�Oliver�� she started to call again, with her extreme irritation and impatience not hid, but he interrupted her with a sudden raise of his left hand in the air. More than three students jumped in their seats.
�Dr. Woodburn,� he asked suddenly and inquisitively, stretching his neck as far towards her as it could reach, sliding his ebony-tinted fingers across the smooth surface of the table, smiling continuously in the process, �do you realise that I am the only person in this space with brown eyes?� Like a critic of paintings in an art gallery, he analysed her expression, every muscular twitch in her image, for a sign of sympathy; understanding, rejection, love, disgust, whatever�he did not know�but eyeing her incessantly, like a gambler watching the last leg of a horse race; he awaited her response. But instead of receiving a response from Dr. Woodburn to satisfy his query, it was another individual in the room who attracted Oliver�s attention. Jennifer Coetz, who sat directly to his right turned the deepest shade of red, deeper than the almost orange-ness of her hair. Oliver was astounded. Right before his eyes, within less than seven seconds, Jennifer metamorphosed into a brand new complexion. One minute she was the shade of the paper before him, and straight away, she reminded him of blood. Oliver was more than astounded at Jenny�s reaction; he was stunned at her response to his observation of the hue of eyes in the room. He froze in his seat. Sudden fear and confusion rocked him; he felt dizzy and wiped a few beads of sweat from his brow; his eyes shifting from side-to-side, suspiciously skipping from face to face. It felt as if some one was lighting a fire beneath his chair, and before he knew it, his hands started to sweat profusely. �I need to get out of this isolation,� he whispered (loudly) to himself; but to the others around him, who alarmingly watched him all the while as he wiped the sweat which also started to pour from his forehead, these words were intercepted audibly and clearly.
�What isolation are you referring to?� enquired Dr. Woodburn with an odd smile on her face. But then Jeff Ruiter, a blonde, pony-tailed student interrupted her by raising his hand. After receiving a nod from the lecturer, he said hesitantly: �I think we need to take Oliver to the student clinic. I do not think he�s feeling too well.� Jeff looked at Oliver and back at Woodburn, in the unexpected role of peer advocate. Like a mouse, unsure if it should exit its hole in a wall, Ruiter recoiled into his seat, and waited for a response from the senior member in the room.
�Nonsense!� retorted the instructor, so roughly that Jeff shrank into himself. �There�s nothing wrong with the boy!� she shouted out loud. The other students, quite taken aback at this tension and confrontation, looked back and forth at each other, some shaking their heads. �And if you feel the need to fulfill the role of a psychiatrist,� she pointed and glared at Ruiter, �the English department is no place for you!�
Like the penis of an elderly man, Reiter�s head slumped forward. To Oliver, he looked like a wet sock, forgotten on the washing line in the middle of a downpour, and this thought made him laugh. He burst out loud and threw his head back. Tears flowed from his eyes and he held his stomach. The others, who were briefly distracted by Reiter�s intervening interlude, removed their gaze from him and returned it to Oliver. Like spectators of a tennis match, all of their heads shifted from one direction to another and Oliver felt the heat of their attention. All of a sudden, he felt naked and rudely exposed, like an alien amongst a different breed of man. Forget genetic postulation that humans have one structure, he felt like one who had an erotic dream exposed on the evening news. It appeared as if the sharpest ray of heat came from Dr. Woodburn, who tapped her red-painted nails on the table, prrrrap�prrrrap�prrrrap. Noticing that she wanted something from him, he whispered: �the context of this situation is sucking the life from me.� Lowering his head, he was silent.
�Are you making this claim in a theoretical or experiential mode, Mr. Egbert?� Dr. Woodburn enquired after a deafening pause. Oliver could have sworn he saw a smirk flash across her face, only to vanish instantaneously in the thousands of wrinkles of her snow-white skin.
