The year was 1993. The end of March brought the winter’s sluggish end. Temperatures were on the rise after the bitter cold and snow. (Ok, North Carolina didn’t actually see much snow, but it was more than I, Child of the South African Soil, had thus far seen in my entire life.)

I had finally settled into the second grade…just in time to move on to the third grade in a few months. Faded, were those memories of being the new kid, confused and not able to find my classroom on the first day of school, knowing only scraps of English. I had even made a couple of friends in Mrs Wiel’s class. For the purposes of this essay memoire, we shall call them Laura and Jackie. Because their names were Laura and Jackie.

Elementary school had its own particular brand of playground politics. Alliances were formed and dissolved frequently, depending on who one decided to befriend or shun, who had the cool sticker notebook, who could hang the longest from the jungle gym. And so on. Laura, Jackie and I had formed a tripartite alliance. I was the odd one in the group: very obviously South African (read: black).

The group was solid. Unshakeable…or so I thought on the 31^st of March.

Then came the following day. (The discerning among you may already guess where this is going.)

I got to school at the regular time that Thursday morning. Morning announcements blared from the PA system, as usual. We, the children, were filing towards our respective classrooms (I never got lost again after that first day). When I arrived at mine (I never got lost again after that first day), I spotted Laura and Jackie. I went over to say, “Hey guys!” or whatever my greeting would’ve been back then. But whatever THEIR usual greeting used to be, they did not. Greet me, that is. In fact, I was met with silence, bazakes.

Maybe perhaps they did not hear me. Let’s us give the benefit of the doubt. So, I tried again. “Hey Laura! Hey Jackie!” Silence, futhi. AND a turning away of the shoulder. They left your girl standing there, upset and “Hawu! And then?”-ing within.

I could not start any kind of inquisition at that juncture. Class was about to start.

(Elementary school, if I remember correctly, had 2 recesses. A short midmorning one, and a longer lunchtime one. These 2 recesses are important to my story. Remember them.)

I spent the morning until first recess paying only partial attention to the schoolwork. The other part of my brain was being racked. What in the world had I done?

First recess came, and with it, my chance to get to the bottom of this mystery. Outside, at The Spot (playground), I found them again. “Guys, what’s going on?”

Said Laura: “Me and Jackie decided we’re not your friends anymore.” There might have been a 45-degree upturn of a nose, coupled with a flick of hair, on both their parts.

Correction, it should have been ‘Jackie and I’. But that’s 40-year-old me correcting Laura’s grammar.

What I actually said was: “Why?!”

To which, I received no response except them walking away, arms linked, as thick as thieves.

I don’t think I knew the word ‘bewildered’ yet. But that is exactly what I was. Just like that?! They got to decide that we were no longer friends, and I didn’t get a chance to say anything about it? Well, fine!

I might have said that out loud to their retreating backs.

End scene. Er, end of recess.

By the time second recess hit, I was sullen. I didn’t bother looking for my no-longer-friends; I went straight to the cafeteria to get my government-regulated school lunch, and sit my no-longer-friended behind at a table somewhere. By myself.

Elsewhere in the cafeteria, Laura and Jackie were having their probably home-packed lunches. Happy. Friends!

All throughout lunch, I kept asking myself questions: why was I suddenly so undesirable a friend? Was it because I never brought any stickers to the table? Was it because my hair didn’t flow like theirs? Were my legs ashy that morning? What was the reason?!

I will add now that none of these thoughts dampened my appetite. I finished my lunch. As I was clearing my tray, who should walk up to me, but the very same Laura and Jackie. This time, sporting silly grins on their faces.

“ApRiL FOooooL’s!!!!!!!!” they shouted. “It was a prank!” they giggled.

Bazakes, it is important to note that I had never heard of such a thing as April Fools’ Day. I came from apartheid South Africa. We did not do such things in Gazankulu. And my English vocabulary was still under construction.

Which means that as I stood there, dazed as an electrocuted fish out of water, my brain caught only one word of their gleeful announcement: fool.

Who. Exactly. Were they calling a fool??

Now, THAT question unfortunately did not stay in my brain. It tumbled out of my mouth.

“No! We’re not calling you a fool! It’s April Fools’ Day! We were just kidding!” Jackie protested. “We’re still your friends!”

So.

4 hours of bewilderment and confusion, where they conspired to make me feel like an outsider once again…were funny to them? I was hurt. And seething.

I looked at those faces, smiling at me as if the events of the day could be erased by their pronouncement. As if we would just go back to how it had been the day before.

Alas.

Those two young ladies did not realise that I was Sennie Mankareng’s granddaughter. And my grandmother did not suffer fools. And she would remember if, as the children say today, you played in her face.

“No, it’s fine,” I said. “You said we’re not friends, so we’re not friends.”

With that, I went back to class. Ngathi “Uno Reverse”! I proceeded to ignored them for the rest of the…life. I changed schools for third grade and never heard from them again.

And thus ends the story of my introduction to April Fools’ pranks.

I don’t know who was the ultimate April Fool that day. Perhaps I was, for missing the ‘joke’ and reacting too swiftly. Mercilessly. Like a triad boss.

There’s no lesson to this one. Except perhaps: don’t play April Fools’ pranks on us Africans. It could backfire badly. Also: 8-year-old me was pettyyyyyyyyy.

Anyways, bazakes. What a friend we have in Jesus. He’s been working on me since then.

Let the church say.

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