always watched her vigilantly, making sure she did not miss a spot. A chemical reaction. A painful exothermic chemical reaction. Burn. Burning. Burnt. When Ous Beauty asked me if I was ready to wash it out, I said no. I wanted every last tiny weenie curl straight.

In the mirror I watched the fine-toothed comb slip effortlessly through my silky soft and straight Black Queen hair. I was not bothered by the tenderness of my scalp that sent quivers down my neck as the teeth of the comb slid past it, nor was I alarmed at the white of my roots that had come to the surface. No, I was just delighted to be beautiful again.

The upper half of the walls of our church are made completely of glass. The glass is brightly coloured into images of the saints and is so chunky that when you try to look through it, people on the exterior take on distorted forms. I imagine there are a lot of saints, so I am sure it is not all of them that I see gazing at us from the walls of the church. Our church is named after St. Francis of Assisi. I heard or read somewhere that St. Francis was once a most fashionable, wild and wealthy, reckless young man, celebrated amongst the youth of Assisi. He gave it all up to live a life of simplicity and so peaceful and humble did he become that the birds would come rest on his shoulders while he prayed.

In summer the sun shines through the glass of saints, and beams of colour, carrying tiny particles of what looks magical, but is probably just dust, meet at the centre of the aisle. When I was younger I used to think that those tiny particles descended every Sunday to protect the congregation from the evils of the world outside.

“Say it, Tshepo, just say it.”
“I don’t know, Ofilwe, it’s just…”

“It’s just what, Tshepo? Why can you not just say
what is on your mind? Speak!”

“It is like advertising. You market a product well
enough and anybody will buy it.”

“Christianity, a product? Lord, are you listening to
this? Are you crazy, Tshepo? Our whole social system
is built on Christianity: our calendar, holidays, laws.
Our upbringing. Now you want to tell me that it is all
one big scam?”

“All I am saying is that my skin is black.”

“No. Don’t you dare try to take this away from me
too. I am not going to apologise for my beliefs for your
Africanism.

“It is not Africanism.”
“Then what is it?”

Our family of four – Mama, Daddy, Tshepo and I – has been coming to St. Francis Anglican Church ever since we moved from a vaguely remembered Mabopane to Little Valley Country Estate. Our new home was closer to my father’s Sandton City offices and Tshepo’s preparatory school. I was to begin nursery school that year and Tshepo grade one, although he should have been in grade two but was held back a year, because he did not speak English as well as his new, elite, all-boys’ school would have liked.