�What the funk is so funny?� he thought, tasting anger. It dropped bitter juice on his tongue and his eyebrows squinted, similar to a large feline about to pursue and claw its prey. He felt like grabbing his bag of books and spearing it across the table between her eyes. Instead, after this sudden adrenaline rush, he reached up and slowly wiped the sweat that steadily dripped over his eyebrows, into his own eyes, mystifying everything and everyone before him. Like Ruiter, he hung his head like a drunken man. That was the effect the woman�s verbal lashings and questioning had on his soul. He swayed his leaded-head from side to side, as if these movements would sober him out of this nightmare. �All I wanted to do was learn to write short stories,� he reasoned within his heart, �but this�I didn�t ask for this.�
Like someone who dragged a dead body out of a well, he raised his head, and through the blur of sweat and paired-blueness, attempted to zoom in on Dr. Woodburn. But her face would not maintain its form. One moment it was lifelessly serious, the next it appeared to seduce him�beckon him, but then it would curse him, leer evilly, and then grimace, as if she could spit at him. Not only was his vision testing his doors of perception - in reverberating circles, the voices of his class mates reached his consciousness in subtle waves. It was as if he were flooded with touchable expressions, phrases, or sensory-detectable ideas. Whether the others in the room were speaking, or whether it was he who created what he thought were their words, their thoughts, Oliver�s mind began to twirl.
�Should have gone to Potch.�
�This is why my mother said��
�My father told me never to come home with a ��
�I�d never share a cup with...�
�Funk in� k�.!�
These phrases zipped and brushed around his ears like clouds or butterflies flying past a plane at night. They were so fast, but when they passed him by, it was like ice cutting into his skin, with razor-sharp accuracy. He wiped his face again, feeling the wind outside of the aircraft that was his disorientation.
But suddenly, his eyes widened like tea cup saucers � they became binocular lenses, and with them, he grasped at the surrounding faces, at the fleshly expressions before him, locking in on Woodburn. �Dr.� he recommenced, again causing a scuffling amongst the students. One even hopped out of her seat, ready to dash for the door. He disapprovingly glanced at this brown-haired, blue, crystal-eyed woman, and sucked his teeth in disgust.
�Dr. Woodburn,� he resumed, very sternly, �my birthday is in August. By virtue of that, I am a Leo. Though you might not acknowledge the influence of the stars, if necessary, the power of the lion inside me will crush your experiential and theoretical testicle clamping.�
It was Woodburn�s turn to turn red and Jenny Coetz�s turn to laugh. She burst out laughing so forcefully spit shot out her pink lips and snot shot out both of her nostrils. �Sorry,� she stammered, wiping the light green snot on to her sleeve, but tears had already started to pour down her rosy cheeks, so hard did she cackle. She put her head down on the table in an attempt to control herself, and covered it with her arms, but that could not stop Jenny�s laughter from booming and over-powering Dr. Woodburn�s incessant pounding on the table and chilly calls for silence. Jenny�s body writhed spastically and she coughed, until the veins stood out on the sides of her face, until gradually�it appeared that she began to sob. She did not sob; this was the way it sounded when her laughter started to end.
Oliver�s brain ceased its bouncing and he gazed, deeply curious, at the girl next to him, laughing or crying hysterically. As if in slow motion, she raised and lowered her shoulders, almost shuddering, and filled the white painted room with her moan combined laughter. Oliver reached towards Jenny, whose head was still on the table, and tapped her so as to gain her attention. At that point, he himself couldn�t tell if she was weeping or undergoing some form of frenzy, and it increased his sense of being mentally dislodged. Up until then, he was the sole other, the sole chocolate musketeer in the hall of learning, and the concept or idea of being 'othered' justified a momentary lapse of sanity. When all reason had failed, dipping into the realm of madness sanctioned the edging of the nerves of those he believed might have never noticed him in the shopping centre, a restaurant, or in public; he was the shadow.
