wasyoung,maybe8 or9.Mymotherwasgoing
througha time:Thecoupleshecleanedforand
whomwelivedwithhadbrokenupandleftus
lingeringintheirabandonedhome.Shehad
cancer,mymother,soherheadwaswhereit
was,butsometimesshewouldreturnfromher-
selftogivemestrangeadvice:“Diversify your friend group, Julie.
Learnwhoyoureallyare.”I did.
See,wehaddogs.(Inthatstatementisastoryfeaturingmy
mother’sinsistence onkeepingheremployers’dogs evenafter
shewasleftwithneithera jobnora placeto stay.) Whiskey was
a MaltesepoodleandBiancaanAlsatian.
Whiskeywasalwaysuptosomeshit.Everynowandthenhe
woulddisappearandcomebacksmug.OnedayI followedhim.He
wenta fewhousesupthestreetandthenstoodinfrontofa gate. He
pressedhimselfbetweenthebarsandI rushedover,
hopingtostophim,butI wastoolate– hehadalready
slippedin.I lookedupintothepaveddrivewayandhe
juststoodmidwaystaringbackatme.Myfacecontort-
edasI whistledafterhimandsanghisname,sounding
moreridiculousthemorefrustratedI became.I was
young.Theworldwasstillsweettome.Thisdog was
bothmybestfriendandmyarchnemesis.
I noticeda kind of sunroom or parlour. It was
aroundlunchtimebutithadbeenrainingallmorn-
ing,sothesunhadwokenuplateandwasflexingand
stretchingandbouncingoffthemanywindowsofthisprotruding
room.Inoneofthewindowssata manwithwhitehair.Hisskinwas
tannedandfoldedandhiseyeswereblue.Hewavedbetweenthe
strobesofsun.“Mydog!”I mouthedand pointed up the driveway.
Hesignalledformetocomein.I did.
Whiskeyrantowardsa woodengateandslipped into the back
garden.I ranafterhimandintoAuntyAlice.
AuntyAlice,I wouldcometolearn,wasAfrikaans,butI only
ever heardher speakitwhenshe baby-talkedme. Shespoke
Englishandhertonguelandedheavyinthehullofhermouth.She
wasstoutbutsofttothetouch, like when you separate the two plies
ofa Twinsavertissue.
I followedAuntyAliceintothekitchen,whereI wouldfindher
everafter:thestovetopseverhot,theaireverdensewithbroth.She
was,somehow,happytoseeme,eventhoughit wasthefirsttime
wemet.Shetoldmeofherlongloveaffairwithmypromiscuous
dog.Sheaskedif I wantedsomecoffeeandbiscuits.Yes.
I sat in her kitchen while Whiskey’s lunch cooled on the counter:
A philanderingdogandhermother’sencouragementto diversifyhersocial circle led
JulieNxadito strikeup an unusualfriendship.
A KITCHEN, A SUNROOM,
AND A THOUSAND DAYS
chickenandsweetpotatoes.Itwaswarminthere,likeoutsidedid
notmatter.Sheputa cupbeforemethatlookedlikeit was made for
someonejustmysize.I thoughtofHanselandGretel.
“Whoisthemaninthewindow?”I asked,in-between her sing-
ingabouthowcuteI was,howwellI spoke.
“Thatismyhusband.Ag moeder, I hope he didn’t scare you.”
Hehadn’t.
Hewassick,shesaid,sohespentallofhistimeinthatsunroom.
Shestirredthecoffeeandaskedif I wouldlikesomeCremora
withmymilk.I didn’tknowyoucoulddothat.I thoughtyouhad
tohaveCremoraormilk.I didn’tknowyoucouldhaveboth.Yes.
Thecoffeetastedlikethesilencingofallofmyscepticism.She
hadmadeherhusbandcoffee,too,andwhenshewalkedoutof
thekitchenanddownthepassagewithatraytogiveittohim,
I followed closely. Isupposeallofthatpea-greencarpetingover
thosewoodenfloorsswallowedanysound
I made,becausetheylookedsurprisedto
seemestandingatthedoorofthesunroom.
Uncle Dallas wasin a wheelchair.He
hadrecently hadhis legamputated. The
sunroomsmelledofBetadineointmentand
Camelcigarettes.I knewBetadinewell.
Hespokedifferently:Histonguefloated
inthemiddleofhismouth.Heworeblue,
andwhitehairtumbledandtangledaround
hisgoldnecklaceandpeekedoutofthetop
ofhisshirt.Hecrafted.His3Dpuzzlesandshipsinbottlesstoodon
thewindowsillsasif hehaddreamtofputtingthemthereallhis life.
HeandI grewa strange,quietfriendshipinthatroom.
ForallI knowtherewerenootherroomsinthathouse,only
a kitchenanda sunroomwhereUncleDallasgavemea dolland
putmoneyinallofthepocketsofallofherclothes.Just a sunroom
anda kitchenheldtogetherbya clothypassage.
ForallI knowthere was no sunroom. For all I know Whiskey
made it all up.I
JulieNxadiis a writerwholivesin CapeTown.
Shespentherformativeyearsin thecity,
leftwhenshewas12, andreturnedat theage
of 30. Sheis currentlya writerin residenceat
StellenboschUniversity’sEnglishDepartment,
doingthefinaleditsof amanuscript;“Iamin
themarketfor apublisher,”shesays.Julieis
alsothecreativedirectorof an institutional
reformconsultancy,theCentrefor Being and
Belonging (being.org.za/leadership).“DIVERSIFY
YOURFRIEND
GROUP,
JULIE.LEARN
WHOYOU
REALLY ARE.”PORTRAITTHATO TOEBA37 visi.co.zaAUGUST/SEPTEMBER 2019�ISIVOICES