Read Online The Sleeping Baobab Tree by Paula Leyden - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Paula Leyden
Ads: Link
case she dies before she sees us again. She doesn’t normally reply. I wish she hadn’t today.
Perhaps Mum and Dad are right about her being morbid.
FRED
Talking to Girls
I seem to make a habit of being the favourite of grumpy old people. Like Sister Leonisa and Nokokulu. All it means is that they notice you more, and that’s never a good thing. Nokokulu never notices Joseph and he’s quite happy about that. He says it’s because he has the power to make himself entirely invisible to her. I don’t believe him.
I’ve never really been properly scared of Nokokulu, not in the way Madillo is, even though I think she’s a witch. Witches don’t have to be scary. Bul-Boo says there’s no scientific proof that Nokokulu’s a witch, but she’s not always right. And scientific proof wouldn’t do you much good if you were in the middle of being turned into a chameleon.
But – and it’s a big but – one thing you do need around Nokokulu is caution. You learn caution every day with her. You have to, because you never know what she’s going to do. I think it must be nice to be her, as she doesn’t really care about anything much – not what she looks like, what she does, what she says or who she says it to.
For example, the way she dresses. She just wraps herself up in layers and layers of cloths. We call them
chitenge
and most normal people just wear one, as a skirt or a dress. Not Nokokulu. She wears as many as she feels like, wrapped around her in all sorts of different ways. As if we lived at the North Pole, not Zambia, where it’s never cold. When she gets bored of one of her
chitenge
she unwraps it and rolls it into a tight little ball and leaves it wherever she happens to be when she takes it off. Perhaps near a stone. Or in a tree. Or on the birdbath. And she always mutters under her breath when she does it, as if she’s saying, “Just stay here for a bit. I’ll be back for you.”
The problem is, she never does go back, and Mum then finds them all over the garden. The first time she found one she took it from its place in the tree and handed it to Nokokulu, saying, “I think you left this in the tree, Mama.”
“Yes,” Nokokulu said. “I did.”
You can see the full stops when Nokokulu speaks, as if they’re in the air. It means there’s nothing more for anyone to say. But Mum doesn’t always understand that.
“So, here it is,” Mum said, as if Nokokulu was blind.
“I can see it.”
A small frown appeared on Mum’s face. “Well,” she said, “would you like it back?”
“If I wanted it back I would not have left it in the tree. Did I ask you to bring it to me?”
“No, Mama, but…”
Before Mum could finish her sentence Nokokulu had turned her back to her and started whistling. If I was Mum I might have imagined she was whistling, “Oh, why did my darling grandson marry this silly woman from England who pesters me so.” I don’t know if that’s what Mum heard, but she went and put the bundle back in the tree pretty quickly and since then has never moved another one. Last time I counted there were seventeen bundles scattered around the garden rotting away.
I am also careful to avoid trips in Nokokulu’s yellow car. I’m not doing very well with that at the moment. I suppose I ought to be relieved that at least she can see over the steering wheel now because she has five cushions stacked up on her seat.
The first time we went driving with her was on her birthday when Dad gave her the car, and he suggested she took her great-grandsons out for a test drive.
“But Dad,” Joseph said, “you’re her grandson. We’re only her great-grandsons. You have a turn first.”
It was a good try, but it failed.
I waited for Mum to protest, but no. She just said, “Go on, boys, you enjoy yourselves. Look after Nokokulu. You’re a big boy now, Freddy – I’m depending on you.”
I was convinced on that day that in her previous life Mum had been a member of an English tribe who
Perhaps Mum and Dad are right about her being morbid.
FRED
Talking to Girls
I seem to make a habit of being the favourite of grumpy old people. Like Sister Leonisa and Nokokulu. All it means is that they notice you more, and that’s never a good thing. Nokokulu never notices Joseph and he’s quite happy about that. He says it’s because he has the power to make himself entirely invisible to her. I don’t believe him.
I’ve never really been properly scared of Nokokulu, not in the way Madillo is, even though I think she’s a witch. Witches don’t have to be scary. Bul-Boo says there’s no scientific proof that Nokokulu’s a witch, but she’s not always right. And scientific proof wouldn’t do you much good if you were in the middle of being turned into a chameleon.
But – and it’s a big but – one thing you do need around Nokokulu is caution. You learn caution every day with her. You have to, because you never know what she’s going to do. I think it must be nice to be her, as she doesn’t really care about anything much – not what she looks like, what she does, what she says or who she says it to.
For example, the way she dresses. She just wraps herself up in layers and layers of cloths. We call them
chitenge
and most normal people just wear one, as a skirt or a dress. Not Nokokulu. She wears as many as she feels like, wrapped around her in all sorts of different ways. As if we lived at the North Pole, not Zambia, where it’s never cold. When she gets bored of one of her
chitenge
she unwraps it and rolls it into a tight little ball and leaves it wherever she happens to be when she takes it off. Perhaps near a stone. Or in a tree. Or on the birdbath. And she always mutters under her breath when she does it, as if she’s saying, “Just stay here for a bit. I’ll be back for you.”
The problem is, she never does go back, and Mum then finds them all over the garden. The first time she found one she took it from its place in the tree and handed it to Nokokulu, saying, “I think you left this in the tree, Mama.”
“Yes,” Nokokulu said. “I did.”
You can see the full stops when Nokokulu speaks, as if they’re in the air. It means there’s nothing more for anyone to say. But Mum doesn’t always understand that.
“So, here it is,” Mum said, as if Nokokulu was blind.
“I can see it.”
A small frown appeared on Mum’s face. “Well,” she said, “would you like it back?”
“If I wanted it back I would not have left it in the tree. Did I ask you to bring it to me?”
“No, Mama, but…”
Before Mum could finish her sentence Nokokulu had turned her back to her and started whistling. If I was Mum I might have imagined she was whistling, “Oh, why did my darling grandson marry this silly woman from England who pesters me so.” I don’t know if that’s what Mum heard, but she went and put the bundle back in the tree pretty quickly and since then has never moved another one. Last time I counted there were seventeen bundles scattered around the garden rotting away.
I am also careful to avoid trips in Nokokulu’s yellow car. I’m not doing very well with that at the moment. I suppose I ought to be relieved that at least she can see over the steering wheel now because she has five cushions stacked up on her seat.
The first time we went driving with her was on her birthday when Dad gave her the car, and he suggested she took her great-grandsons out for a test drive.
“But Dad,” Joseph said, “you’re her grandson. We’re only her great-grandsons. You have a turn first.”
It was a good try, but it failed.
I waited for Mum to protest, but no. She just said, “Go on, boys, you enjoy yourselves. Look after Nokokulu. You’re a big boy now, Freddy – I’m depending on you.”
I was convinced on that day that in her previous life Mum had been a member of an English tribe who
Similar Books
