Read Online Not a Fairytale by Shaida Kazie Ali - Free Book Online
Authors: Shaida Kazie Ali
Tags: Not a Fairytale
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when they got married. Salena, her two boys and Rukshana came for the wedding, or rather weddings. Aunty arranged the nikah – red sari, orange hands, dripping borrowed-gold, food and people everywhere – and Jimmy organised the legal ceremony.
Jimmy loves the idea that now he belongs to a huge family. The cousins are seduced by his endless chatting and his questions and his interest in learning more about every person he meets. I think he might even talk his way into Ma’s heart if she can forgive him for not being a doctor.
Sometimes I wake up during the night and find Jimmy’s arms and legs wrapped around my body and I’m convinced he’s trying to kill me with his love. I’ve explained to him that while I shared a bed with Salena when I was little, as an adult I’ve only ever slept with a cat, and I like some space to breathe. Still, night after night I wake up clutched to his hairless chest, like I’m a human teddy bear. He’s terribly cheerful every morning, bringing me the bitter coffee he’s taught me to love while I pretend to be asleep, and many an evening he comes home with a gift. A book of love poems, a Russian doll in the shape of a cat, Belgian chocolates. I don’t have the heart to tell him that I hate love poems, the nesting doll makes me think of coffins, and I no longer have a sweet tooth now that I’m on the pill.
But one weekend he goes away on a business trip, and I can hardly wait until bedtime to stretch out luxuriously in the centre of the bed, relishing having it all to myself. Only I cannot sleep, and I find myself longing for his overheated presence.
Teacher’s Pests
T WO YEARS LATER I AM STILL WORKING AS A TEACHER ’ S assistant at a primary school ten minutes’ brisk walk from home. I have to clean up after the kids (seven-year-olds), pack away books, wash paint brushes, straighten chairs and desks. The kids seem to vomit a lot: I believe it has something to do with eating too much chips and eggs fried in lard. I master the art of cleaning up vomit in three swift moves of a cloth while holding my breath to prevent the addition of my own undigested meal to the splodges on the floor.
They have no interest in the fairytales I try to read them. They ask me why Rapunzel didn’t call the coppers. Did Cinderella at least get pocket money for all the work she did? Could I get them the video next time? I make them run around the classroom whenever I am left alone in charge of them. It keeps them quiet for a few minutes. One of the kids has an asthma attack during an indoor jog and the parents complain, so they move me to an older group.
I prefer the eleven-year-olds. They’ve been in school since they were five but some of them have managed to avoid learning to read and write, which is an impressive feat of subterfuge after more than six years. I am assigned to teach two boys and a girl how to decode the mysteries of the alphabet, and at the end of the first week I believe that I would have a better chance of succeeding in this task with a cat.
I can’t teach them, but they teach me a great deal. About sex. Jimmy is impressed with my new knowledge. Education does broaden your horizons. I also learn to swear with true conviction. Jimmy is less impressed by this.
Finally we have a breakthrough when I walk into the girls’ toilets and come across several variations of the word “fuck” written on the back of a cubicle door, all bizarrely misspelt. When I return to my pupils, I ask them to brainstorm all the swear words they can think of and all the sex positions they can name. I write these down on three pieces of paper, one for each child, in big block letters. We begin to learn the alphabet based on words that would make Jimmy cringe.
Before long, my little group can read and write their favourite words. I am delirious with pride; it’s as satisfying as teaching Macbeth . We move on to words in their syllabus. Soon they can read at the level of eight-year-olds. The class
Jimmy loves the idea that now he belongs to a huge family. The cousins are seduced by his endless chatting and his questions and his interest in learning more about every person he meets. I think he might even talk his way into Ma’s heart if she can forgive him for not being a doctor.
Sometimes I wake up during the night and find Jimmy’s arms and legs wrapped around my body and I’m convinced he’s trying to kill me with his love. I’ve explained to him that while I shared a bed with Salena when I was little, as an adult I’ve only ever slept with a cat, and I like some space to breathe. Still, night after night I wake up clutched to his hairless chest, like I’m a human teddy bear. He’s terribly cheerful every morning, bringing me the bitter coffee he’s taught me to love while I pretend to be asleep, and many an evening he comes home with a gift. A book of love poems, a Russian doll in the shape of a cat, Belgian chocolates. I don’t have the heart to tell him that I hate love poems, the nesting doll makes me think of coffins, and I no longer have a sweet tooth now that I’m on the pill.
But one weekend he goes away on a business trip, and I can hardly wait until bedtime to stretch out luxuriously in the centre of the bed, relishing having it all to myself. Only I cannot sleep, and I find myself longing for his overheated presence.
Teacher’s Pests
T WO YEARS LATER I AM STILL WORKING AS A TEACHER ’ S assistant at a primary school ten minutes’ brisk walk from home. I have to clean up after the kids (seven-year-olds), pack away books, wash paint brushes, straighten chairs and desks. The kids seem to vomit a lot: I believe it has something to do with eating too much chips and eggs fried in lard. I master the art of cleaning up vomit in three swift moves of a cloth while holding my breath to prevent the addition of my own undigested meal to the splodges on the floor.
They have no interest in the fairytales I try to read them. They ask me why Rapunzel didn’t call the coppers. Did Cinderella at least get pocket money for all the work she did? Could I get them the video next time? I make them run around the classroom whenever I am left alone in charge of them. It keeps them quiet for a few minutes. One of the kids has an asthma attack during an indoor jog and the parents complain, so they move me to an older group.
I prefer the eleven-year-olds. They’ve been in school since they were five but some of them have managed to avoid learning to read and write, which is an impressive feat of subterfuge after more than six years. I am assigned to teach two boys and a girl how to decode the mysteries of the alphabet, and at the end of the first week I believe that I would have a better chance of succeeding in this task with a cat.
I can’t teach them, but they teach me a great deal. About sex. Jimmy is impressed with my new knowledge. Education does broaden your horizons. I also learn to swear with true conviction. Jimmy is less impressed by this.
Finally we have a breakthrough when I walk into the girls’ toilets and come across several variations of the word “fuck” written on the back of a cubicle door, all bizarrely misspelt. When I return to my pupils, I ask them to brainstorm all the swear words they can think of and all the sex positions they can name. I write these down on three pieces of paper, one for each child, in big block letters. We begin to learn the alphabet based on words that would make Jimmy cringe.
Before long, my little group can read and write their favourite words. I am delirious with pride; it’s as satisfying as teaching Macbeth . We move on to words in their syllabus. Soon they can read at the level of eight-year-olds. The class
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