(29 January 2012)
Asha and I became friends at 9-years old. I would have liked to claim that it had been before this, but Ash, being the discerning creature she was, insisted that although she observed me from afar;she withheld her approval until we were seated next to each other in Ms Cousoudis’ Gr 4 class.
Ms Cousoudis strategy for giving young children the competitive edge was to build a visible hierarchy in her classroom on the basis of academic results. She constructed a pyramid out of large fruit crates and Asha and I, as the top two students in class, were seated opposite one another on the very top of the pyramid gazing down at the lowly plebs. The catch was that while our less-geekyclassmates were able to sit in sociable groups of six, Asha and I only had each other. And every time we dropped a piece of stationery – it would fall between the cracks of multiple stacked wooden crates never to be retrieved again.
For two seeminglybright kids, Asha and I expended very little time on our academics. Instead, we spent hours during and after school decorating our books with stars, spirals and rainbow-coloured squares. In one class we were given a worksheet with two chickens on it, which we furiously coloured in and named Mr and Mrs Cluck. And so the fantasy began...
Soon we had created a whole world of Clucks – Cluck schools, Cluck parks, families of Clucks - which included Clucks creatively named Kai and Paul. And in order to document the lives of our esteemed Clucks, we produced a poster of the whole of Cluck Cluck Land, which existed in the sky (of course) amidst starts and spirals and rainbows. Illustrations of chickens all over our books were taken as a sign of aptitude by our teacher and soon our cockiness (excuse the pun) over Cluck Cluck Land had reached new heights. We arrived at school one fateful morning begging to present a voluntary oral on the Clucks – to the misery of our fellow classmates.
From there our world-creating powers were unstoppable. Together, we invented Magic Star Fantasy Land - or more fashionably MSFL - filled with unicorns, fairies and an evil beaver brilliantly named Beavis. Next, we fabricated Mouse Land – populated unsurprisingly by mice. All of these worlds were attributed their own creation myths and during breaktimes, all it would take was a quick spin on the gravel tarmac to transport us to any one of them. A tire became a massive pond, a jungle gym the castle – and the two cleverest girls in class wondered the playground talking to dustbins and bushes.
And so the adventure continued, both in and out of school. We terrorised babysitter after babysitter at aftercare and launched tickle-wars in which Asha’s eyes-closed, silent, nose-crinkled laugh was an indubitable sign of victory. We scampered around our gardens and Muizenberg streets, clad in oh-so-trendy tie die and fluffy hair clips – Asha always barefoot chewing on some or other edible plant. We fantasised about the day when we would adopt a daughter together and call her Lily. We created dozens of clubs with only the two of us as members. The best of these was the Lisping Lanterns – an association whose sole mandate was to speak with a lisp and wear lime green. And yet, despite all these accomplishments, for some reason, unbeknownst to us, our parents got the idea that Muizenberg Junior School was not stimulating us academically.
So Ash and I were moved to Wynberg Girls, where we learned that it was no longer acceptable to draw bunnies in our maths books and that girls should busy themselves with needlework rather than scampering barefoot through the streets. In our first year at Wynberg, we were assigned the project of designing a board game. While our classmates busied themselves with imitations of snakes and ladders, Asha and I created a Harry Potter masterpiece with rewards and challenges, fake money and a list of magical tools to be acquired.
Some thought it an unlikely friendship. I was loud, bubbly and outgoing, while Asha was seemingly quite and contained. But I knew better. Asha could shout with the best of them – stamping her funny thin feet with her hands on her hips to show her discontent. In fact Asha and I had a lot in common – both not good at making hasty decisions, both atrocious at sport, both with rooms so messy you couldn’t see the floor and both directionally impaired. We once got lost walking from Heather’s office on UCT upper campus to Asha’s house on lower campus, scuttling across the M3 highway until we eventually found our way.
Throughout our six years of schooling together, I went through terrible phases – at one time a mischievous tomboy who had to stand in the passage for trespassing the grade 7 terrace and at another time a goodie too-shoos head girl who refused to watch age-restricted movies and shouted at Asha for leaning against the school sign. I also showed off a range of hideous fashion trends, once donning lilac from head to toe including bellbottoms and platform shoes. While I tried out many different personas, Asha always seemed to know exactly who she was. Astoundingly, she remained a loyal friend throughout all these cringe phases and up until our twenties relished reminding me of them.
When Asha’s family moved from Muizenberg to Rondebosch and Asha moved to Westerford High School, I hoped that I would do the same. For a while, we even believed we would live next door to each other in the matching houses on Linkoping Road. Instead my family moved much further away to Grahamstown.
Despite a few thousand kilometres separation, we continued with new adventures – countless family holidays and arts festivals, dying our hair wild colours at Cape Town salonsand applying masses of make-up on an underage Asha to try and get her into Grahamstown clubs.
Asha never forgot one birthday. Nor did she forget one Frenzy Day – a day of friendship we created after reconciling a dispute which neither of us can remember, and which we have commemorated on the 8th of February every year for the past decade.
Although for the past few years Asha and I have only seen each other a few times annually – like all good friendships, we were always able to pick up exactly where we left off.
I am one of the lucky few thathas spent most of my life with Asha as my friend. I will remember her for her quick wit sharpened by a fierce vocabulary, her wonderful humour, her ability not to take herself too seriously, her love, compassion and immense loyalty to her family and friends, her adventurous spirit, her mischief and her cheek. I will remember how she could stun a crowd with her belly dancing hips, always had the best come-back for the school bully, how her ‘aloofness’ drove so many admirers crazy, and how she could persuade you into almost anything with pleading eyesand an untouchable argument. Most of all I will remember her imagination – from our fantasy worlds; to her art; our stories and letters; her passion for books, characters and language; and the endless dress up parties - No doubt it was also her imagination that made her such a brilliant philosophical mind.
As a last word: there is a song, which for your sake I won’t sing, that reminds me of everything wonderful about growing up with Asha. Fittingly, for two fanciful chocoholics, it is taken from Charlie and the Chocolate Factory and I will read just three verses – verses I cannot read without vivid images of a happy, laughing Asha:
Come with me
And you'll be
In a world of
Pure imagination
Take a look
And you'll see
Into your imagination
We'll begin
With a spin
Traveling in
The world of my creation
What we'll see
Will defy
Explanation
If you want to view paradise
Simply look around and view it
Anything you want to, do it
Wanta change the world?
There's nothing
To it
There is no
Life I know
To compare with
Pure imagination
Living there
You'll be free
If you truly wish to be
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