An African Tale Deborah and I were the same but different. As children we were always together, we wore similar clothes and would often be mistaken for twins. We were the same but different. When we left England for Africa in 1973, Nanna Fe Fe presented us with a Rupert Bear each. A year later, Deborah’s Rupert Bear was still pristine. My Rupert Bear sported a tan from the African dirt, his scarf was lost on the plane bound for Rhodesia, his trousers had a gaping hole - forcing him to wear them backwards to preserve his dignity. My Rupert had been restuffed and his nose sewn back on after being attacked by Max the dog. My Rupert’s repaired nose was stretched and crooked. My Rupert Bear looked cross. Deborah got on her first bike and rode off, I got on mine, flattened Mum’s precious gardenia and fell off. Deborah taught her cat Tom to jump up into her arms, my cat Jerry was too afraid to be picked up. Deborah and I loved Africa and Deborah especially loved to tell her stories of Africa, tales of Zimbabwe, the land of endless sunshine, where acacia trees bleed with flashes of yellow plumage of the weaver birds, the globe nests of woven grass dangle and dance on the tips of their branches like Christmas baubles while the birds dart, flitter and flee. Shall we tell them a story Deborah? Let’s go back to Africa. Let’s kick off our shoes and go barefoot. Don’t worry about wearing your flip-flops, the hawhaws won’t get us. Take my hand, Deborah. Let’s go back to Salisbury after the rains, when the grass is a tablecloth of green, the cannas ignite with flames of yellow and orange and where the jacarandas roll out their carpet of mauve. Which of our African homes? Tokwe? Villa Montmatre? Belsize? Taomina? Melrose? Belsize, the house covered in banksia blossom, where we felt we were living on the edge of the world. Belsize, where the land drops away to veld, bushveld peppered with mopane trees and a cluster of mud huts in the distance. Miles of golden bush stretch up and nudge the horizon. Where the horizon yawns a yellow yoke and breathes light into the sky, a sky washed with blue and wisps of white. A funny story? The one where Dad bought a guard dog but it was too afraid to get out of the car? The one where Dad wanted fresh eggs every morning, bought 6 chicks and ended up with 6 cockerels? The one where Gavin lost his lunch when his sandwiches got blown up by the bomb squad because he hadn’t painted his name on his new school suitcase? Aah, I know - the one about washday because today is Friday… The land is as volatile as she is beautiful, the day is as warm as she is still. It is Friday; wash day. Dad is away on call up. We have scrubbed, soaped, rinsed and wrung out the washing in the bath. Outside, I pass the pegs while you and Mum hang up the washing. You and I play with our Barbie dolls by the septic tank, where the grass grows green and the paw paws grow tall, providing us with leafy parasols. The cats, Tom and Jerry are having their ‘funny five minutes,’ they prowl, pounce and chase each other, skidding across freshly polished floors. It means the weather is changing. At the top of the garden, a dust-devil is also at play. It swirls red dust like the spinners on Mum’s Kenwood mixer, a chocolate sponge mixture on slow speed. A flick of the switch; medium speed, high speed, the dancing devil starts to twist, sucking up dust, whipping up leaves and grass into its red tunnel. The funnel-like chimney travels down the garden, towards us. We grab our Barbie dolls and run into the house. We watch with Mum behind the glass. The dust-devil veers across the garden towards the washing. The rotary line spins like helicopter blades: mum’s dress, sheets, socks, knickers, mum’s dress, sheets, socks, knickers… it takes off. The rotary line has taken off. Our clothes are flying up the garden. The rotary line travels up the garden, then like a bored toddler, the wind drops its toy and finds somewhere else to play. The rotary line and washing come in to land. We run outside laughing, broken pegs and discarded clothes. A metal blade impales Mum’s dress and stakes it to the soil. The dress was white but has a red tinge to it, the same tinge of red all the clothes have. We stop laughing once we realise we have to scrub and soap, rinse and wring everything again.