Signed, Hopelessly in Love. Lauri Kubuitsile

knows?”

      “Who knows what?” Gran asked, coming into the kitchen with the washing from the clothesline.

      “Nothing, we were just talking,” I said, hoping it would stop at that, though I knew it wouldn’t. I know my gran.

      Besides being a stickler about a lot of things, Gran is also dead nosey. She wants to know everything about my life. I’ve warned Nono many times about Gran’s nosiness. I’ve also warned her that Gran is very tricky. She can get information from you and you won’t even know you have handed it over.

      “Talking about what?” She sat down next to Nono, eyeing a bit of tomato that sat on the plate, having fallen from Nono’s sandwich. Nono pushed the plate towards her and Gran snatched the tomato and popped it in her mouth. Then she turned towards me with her eagle eyes drilling into my skull, searching the nooks and crannies for the truth.

      I looked away. I know how this works. As long as she can’t enter my mind through my eyes, I am safe.

      “We were talking about maths – okay? Algebra, like who knows the use of it anyway?” I lied.

      “Maths? Algebra?”

      Oh no! I knew we were stuck now for a long lecture about the importance of learning. Nono turned to me with a look that said “Why?”

      Why had I done it? I’d done it to save us. It would have been a disaster if Gran knew that I was to be Aunt Lulu for the school newspaper. Anything even smelling of a waste of time gets Gran seriously wound up, because “Idle hands are the Devil’s playground”. The Devil plays a big role in Gran’s life – actually, the avoidance of all things dev-ilish plays a big role in Gran’s life. Many things reek of the Devil: long, unplaited hair; gardens not cleared and swept tidily; people who speak badly about Sir Seretse Khama; most television shows; Miriam Makeba; food from tins; anything associated with airplanes; maize meal in paper bags … the list is endless, ever growing and surprisingly fluid.

      You would think God and the Devil would have long ago divided stuff up. Like, God got “hardworking”; the Devil got “lazy”. God got books; the Devil got comics. Like that. I would have thought the lists were already sorted out. But if you try to keep track of what is Godly and what is the work of the Devil according to Gran, you might very well become confused. The lists shift a lot. But a piece of advice: don’t point it out to Gran. First she will deny it. And then she’ll be annoyed at you for the rest of the day.

      For example, since she likes Nono (“Comes from a good Sekgatla family”), all things to do with airplanes remain the Devil’s work, but going up to the heavens in a spaceship is strictly out of Satan’s realm. I suspect the Devil’s list is conveniently pulled out whenever my life is to be judged and manipulated to a position that Gran finds better suited to her needs and wants.

      I had drifted off during the long speech about the importance of algebra and maths but I knew Gran was coming to the end when she said, “School and study don’t need to have practical applications. The quest for knowledge is always a Godly thing.” The (fill-in-the-blank) is always a Godly thing – this is one of the most common conclusions to Gran’s “little talks”.

      Nono looked up at Gran as she stood to make her way to the back room to iron the newly washed clothes. Nono’s eyes were dripping with earnestness.

      “Yes, Mrs. Sethunya, you are absolutely correct. Thank you so much for your guidance.”

      Nono is big on sucking up – another reason Gran sees her as a positive influence in my life. I couldn’t stop the smile although I was, thankfully, successful at suppressing the giggle behind it.

      “Amogelang, wipe that silly grin off you face! I thank the Lord every day you have such a wise friend like Nono.”

      And for Ms. Suck-Up: “Remember to greet your parents for me, Nono, ngwanake.”

      When Gran was safely out the door, Nono turned back to me, giving her best Gran impression – all high, squeaky-voiced, with a slight British accent. “I thank the Lord every day you have such a wise friend like Nono.”

      I let my head drop into my folded arms on the table so that Gran couldn’t hear me laughing.

      “You’ll go to the Devil for that, Nono!” I felt the obligation to warn her, though I knew the Devil didn’t play a very big role at her house. Her parents are young and modern, her mother a nurse and her father a planner at the council. She isn’t bullied by eternity in hell.

      Nono drifted back to our Aunt Lulu conversation. “While you’re doing Aunt Lulu, you’ll still have to be writing your other stuff, otherwise people will wonder what’s going on, why you left the newspaper when everyone knows you’re going to be a famous journalist.”

      Nono was right. So it wouldn’t be so bad, after all. I would be able to do my investigative reporting and other cutting-edge articles, and still please Lorato by doing Aunt Lulu.

      “Anyway, how difficult can it be to answer people’s silly problems?” I asked.

      It turned out it was a lot tougher than I thought.

      Chapter 3

      “What you working on, Amo?”

      Tebby plopped down on the chair next to me in a cloud of pirated Chanel No. 4 from the Chinese Shop, Wang Wang. I quickly pushed the first Aunt Lulu letter under my books.

      “Nothing really. I’m thinking of interviewing John Gababonwe. Trying to make a list of questions. It’s always good to go with a prepared list of questions.”

      “Number one,” Tebby said, pretending to write in the air in front of her. “When do you intend to ask Tebby Roberts out on a date?”

      “Yeah, right! John Gababonwe, head boy of the school, asking a silly little form one like you on a date? Not gonna happen.”

      Tebby jumped to her tiny little feet, which were pushed into thin, spiky heels. (As soon as school was out she had rushed to the girls’ toilets to apply pink lip gloss and eyeliner, and to change out of her school uniform and clunky black Toughees. Tebby’s like that.) Somehow she had kept her pink varnished nails away from the prying eyes of Mr. Dikolobe, the headmaster, who is more commonly referred to as “Pigs”. He wants boys and girls to look as similar as possible in the hope that we won’t notice that we are from the opposite sex. Pigs recently started making noises about girls having their hair cut short. Tebby nearly had a heart attack. She keeps her long black hair carefully straightened and oiled. Much time is spent in its maintenance for one reason only – she enjoys the envy her hair creates in almost every girl she meets. After Pigs announced the possible implementation of the haircutting rule, Tebby swore “Over my dead body.” I think she really meant it too.

      “Look at me, Amo. I might be a form one but I’m cute, if I say so myself.” She flipped her hair back over her shoulder and pushed her hip forward for a pose.

      “Yeah, okay. But John Gababonwe is not interested in cute. He’s a serious student. I understand he intends to be an engineer.”

      “Amo, listen, you might be a form two and all, and you might know quite a bit about journalism, and I respect that – BUT, I know boys. Boys like girls who are cute. All boys. Budding engineers, doctors, or trash collectors. They don’t care about brains. And they certainly don’t care how fast they can run. You might pass that info on to your friend Nono. I mean … really.”

      I was getting annoyed by the drift of this conversation. If I’m to be honest, I’ve had a crush on John Gababonwe since the first term of form one and I didn’t need Tebby getting in the way. On one of my first days at the school, after I transferred from my old school in Gaborone, when I didn’t know anyone, he came up to me and asked me my name. I told him, and then he asked me where I transferred from and I told him. He seemed genuinely interested. And on top of that, he is so handsome. Tall and broad-shouldered,