Читать книгу Signed, Hopelessly in Love - Lauri Kubuitsile - Страница 3

I’m in the process of making the biggest decision of my life. I’m trying to decide if I should ever show my face again at Puso Ka Batho Junior Secondary School or if I need to drop out and become a person who sells magwinya, or units for cell phones, or if I should run away and join a monastery in Greenland. Second term starts in a week and a half, so I have ten days to make up my mind.

See, the problem is, I made a big, fat, awful, embarrassing mistake, and now I am the biggest joke around. How can someone live with that?

Nono says I’m being ridiculous. Nono is my best friend. The big problem with Nono is that she is far too sensible. She’s always been that way. But I think you know, the last thing a fifteen-year-old girl needs in a time of crisis is a sensible best friend. I need someone who will understand my pain, my humiliation, the shattering collapse of my once wonderful life. I need a friend who doesn’t respond with: “Amo, get real – by next term no one will even care.” Yeah, right. Not care? What planet does she live on?

Maybe I need to start at the beginning so you can see exactly how Nono is being far too casual about the whole thing. I’m sure when I’m finished with this long, sorry tale you will agree that my only option is to move away from Botswana to some far-off place like Kurdistan, and learn how to milk a yak. I think it will be clear how that is just about my only option.

First, let me introduce myself properly. I’m Amogelang Sethunya. Everyone calls me Amo, except for my grandmother, whom I live with. A word of advice: don’t call me Amo around her, unless you want a long, boring speech about how Amo is a shortened word for “ammunition” and not a young girl’s name blah, blah, blah. My gran was a primary-school teacher and she’s a stickler about words. Actually, she’s a stickler about lots of things, so another word of advice: if you come around my house, just keep quiet and only answer everything my gran asks you with “Ee, Mma”. I’m warning you – it’s better that way.

So that’s me – Amo. Now that we know each other, let me start at the beginning.

Everything began in late January when Lorato, editor of our school newspaper, The Voice of the People, had a “fantastic” idea. I’ve been writing for the newspaper since form one last year. I’m actually a journalist in the making. When I grow up I want to be a famous journalist like Tumi Makgabo – she’s my idol. She started out small, like me, and ended up reporting for CNN. That’s my dream. Sometimes I practice in the mirror at home: “And this is Amogelang Sethunya, reporting for CNN from Botswana.”

In form one, I had some pretty big stories. One was on the front page with the headline “Do Prefects get More Meat? – The Voice of the People Wants to Know”. The prefects were so angry, I got only bones and gristle on my plate for a month, but I didn’t care. People need to know about these kinds of injustices and it’s my job as a journalist to expose them. I won’t be the first journalist who has suffered for my job.

Another very controversial article I did last year was titled “Is Writing Notes Harmful?” I’ve always suspected this was true, but I set out to find the answer for our readers. I interviewed nurses at the clinic. They weren’t that keen on helping me, though. They seemed to think it was not a serious issue. I know Tumi probably gets treated the same way when she tries to cover stories that are close to the bone. It’s shocking how disrespectful the public is towards serious journalists.

Anyway, since I did such a good job in form one, Lorato called me into her office to discuss a new assignment for this year.

“So, Amo, here’s what I’ve been thinking. Our readership has been falling and we need to spice things up a bit.”

Lorato’s our head girl as well as the most brilliant student in form three. She could do with a bit more fun, but other than that she’s okay. She’s someone I really respect, and I think that’s why things went so wrong.

“Yes, you’re absolutely right.”

“So, I know people really like these agony aunt columns. You know, where people send in their problems and the auntie answers them.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know them.” I didn’t like where this was heading. I didn’t care if she included an agony aunt column in The Voice of the People, but why was she telling me about it? I had a sinking feeling this was not going to turn out well.

“So, I want to start a column. I’ve decided to call it Aunt Lulu, and I’ve already put up a notice inviting people to write in.”

“Yeah, okay. You know, Lorato, I have some great ideas for stories this term. Like, what’s up with the new rule about no nail polish? I –”

“So,” Lorato continued, ignoring me completely, “I really need a responsible person doing the column, someone who knows the importance of discretion. Someone I can trust. Someone who can keep secrets. Someone who can empathise with these people and help them find solutions to their problems. And, of course, I thought of my most trusted reporter – you.”

All I heard was “most trusted reporter”. I couldn’t believe it! It matters a lot when someone you respect says something like that.

I’ll admit, looking back, I was then at her mercy. My head swelled up and that could have caused some sort of brain misfiring. That’s what I think, anyway. Even though I could smell danger in the air and thought running the Aunt Lulu column was really a demotion compared to the hard-hitting articles I had been doing, I could do nothing but say yes. My mouth, all by itself said, “I’d love to do the Aunt Lulu column, Lorato.”

And that was it. Looking back, that “yes” when I really meant “no” was where everything took a wrong turn. It was when my life began to unravel and it is what brought me to the place I am now – contemplating an early exit from school and a trip to Kurdistan. Years from now, when I have a shaved head and live on a barren, wind-pummelled mountain, eating dirt and stones to sustain myself and spending the bulk of my day sitting cross-legged humming OMMMMMM, I will look back at the manipulative way Lorato pulled me from a firm “NO” to a wishy-washy, slippery-sliding “yes”, and blame it all on that one wrong decision.