Cliche

Sitting here again it seems as though I never left. Grubby kitchen
in a scruffy semi on a typical street. Plastic washing tubs filled with
ice and beer cans, lined up against the skirting boards. A rectangular
piece of chipboard peppered with photographs of tourists standing in
front of various landmarks. The narrow room crammed with tall men in
vest tops and curvaceous girls in tight sleeveless t-shirts. Hard rock
pumping out of the battered stereo.

In amongst them there are a couple of men in open collared shirts,
eyeing up the girls and holding their beer cans politely. I can tell
they are local. One of them starts to speak to me. He is wearing a
collared fifties diner shirt with 'Darren' embroidered on the pocket.
He looks a little edgy, as if he'd rather we all sat down.

He starts running through all the regular questions. I start feeling a
little nauseous and clammy. I could just drink my Alco pop and shut up.
I could just shut up and let him voice his opinions untouched. But the
bait is dropped so close to my nose I hardly have to rise to catch it.
I answer the first question.

'About 800 000 of us are living here now.'

I wait until the exclamation of mock surprise has disappeared. I wait
for the next one.

'I came over here because I wanted something different. I didn't leave
because of the political situation. I can't speak for everyone.'

He's got me on the defensive already. I'm tired. I want to get this
damn conversation over with. I look over at the rest of them and they
know its going to build. They've seen it before, but they will keep
their heads down. The same people who will get into an hour long debate
about Zeppelin versus ACDC.

He asks all the same questions. Or states his opinions by hiding them
in questions.
'The situation is encouraging' I say. I don't mention my white friends
complaining about taxes, affirmative action, crime...'More black people
are being housed and educated than before. But the South African
government is as corrupt as it always was. About as corrupt as the
Labour government, but with less spin.'

My wry smile is met with a couple of raised eyebrows. That comparison
is never welcome.

I could continue with this. I'd like to defend my culture, my
birthplace, my position against this subtle probing and patronising. I
could, but I won't. Not tonight. I can't do this tonight. I excuse
myself quickly and wander out into the little patch of grass outside
the back door. It looks so pitiful, trying to survive under the beer
cans and fox piss. I sit down on the concrete with a group of Aussies.
They make a couple of crude jokes about my cleavage. I retort by
fondling my own breasts and then bum a cigarette off one of the guys to
shift the focus back to my mouth. It works.

Out of the corner of my eye I see that Darren has followed me outside.
I snuggle up to Tezza. I know he can handle my sudden affection without
misreading it. I laugh too loudly at one of his jokes. Luckily he's too
drunk to be offended by my insincerity. The stranger is creeping into
our warm little circle. He doesn't seem perturbed by my outward
indifference to him. He's trying to get involved in the macho
playfulness of the conversation. He reminds me of a dorky boy from
junior school who the boys used to pin down and fart on. I laugh out
loud. Everyone looks at me like I've had one too many. I make a point
of getting up with obvious difficulty and stagger back inside.

I'm standing outside the front door by the time he finds me again. The
house seems to be literally pumping with 80's rock. I wonder if the
neighbors appreciate Def Leopard as much as the people inside. Somehow
I doubt it.

'Hey, are you going?'

He's trying to act casual, but his breathing is jagged. Did he run
here?

'Yes. I'm pretty tired.'

I don't have the energy to fake enthusiasm. He's eyeing me nervously
now.

'It's a pity we didn't get a chance to get to know each other.'

'Maybe next time.'

We both know that a next time is unlikely. Empty, deadpan words. My
minicab pulls up at lightning speed and seems to hitch its fender onto
the pavement before mounting it slightly and swerving back into the
street.

'Okay. See you, then'

He moves towards me.

'Do I have to be a South African to get your number?' he says. 'I mean,
did you really mean what you said about coming over here for something
different?'

There's an open hostility in his voice. I don't know whether he's
trying to dare me into fucking him. I look at his flushed, clammy face,
and his wiry little body and I try to imagine him naked, on top of
me.

'You're not so different' I say, before I get into the cab.

By the time I crawl into bed Jack is already asleep. I would like to
wake him up and tell him about my reunion with the travelers I used to
live with. I watch him sleeping for a while. He looks so beautiful,
even with his mouth open and snoring. I suppose I could have told
Darren that my husband is British. Black. Beautiful. Or maybe it was
better to let him believe I was just another passing clich?.