Of Ashes and Rivers that Run to the Sea Read Free Page B

a sigh of relief and dig my toes into the sand again.
    â€˜But aunty down the road has big mob, they come ere all the time,’ she says.
    Oh fucking great.
    The bucket of tea has found its way to my bladder and I ask for directions to the toilet. It’s a nightmare. The window is missing entirely so anyone out the back can see your head and shoulders as you sit on the throne, and thesmell of raw faeces, even with the missing window, is so strong that I can virtually taste it. Some sort of brown algae is growing in the toilet bowl and I can’t see any part of the bowl below the water line. There could be all sorts of wildlife living down there. The rest of the bowl has shit streaked down the sides. I’m feeling quite nauseous at this point but I’m busting for a piss so I do as per ‘Mother’s Instructions for Public Toilets’ and hover over the seat instead of sitting on it hoping that no one outside is watching me wobbling around. Although our mother’s disposable paper toilet seat covers which she carries around in her handbag have always been objects of great amusement to me, I find myself wishing I had some. I make a silent promise to myself that I’ll never laugh at this habit of hers again. Someone has written ‘Fuk off’ and ‘GS luvs nobody’ on the wall with shit. My mind conjures up graphic images of the artist at work. I’ve pulled my T-shirt up over my nose with the hope of filtering out any airborne bacteria that might be floating around in this rarefied and noisome atmosphere. I finish peeing and escape as quickly as I can.
    â€˜Who made the mess in the toilet?’ I ask on my return, but all I get for my question is a blank stare.
    This woman who is supposed to be my mother asks me if I’m hungry. ‘Oh yes, I could eat a horse,’ I say, and instantly regret it as I cast my mind back to the two horses wandering along the road earlier. She disappears insideand I hear her rustling around. The dogs wander over to check me out. One of them is virtually hairless, its skin coarse and leathery, and I wonder what this interesting species is called as I’ve never seen dogs like it before. The others except for the big male have varying shades of hairlessness, so I assume they must have interbred with the hairless one. In fact there’s quite a few of them wandering around and I think they must be a special breed that’s evolved in isolation from the mainland, like the finches of the Galapagos Islands. They are curious and want to sniff me but I flap my hands at them to try to scare them away while my heart thumps loudly in my chest. I’m shitting myself but they ignore my protestations and hover around like a swarm of flies.
    â€˜Ere,’ she says and I look around.
    What the fuck! I stifle a scream as I am momentarily startled by the sight of the singed furry forearm of a wallaby just inches from my face, its little claw clenched in defiance at the miserable bastard who is about to make a meal of it. I can’t believe I’m actually expected to put it in my mouth and eat it. The events of the day suddenly become all too much for me, and I feel my stomach start to heave. I lurch towards some nearby bushes and falling to my hands and knees disgorge a gutful of plane food and wine. It smells like fermented cabbage which makes me dry-retch a few times and my eyes water. But somewhere through the haze I look up and see three old men comingdown the road. Despite my blurry vision I instantly recognise the middle one. He’s my grandfather, my aminay. Although the years have separated us I still remember him and by the smile on his face he still remembers me. His feet come into view and he crouches down beside me as a gassy belch hisses out of my mouth.
    â€˜ Ngintamalinga , you grew so beautiful,’ he says, and I look at him and start to cry. I can’t stop blubbering and to make it worse people have materialised