narratorAUSTRALIA Volume One

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  The thing about being part of a certain group is the inevitable insecurity that comes with being identified as being part of that group.

  On Monday morning at Kudrom Park, a local student was yelling out the title of a book he wanted to borrow from the library. It was the Queen’s birthday long weekend. The weather was a tad gloomy. A great footy player had just died. Another was allegedly swimming in drugs.

  ‘African something! Child Soldiers in Africa, I think.’

  Of course, my attention rocketed at the mention of that word – African.

  Tricky. Africans can be confusing. At one point we claim to be different people from different places. At other times we take pride in the unexplainable bondage we share. If an African person does something embarrassing, we tend to share the embarrassment. I remember wanting to cover my face one time when an African man swore at a bus driver when he was told he had purchased the wrong bus ticket, and needed to pay a few cents more to reach his destination. He kept swearing as he searched his pockets for coins. He looked like what my late father would call a pile of dirty laundry: baggy, sagging blue jeans with a huge-buckled belt that does not really do its job and an oversized hood-sweatshirt.

  I did not know him, but I know that no one in Africa is supposed to talk like that. Being a member or a minority group is a challenge. You seem to represent two massive territories – a continent and a country – both of which a regular person cannot possibly represent. Here I was sitting in a bus stressing over a total stranger making a fool of himself. I wish I could say, ‘I do not know this person. I cannot take responsibility for an entire race. I cannot be bothered,’ and mean it.

  I am bothered.

  Two weeks later, I try to milk progress out of Yonah again. I am running out of time to be the next Marjorie Macgoye, my favourite writer.

  Instead, Yonah ended up buying me hot chocolate to make it up to me. He had to meet friends in South Guildford. Apparently, he is learning to play footy. He promised to catch up with me that evening.

  He also gave me a sudden peck on my forehead. I could not help noticing he was wearing perfume. To be more to the point, Yonah had started wearing perfume.

  I shrug tiredly and drag my feet to the car park. My ears ache. Kudrom Park announcements literally turn my brain off. A removal truck is screeching yards away. Ironically, the park sits right in front of the main library.

  I drop by Roma Café to grab a can of Red Bull. I need it badly.

  I start the old Toyota again. The radio blares off. It is that boy Nash again. I am just about to change the channel when I hear the word Sudan. It is no celebrity-adoption this time. There has been a street brawl in South Guildford. And he is cracking no jokes today.

  The car suddenly dies. I need someone to help me jump-start it. I stare at the wide-eyed, nodding dog on the dashboard – a present from Tut Simon Dengere – like he can assist me.