Contributors

Join Us

Chika Unigwe

You scanned the shelves of toys, looking for one that Jordi would be sure to like. You were mechanical in your approach. You began from the lowest shelf, stooping and touching the toys that caught your fancy. Then, you rose a bit and moved on to the next shelf, feeling the smoothness of shiny balls. You went in this way, shelf after shelf until you had to stand at the tip of your toes and stretch your neck to scan the toys on the highest shelf. There were toys you had not noticed the last time you were here:

Armada transformer (what was the point of a robot that changed from a dragon to a hammer?)
Micro Machines (you particularly liked the truck that opened up into a race track with a miniature race car. But that might be a bit too young for a six year old). A microphone that made three different sounds: an ambulance siren, a car horn and an applause (you thought the noise would possibly drive you insane). A microwave oven that simulates the sound of the real thing (you could not see Jordi playing with that).

Finally, you decided that he would be thrilled with a double loop racetrack with two race cars. The cars were red and blue and about the size of your thumb. Jordi was definitely the quintessential little boy. He was crazy about cars and Sinterklaas could not go wrong with the choice you had made. As you hummed your way to the front of the shop, your eyes fell on a mango-green jeep with huge claw-wheels. It said on the side of the box that it was battery operated. Without hesitating,your you picked up the jeep and put it under arm to keep your hands free for the race track.

There was a long line up of people waiting to pay. The woman in front of you had a Barbie Doll house, a plastic work bench and a huge grinning Winnie de Pooh. She had the bear across her shoulders, like a toddler. You wondered how old a child had to be to play with a cuddly toy that big.

When it got to your turn, you placed your purchases on the counter. First, the race track. Then the jeep.
"Is that for Sinterklaas?" the cashier with black hair asked you.
"Yes, please," you said. "Alstublieft."
She wrapped the gifts in a wrapping paper with pictures of Zwarte Piet lugging sacks of toys.

The first time you saw the Zwarte Pieten, you were upset. There was something unsettling about seeing white men and women, faces blackened with shoe polish, short curly wigs under their purple caps, carrying sacks of tangerines and sweets, running behind a Sinterklaas who was all white and benevolent and seated in a carriage. You told Gunter you did not like it. This business of blackening faces with shoe-polish to look black did not amuse you. He said they were not supposed to be black, they were supposed to be dirty with soot from climbing down chimneys. That appeased you a little, but then he said you were quick to see things which were not there. " You are too quick to judge, schaf" he said and that made you angry and so you told him to go to hell. That was the first time you ever quarreled. But that night, in bed, with your back turned to him in anger, he told you he was sorry and you said you were sorry and then you kissed and made up. Those were the days when you could not sleep without curling up to each other, your brown skin mixing with his pale one. Coffee and cream.

You could not curl up with someone you were mad at. These days you slept like strangers sharing a bed. There was an invisible marker between you and you were careful not to stray into each other's side of the King-sized bed. Most times when you quarreled, it was because of Jordi.

"My son will like this" you told the cashier, indicating the parcel in such a way that it was ambiguous what your son would like; the wrapping paper or the presents. Or both. She smiled, nevertheless revealing a row of almost white teeth. She handed over your receipt and wished you a good day.

You logged the package home, sharing fraternal smiles with fellow shoppers, happy in the fact that you were fulfilling your children's wishes, keeping their fantasies of a saint who came in the night to put presents in their boots alive. (Technically, he did not do the job himself. He oversaw his Zwarte Piefen who did all the work). Tonight, children would put carrots in the boots for his horse to eat. Tomorrow, they would wake up at the crack of dawn and race to their boots to claim their treasures. You wondered where best to hide the present. The trouble with an apartment as small as yours is that it has no hiding place. You began to panic. If you found nowhere to hide it, you would spoil the day for your son. He was still too young to face the truth about the good old Sinterklaas.

Gunter said it was irresponsible, the way toy shops targeted children, dropping glossy catalogues in all mail boxes. He was angrier at the television stations that interrupted children's programmes to advertise toys:

dolls that cry and laugh and say
“Mama"
tank engines that announce a fire
microwave machines that bake
miniature cakes and pies
vacuum cleaners with make-believe
dirt
plastic sabres that flash light

He said they were all pedagogically irresponsible. "In my days," he always said. "In my days, we had play things that made us think. Made us use of our brains. Right, Pa?" And his Pa always concurred. "Oh yes. Very true. Gunter played with puzzles and blocks and read books."

As you put the present on top of a kitchen cupboard, you wondered what Gunter would think of your choice. You would like him to approve of it. You would like him to look at the race track and tell you what an appropriate choice you had made. A pedagogically sound choice. It was not often that Gunter approved of what you did. In fact, it was like lately, you could not get anything right. He was always right behind you, like an inner voice telling you all the things you were doing wrong:

You don't stay this late in bed. Get up.
You don't leave the blinds down all day.
Let some light in.
You don't walk around in your nightie.
Take a bath and dress up.
You don't wear gloves in the house.
Remove them.
You don't sleep with the heater on. It's
not healthy.

He dogged your steps, became your permanent shadow. His eyes followed you around accompanied by his voice that was too gentle to belong to a man. That voice that once seduced you, caressed you and put you on top of the world. You were a woman loved. Now, that voice ripped your heart apart. It broke your heart into a million pieces, like pieces of broken porcelain. You felt the jagged points cut into you every time he criticized.

You were still in the kitchen when Gunter walked in. His bulky frame eclipsed the doorway. His head almost reached the top of the door. You looked at him and felt love surge through your veins. Love made your toes tingle. You had always loved Gunter. No matter what he did, you did not think you could stop loving him. This was one thing you could not help. It would be easier if he loved you back like he used to. But he had changed, ever since Jordi. "Maybe," you told yourself, " he will like the present I got for our boy and love me again."

You reached for the top of the cupboard where the present was hidden and dragged it out. You held it out to Gunter like a peace offering, wondering if you should tear it open for him to see. Maybe you should not have had it wrapped, you thought.

"See Gunter. You can open it. I bought a race track and a jeep. They are for Jordi. He will like them, won't he? Take a look." The words gushed out. You did not want to stop. You wanted to continue talking, to make things right again between you, but the words petered out, exhausted like your grandmother after a trip to the city. Your heart beat like a fam-tam as you waited for his reaction.

Gunter just looked at you. He did not smile. He looked down at his feet. Then he looked at you again. Feet. You. Feet. You. Like he was comparing you to his feet. When he finally held your gaze, he looked like he was about to cry. Then, he took five huge steps to bridge the distance between you. He held you in his arms and you heard him whisper, "Schat, Jordi has been dead for a whole year. Isn't it time to let go?"

The package slipped from your hand and hit the beige tiles of your kitchen floor. You struggled to get out of Gunter's arms, twisting like you were dancing, but he held you tight, so tight you believed you could no longer breathe. Then a darkness fell. A void. A long tunnel. Like the entrance to death.