Then, like a storm that fell swiftly, Jenny became quiet. She lifted her head and parted her wispy blonde hair from before her eyes. Even Dr. Woodburn stopped her commotion and glued her eyes on the young woman. Oliver retracted his hand from Jenny�s direction, as if recoiling from a wasp.
�This is all bullsh*t�,� Jenny declared, suddenly dead serious. Wrinkles were on her forehead. �We all know this is insanity. We�re just here reading books and listening to each other for,� and she threw up her hands, �WHAT?�
�Ms. Coetzzzz,� hissed Dr. Woodburn, with a glower that appeared to release fiery lasers. �I want to see you directly after this�,� but Oliver cut her off.
�Shut it, Carol,� he growled. He re-zoomed his focus back on the PhD holder as if he could tear her limb from limb with his bare hands. He said not another word, but Dr. Woodburn froze in her seat, like a camper waking up to discover her feet being sniffed at by a full-grown bear. Oliver�s heart beat pounded in the chests of those around him.
�This isn�t fiction, this is real life.�
After he said that everyone ran out of the tutorial room, pushing over chairs and knocking against each other, male and female, except for Jenny, who wiped her eyes, shook off her sudden seriousness, and slowly returned to her senses. Dr. Woodburn, at a snail's pace, raised herself out of her seat, like one who had tripped and fallen in front of a poisonous snake, but Oliver roared and banged his fists on the table, shaking the notebooks and pens left behind by the fleeing students. �Sit down,� he ordered her, through clenched teeth, and the lecturer knew that this was a very severe situation. Carol Woodburn had traveled the world and she had attended many international conferences giving papers on critical approaches to interpreting African fiction, but never in her travels had she thought that being in a university would provide a social context whereby she felt like a hostage. Her mind shot back to her childhood; specifically, a memory of being on Muizenberg beach with her parents and two older brothers filled her inner mind. She remembered sitting on the sand, at the waves edge, looking back to see her parents under the sun-umbrella, watching her protectively. In front of her, dashing and splashing like young colts, her older brothers maneuvered their surf boards. Bliss on heaven is possible. �Carol,� shouted her mother. As the eight year old girl turned around, she looked directly into the path of a freshly-painted sign, behind where her parents lay on the hot sand, which read: ONLY EUROPEANS ALLOWED. She thought about her history lesson last Thursday, in which Mr. Miller pointed out the capital cities of Western Europe. She wondered, at the time, how long it would take for a plane to fly all the way from South Africa to Amsterdam. At the same time, she found it interesting that people from all the way in Europe were the only ones allowed on the beach in Muizenberg.
Carol, what have you gotten yourself into now? You could have taught English in London; yes the children are rude�but no�you came back to Stellenberg, now look! Is this my curse? Is this the curse of the African ancestor whose land was taken by my ancestors, when they arrived on wooden ships across the sea? Carol, don�t be mad�you need to get out of here. He�s closing the door. Why is he doing that? Don�t cry. DON�T CRY. The other students would have told security by now. Ancestors? Why is he closing the door?
�Why are you closing the door?� I ask him. He does not answer me. Instead, he walks behind me and proceeds to circle the table, myself and Jenny Coetz, like a beast that has just ripped apart his prey � and now scans the surrounding area for scavengers. I feel unprotected. I am exposed and I don�t handle such situations well. I have only read about them, seen them depicted on TV, or come close to them by going to the theatre. �Well, that�s it for you, Carol�can�t experience everything in a book, not to expect such dramas to unfold in your own world is�� He reaches into his bag and my throat goes dry. �Please Lord; let him not have a knife or something like that. Please Lord, let me go.� I have tea with Wendy from Linguistics at 1.15. Please, help me to get out of here. He takes out a sandwich and offers it to me. From where I sit, in his out-stretched hand, I see lettuce protruding from brown bread; cheese appears to be beneath it. �No thank you,� I say nimbly, �I�ve just eaten breakfast.�
�Take the fu**in� bread,� he growls, or I�ll shove Heart of Darkness down your throat. He pushes the sandwich towards me and picks up the novel, pointing it threateningly. I have never been the guest in the home of a person of colour before. I have never eaten food directly from the home of a black. Now, he expects me to eat this bread. I am not racist�It�s just that I have never done this before and cannot be expected to just�he gets up and rushes toward me; he stops violently by my side. From above me, I can feel his breath reach me in hot gusts.
