Onion
Warren Jeremy Rourke
Warren Jeremy Rourke
“I’m going, Gogo,” calls Cebisa to her grandmother in the kitchen. She waits at the front door, fingers curled around the cold handle, and then tries again: “Goh goh, I’m going to the shop now!”
“Okay. Go safe,” returns her gran, flustered from boiling artichokes that she’s determined to cook for her granddaughter on this, Cebisa’s special occasion dinner; a mother’s, mother's recipe which she wants to share though she doesn’t want Cebisa to go out at night. But what can she do? The dish must have onion to balance the lemon. The spaza shop is nearby, only a block away, and in their new neighbourhood, no more are the dangers of the kasi and the sun has only just gone down.
In her blue and yellow butterfly print dress, her old black coat and nestled in her brand new winter maroon boots with brown stockings, Cebisa is glad to have a chance to walk. She is focused on the new sensations of her feet when she hears the boom da-da boom-boom bass from around the corner.
Looking up at the sound, she realises that the streetlight ahead isn’t working and brings a stretch of darkness to the road and pavement. But the one across the road from the spaza shop is working. The vehicle stops dead at the intersection. Cebisa watches to see which way the red car, with its impossible to see through tinted windows, will turn. Without indicating, the car leaps right into the street towards her and then she’s running, through the dark patch, feeling the swoosh of the boom da-da boom-boom go past. She trips and almost falls from a pothole she couldn’t see then rights herself and dashes back onto the pavement and into the next lamp light. Cebisa hurries into the spaza shop and up to the window with its steel security grill that protects the owner.
And then all the lights go out. Another power failure. The foreign man from Somalia who owns the spaza shop begins lighting candles behind the counter. Yes, he does have onions—that’s good, Gogo will be so happy.
Cebisa, breathless and anxious, hears the boom da-da boom-boom close again and decides to buy sweets with the change. Birthday sweets. Gogo won’t mind. But which ones?
“Sour worms, sir. No, maybe one sour worm, yes. And then one chocolate éclair. Also, one chappie. How much for those?”
Boom da-da boom-boom.
“Okay, no. Can I have one chappie, and two sour worms.”
Boom da-da boom-boom.
“Maybe one chappie and one sour worm and one smoothie?”
Boom da-da boom-boom.
“No. The orange one, sir, please.”
“What dis? Doa waseda my time, I wan close too. Take. Go.”
Boom da-da boom-boom.
Cebisa puts her hand through the square opening of the grill and reluctantly picks up the three sweets; one hand full of birthday onion, one hand full of birthday sweets, both hands ready to drop and run. She turns to leave.
Boom da-da boom-boom.
“Way, way. Okay. Just waya lita girl,” says the shop owner.
Cebisa stops.
The loom of the dark street shifting back into the soft candle-lit space of the spaza shop.
“Thank you,” she says, softly, not turning round.
Both are still for a moment. The windows vibrate.
“Thank you, sir” she says again, forcing herself to speak louder.
“Whyayo fadder let you walk night. No good. No good,” says the Somali man, a tender note in his response.
“Sorry,” Cebisa replies, and not knowing what else to say but wanting to say more, adds, “Gran doesn’t know how things are, even here."
They’re both still, listening in the dimness, windows vibrating.
“Here,” the shop owner calls Cebisa back to the counter. “Take packet.”
She comes closer and he sees the glimmer of tears slipping down her cheeks.
“You wan worm, righ? Always worm. Here. Free. Free worm. You can have,” he offers her a skew-toothed smile and warm eyes through the grille.
“Thank you, sir,” she says.
“It okay. I gon walk you home.”
And both hear the boom da-da boom-boom, begin to go away.
“Okay. Go safe,” returns her gran, flustered from boiling artichokes that she’s determined to cook for her granddaughter on this, Cebisa’s special occasion dinner; a mother’s, mother's recipe which she wants to share though she doesn’t want Cebisa to go out at night. But what can she do? The dish must have onion to balance the lemon. The spaza shop is nearby, only a block away, and in their new neighbourhood, no more are the dangers of the kasi and the sun has only just gone down.
In her blue and yellow butterfly print dress, her old black coat and nestled in her brand new winter maroon boots with brown stockings, Cebisa is glad to have a chance to walk. She is focused on the new sensations of her feet when she hears the boom da-da boom-boom bass from around the corner.
Looking up at the sound, she realises that the streetlight ahead isn’t working and brings a stretch of darkness to the road and pavement. But the one across the road from the spaza shop is working. The vehicle stops dead at the intersection. Cebisa watches to see which way the red car, with its impossible to see through tinted windows, will turn. Without indicating, the car leaps right into the street towards her and then she’s running, through the dark patch, feeling the swoosh of the boom da-da boom-boom go past. She trips and almost falls from a pothole she couldn’t see then rights herself and dashes back onto the pavement and into the next lamp light. Cebisa hurries into the spaza shop and up to the window with its steel security grill that protects the owner.
And then all the lights go out. Another power failure. The foreign man from Somalia who owns the spaza shop begins lighting candles behind the counter. Yes, he does have onions—that’s good, Gogo will be so happy.
Cebisa, breathless and anxious, hears the boom da-da boom-boom close again and decides to buy sweets with the change. Birthday sweets. Gogo won’t mind. But which ones?
“Sour worms, sir. No, maybe one sour worm, yes. And then one chocolate éclair. Also, one chappie. How much for those?”
Boom da-da boom-boom.
“Okay, no. Can I have one chappie, and two sour worms.”
Boom da-da boom-boom.
“Maybe one chappie and one sour worm and one smoothie?”
Boom da-da boom-boom.
“No. The orange one, sir, please.”
“What dis? Doa waseda my time, I wan close too. Take. Go.”
Boom da-da boom-boom.
Cebisa puts her hand through the square opening of the grill and reluctantly picks up the three sweets; one hand full of birthday onion, one hand full of birthday sweets, both hands ready to drop and run. She turns to leave.
Boom da-da boom-boom.
“Way, way. Okay. Just waya lita girl,” says the shop owner.
Cebisa stops.
The loom of the dark street shifting back into the soft candle-lit space of the spaza shop.
“Thank you,” she says, softly, not turning round.
Both are still for a moment. The windows vibrate.
“Thank you, sir” she says again, forcing herself to speak louder.
“Whyayo fadder let you walk night. No good. No good,” says the Somali man, a tender note in his response.
“Sorry,” Cebisa replies, and not knowing what else to say but wanting to say more, adds, “Gran doesn’t know how things are, even here."
They’re both still, listening in the dimness, windows vibrating.
“Here,” the shop owner calls Cebisa back to the counter. “Take packet.”
She comes closer and he sees the glimmer of tears slipping down her cheeks.
“You wan worm, righ? Always worm. Here. Free. Free worm. You can have,” he offers her a skew-toothed smile and warm eyes through the grille.
“Thank you, sir,” she says.
“It okay. I gon walk you home.”
And both hear the boom da-da boom-boom, begin to go away.
Warren Jeremy Rourke is editor-in-chief for the South African, non-profit literary publisher, Botsotso. His poetry has been longlisted for the Sol Plaatje European Union Poetry Award and his writing and poems have been published by New Contrast, Botsotso Journal, and Olongo Africa. He is diagnosed bipolar disorder type 1.