I ran up the concrete stairs to our room and unlocked the rusting metal door. It rumbled as I pushed it open, scraping against the floor, its hinges giving a long, squeaky, thirsty cry for oil. I was late home from football practice and I needed to get back downstairs to set up to sell beans and chapattis outside the salon. But I wanted just a few minutes to rest. I rolled down my football socks, pulled the small three-legged wooden stool out of our room and sat out on our veranda. I call it a veranda; you might describe it as a pokey-little-concrete-space. But to me, it’s a veranda and, it’s one of my favourite spots. If I put the stool a few inches away from the wall of our room, I can sit on it, rest my back, and put my feet up on the balcony wall opposite. That’s how narrow our veranda is. Not even as wide as my legs are long. I crossed them at the ankles and leant back. It’s true, I have footballer’s legs. They are long and strong and you can see the definition of my muscles when I run. In the evening light I could see the dust that had settled above my sock line from playing on our sandy football pitch.
The clanking of a hammer on metal at Gary’s Garden Garage below reminded me that I had one of my headaches. The hammer banged in time to the thumping above my eyes. Even though the light was fading, I could see Jina. She was the source of the noise. There were sparks flying from grinding metal and engines revving, but it was Jina’s hammer that felt like it was beating on my forehead. She was leaning over the bonnet of Abdi’s pick up, whacking at something that didn’t look like it was moving. Her thick, short dreads were poking out from under her bright orange cap. She stood back for a moment, put her hand on her back and wiped her brow. Gary walked towards her and gave her a bigger hammer. She got back to work. Jina’s overalls were way too big. She had the legs rolled up so they didn’t drag in the dust. They were light blue. Well, they used to be light blue. They were covered in oil and dust and sweat and had inky black spots all over them. Jina’s a trainee mechanic. Actually, that’s not quite true. She’s training to be an automotive technician. That’s what they’re called at Gary’s Garden Garage. I once told her that I thought it was awesome that she was a mechanic and, before I knew it, she’d pulled some plyers out of her back pocket and pinched me very hard on the arm. “I’m an automotive technician, Kadzo,” she’d said. “And don’t you forget it.” The bruise from the pinch made sure I didn’t.
Now, I have no problem with women being automotive technicians. There aren’t very many of them around here and we could do with a few more. From what I can see, Jina is worth at least two of any of those other mechanics, who shout rude things at the school girls when they walk past. She’s always the first into work and the last to leave. If Jina wants to be an automotive technician, I don’t think anyone should stand in her way.
I am, though, a bit worried for her. I’m worried she might start smelling like a mechanic. And that’s a smell I just can’t take. It’s a mix of oil, fuel, dirt and old sweat. Once it gets up your nose it never leaves. I know it’s hot and dusty but those guys wear their overalls until they’re stiff and could stand up on their own. They reek as if their overalls have never been near a bag of Omo. And I don’t want Jina to get like that. But that overall of hers is not looking good. And I’ve counted the number of days she’s worn it without washing it. This week, it’s four so far and this is day five. Maybe women don’t ever get to smell like men? I’m not sure about that. I know that in school the girls and boys that have sweaty armpits smell pretty much the same. But maybe that changes as we get older? That could be her only hope. If not, I might need to talk to her. I’m sure she’d listen because I’m her best friend’s younger sister and she spends a lot of time in our house. I just need to think how to say it. I think I’d need to be direct and honest. Otherwise, if she develops that smell she’ll never find a boyfriend. And, after being an automotive technician, that is the only other thing she wants in life.