�Mr. Egbert,� I plead, reminding myself of when I was still four years old, begging Mum for an ice-cream cone, �I�m sorry, do not take this the wrong way, but I had breakfast right before the tutorial. I do not have an appetite.� Like a comet streaking through the night, a searing scorch burns the back of my head as he grabs a handful of my hair and almost rips me to my feet. I lean backwards and fall against his chest but he pushes me forwards against the table and kneels by my side, as if to whisper in my ear.
�Oliver,� Jenny speaks for the first time in quite a few minutes. �Rather let her go.� She interrupts him as he freezes. His glare remains on me, but quickly, he turns towards Ms. Coetz.
�Why?� he asks, like a child not understanding that O N E spells one. �Why should I? She is abusive. She doesn�t care about my perspectives.�
�I never gave you any reason to belie�,� I try to say, but he swings his balled fist into my mouth. I watch the few drops of blood splash onto my white Woolworth�s blouse, and mix with the tears that follow and join them. I sob once and I cannot see the two before me. More tears have continued to flow and all is blurred. The side of my face throbs; it feels like I have had a tooth extracted. More shaken than I am, he retreats and parks himself back in his seat. The sandwich sits in front me. Jenny gazes at him, as if not accepting what had just happened. She shakes her head but continues to watch at him, as he locks his eyes on me, then the sandwich, then me. I cannot move. As much as I want to scream for help, I feel dumbfounded, and the inside of my mouth burns like lava. There are no posters or any signs on the walls, it is just us. All that there is is the brown conference table, the pale white walls, empty seats, and these two students.
�Are you going to eat the sandwich or not?� he asks, softly but clear enough so that I detect each word, directly at me. �You have one minute before I shove it down your throat! What do you think?� he sucks his teeth. �Is my Auntie�s bread not good enough for you? If Chinua Achebe had made it, would you have eaten it?� Disgusted, he turns to his left and spits repulsively, as if I am scum, on the grey carpet. His glare refocuses on me.
�I�ll eat it,� Jenny says suddenly, breaking our tense proximity of each other, and reaches towards the bread. But he raises his hand to stop her.
�Wait,� he says softly, totally changing his tone of voice. �I know you will. It�s her,� he explains, suddenly serious and pointing towards me, �she�s the one who has to prove that she�s not a bigot and will eat from brown hands. Otherwise, what the hell gives her the right to be here, teaching me?�
My authority and integrity have never before been questioned like this, and I gear myself to declare my utter disgust and resentment of his implication that I am a bigot, when, at that very moment, the door is blasted open by a forceful kick. Five blond-haired campus security officers charge into the room, like a SWAT team pouring into a bank under siege. They are all pink-skinned, burnt by the sun, and look like giant rugby players. For a split-second, they glance at each of our three faces, but then each one rushes to Oliver, as if they were starving hyenas, and he a forgotten kill. Like a scene from a Batman comic book, broad, pink-tinted fists fly through the air, and I watch Oliver fall as he is knocked off his seat. They tear him apart, like a pack of dogs ripping to shreds a helpless pup. Not waiting to take turns, they bury their toaster-sized fists into his sides, his back, his neck, his face, until he lay lifelessly on the ground like a spilled pocket of potatoes, choking and struggling to breathe. And then, without speaking to me, they were gone. One by one, like soldiers marching in a parade, they stepped out of the room without asking for a report, my office number or what had happened. I grab my purse lying on the floor, delete the last thirty minutes from my brain, and run out of the room like death was pursuing me.
