for you on your birthday – promise me you won’t open the tin?’
‘But won’t the tokoloshe steal it, Ma?’
‘Don’t talk rubbish, there’s no such thing as a tokoloshe,’ Ma says. ‘Your birthday cake is going to be a surprise. Don’t touch that cake tin until I say you can!’
I spend hours dreaming about my fifth birthday cake. I’ve had a Humpty-Dumpty cake and a frog-fishing-on-a-green-cake, with a hole in the middle for a pond. I’ve had a tortoise cake, and a birthday cake with two fat red mushroom candles in the middle. I can’t wait to see what this one will look like.
Ma says I’m too young to walk around alone. She’s afraid I’ll get lost.
‘In case we’re not back in time for lunch,’ Ma says to the head groom at the stables, ‘would you send someone to walk Jennifer back to our rondavel after her riding lesson?’
I’ve made friends with all the children at the stables. They shout and jump up and down – everyone wants to walk back with me.
Their faces are dusty. Some of them have little white streams of dried snot under their noses and sleepy-sand in the corners of their eyes. Their teeth are square and white. Knots of grass and small twigs are stuck in their hair like tiny tinktinkie nests, and their clothes are all the same colour – dirty-dark and greasy and trailing a thick, unrestrained smell of smoke, of feet and earth and wildness behind them. The girls touch my long hair, tie and untie the bows of my ribbons. Stroke the small tortoises on my shirt. Their fingers leave streaks of dirt. I don’t care – they’re my friends.
We speak Afrikaans. When I forget, they look at each other, their faces blank. They shake their heads.
‘Eh-eh. Praat Afrikaans, kleinmies!’
Ma says I must speak Afrikaans all the time so that I’ll be ready for school next year. Marta and Isak always talk to me in Afrikaans – it’s easy; I know how it sounds.
I’m going to offer my visitors tea and cake like Ma does.
‘Who wants cake?’ I shout. ‘My birthday cake’s in a big tin under my Pa’s bed.’
My friends are clapping and laughing, crowding around the open door. They won’t come inside.
‘No, you must come in! Wait – I’m just going to fetch the tin …’
I slide under Pa’s bed. Balls of fluff, dry leaves and grass have banked up in the dark corners. The cake tin left a path in the dust when Ma pushed it against the far wall. I remember Marta’s warning just in time:
‘You must be careful when you get under the bed, M’Pho – the springs are like a bat – they will grab your head, get stuck in your long hair. You will be screaming and crying. That bat will be in your hair forever! Be careful!’
I duck my head and reverse out from under the bed, cradling the cake tin. My friends are still standing outside the door.
‘No, no, we can’t come inside, kleinmies – we are not allowed to.’
‘Why not? Why can’t you come inside? Come in, so we can sit down and have cake.’
They look at me blankly. Talk quietly. Shake their heads and back away. I’m standing in front of them, holding the heavy cake tin against my chest. I want them to stay. I put the tin on the seat of a chair. The lid is tight, difficult to open. They’re looking at me through the open door.
Finally the lid comes off, and inside is my fifth birthday cake. It’s the best, most beautiful cake I’ve ever seen – it looks like a rondavel, just like the one we’re standing in! The thatched roof is a cone of chocolate icing. Pink and yellow roses climb around the front door and the windows. The door is red and white. My fingers touch my daisy necklace. The children are crowding in around me now, their faces expectant, voices hushed with wonder. It’s the most beautiful cake any of us have ever seen.
‘Oh, Ma,’ I sigh. ‘Oh, Ma, it’s so beautiful!’
‘Hau! Can we eat it?’ someone asks. The spell is broken.
A knife! I have to find a knife to cut the cake. I can’t find one anywhere and I’m just about to start breaking it into pieces when I remember Pa’s black toothcomb. I run into the bathroom and climb on top of the lavvy’s seat. Pa’s comb is lying on the shelf above the basin.
Many fingers are busily poking about inside the cake tin. Some of the little roses have already disappeared.
‘Wait! I’ve found something to cut the cake – just wait! Just let me do it!’
With Pa’s comb in hand, I saw away at my beautifully decorated rondavel cake. Everyone’s crowding around me, grabbing at the broken slices. A sticky layer of crumbs and smears of icing coat the floor and Ma and Pa’s beds where my friends have been sitting. Suddenly everyone’s quiet. The doorway darkens. My friends scatter like dry seeds. I’m left standing over an empty cake tin, a cake-clogged comb in my hand, and Pa and Ma.
‘What have you done? We were going to have a party for you with that cake!’
‘But, Ma, I did have a party – didn’t you see all my friends? And, Ma, my cake was just like our rondavel here, only with teeny little roses and the door was red!’
I look around the circular walls. Breathe in the sweet smell of thatch. I beam.
‘It’s like living inside my birthday cake, Ma! How did you know? And Ma, my friends loved my cake. They all said, “Au! Au,” when they saw it, and it was so delicious, they just gobbled it down. I wish I could have saved some for Sandy and Marta …’
I look up at her.
‘And for you and Pa, of course …’
Ma’s mouth twitches. She breathes in deeply and closes her eyes. When she opens them again, she shakes her head. She kneels down, takes Pa’s comb out of my hand, and holds me close. I put my arms around her and squeeze her neck tightly. I think I can feel her laughing against my chest.
‘That was a very kind thing to do, sweetheart.’
Pa gazes at the empty cake tin. His eyes settle on his clogged comb. He runs his fingers through his wavy hair. His eyes meet Ma’s. Their shoulders start shaking and they burst out laughing. I’m happy too.
Pa takes his comb from her and examines it closely. He’s not laughing so much any more.
‘Is Pa cross with me, Ma?’
‘I’ll be in the bathroom cleaning my comb,’ he says. He doesn’t look at me.
My eyes fly to Ma’s face. She stands up and closes the tin. She looks down at me, her head tilted to one side.
‘You weren’t supposed to open this tin before your birthday, you know. Now you and your friends have eaten all the cake and there isn’t even a crumb left over. Pa was so looking forward to tasting it.’ She sighs and shakes her head again.
In the tiny bathroom, the tap is running in the basin. I can hear Pa scrubbing my birthday cake down the drain with his nailbrush.
