Remembering Frank

Remembering Frank – a short story by LJ kundananji

For Olga.

There is nothing as fleeting as memories...When we fly away, they linger on, but not for long; and at the mention of our names, very few people bat an eyelid, if at all…

Short, kinky haired, stubby nosed, lean, girl faced—that is how I remember Frank. Yet, despite these features, he was handsome, and a goodly number of us girl had asserted that if he were any taller, and that if he had a more masculine stature, we would all fall for him.

Frank and I had been at the same school from the first grade, but he never stood out as something out of the ordinary. He was just an average kid who I never even gave a single care about in the world. At academics, he was average; at sports, he was nothing but a perpetual loser; at music, he was totally hopeless, and you would wonder if he even had a voice; and at drama, it need not be mentioned, but he was ridiculous. The best part he ever played, I think, was the time he played as a rat in the Pied Piper concert. And what a rat he was! Large, black, and definitely imposing, he was certain to give anyone a heart attack. Crawling all over the stage with his Indian girlfriend, who was no less imposing, he made quite a show. (I hear that this very girl, who had stuck to his side for quite a while, left the country for a short period of two years, and when she returned, she totally forgot who he was!) Eventually, he and his hordes drowned in the proverbial waters—how sad.
But Frank did not stay an average kid forever. Somewhere in fifth grade, a remarkable metamorphosis began to take place. Tired of wallowing in the shadows of ‘averageness’, he began to excel academically. So swift was this metamorphosis that by the time we reached seventh grade, he was perpetually first in all the tests we took—a truly beautiful academic butterfly; an awesome nerd. He displaced the school genius, who for ages had held this prominent position unchallenged. This transition of power was a very emotional one. The school genius sat crying, a-licking at his fingers, with Frank looking on with a very sorry expression on his face.
So, at this point, I think we all began to take notice of Frank; and it was not certainly because he was a very beautiful academic butterfly. It was because he annoyed all of us. Who ever likes being beaten?
When we wrote our seventh grade exams, Frank beat all of us, of course, and came first in the whole district. We were little surprised at this turn out of events and actually expected it.
Eighth grade was no less different, with Frank climbing higher and higher on the academic ladder. However, for me, things were quite different this time. I came to know Frank a bit more on a personal level. Not only were we placed in the same class, but also our family moved to some place near his neighbourhood, and this meant that very often now, Frank and I would walk home together. So we sort of became friends, but nothing pointing in the direction of being more than friends!
It was in eighth grade that Frank developed a habit of writing stories. During prep, he would scribble away furiously for the whole two hours without even lifting his head or chewing on his pen to think. It was amazing. I actually had the privilege of reading one of his stories. The boy could write. For what it was worth, he could have been the best writer in the country!
Eventually, eighth grade came to an end, and we had to write our end-of-year exams. Having known Frank for quite a while now, I did not get the heebie-jeebies when asking for his help. And boy did he help me! Because of him, I managed to get a prize on prize-giving day (he of course, got four prizes, including a cash award!).
Well, after eighth grade, he and his family left town. His father quit working for the mines and sought a job elsewhere—in a secluded town hundreds of kilometres away. A large number of my classmates were glad that he left because this meant that they could now get a chance to occupy the most coveted position of school genius, which Frank had for so long a time occupied. I was quite glum that the little genius had to leave: he was my friend, and more importantly, he would not be there to help me.
They say when something is out of sight, it is out of mind. And this is what happened. Eventually, we all forgot about the little hero and went about life as if he had not even existed. I carried on with my rather uneventful life like any typical girl. I made a couple of friends—including one or two boys; I experienced the fleeting excitement of falling in love, and the nearly fatal debilitation that accompanies the emotion of heartbreak.
Regarding school, I adopted a rather dutiful attitude and worked quite hard. I worked so hard in fact that I was accepted at the university. It was true to say that the spirit of Frank had rubbed off me rather strongly.
I still remember that hot afternoon when I sat down on the bench. I had finished paying up, and all that was left was to fill in several forms before I actually got my room. As I sat, stooped over the big yellow form that I was filling in, I heard a faint “hi” from the boy next to me. I quickly lifted my head and stared into his smiling face. He was wearing glasses like I was. I was puzzled for a while, because I did not really recognize him. But as I looked harder through my glasses, I gave a little gasp.
“Frank!” I exclaimed in sheer disbelief, my eyes bulging out.
“Hi there, Nasilele,” he said, his smile growing bigger.
“Frank! Am I glad to see you!”
“Me too,” he revealed. “Though at first I was doubting whether you are the one. You have changed a bit—with those glasses.”
“So have you,” I breathed. “I was so glad when I saw your name—and in the same class! It’s wonderful.”
“Yeah,” he agreed. “It is amazing.”
He looked around wearily. “Got a room yet?”
“Yeah, actually.”
“Wow, that’s good,” he said with a hint of envy in his voice. “I haven’t got one yet. I’ve been seated here since morning. I guess for you girls, it’s easier.”
“I believe so…we are fewer…”
“If I don’t get a room,” he said with a grin, “can I come stay with you?”
“Of course—you are more than welcome!” I was only joking, and I was certain that he knew.
As I walked away to my room that day, I was very elated at the fact that Frank and I were going to be taking the same classes. It was too good to be true. He was going to help me with my studies—that was for sure. I made up my mind to stay as close to him as possible.

At first, everything got off to a good start. Frank and I stayed quite close. In the first term, he and I used to study together under the green lawns of leafy trees, from my room, and sometimes from his. In this way, we used to do, and for a while, it worked to our advantage. We managed to pass a good amount of tests.
In time, Frank and I were placed in the same lab group, along with the other two girls in our class. It was a fine combination and we worked pretty well together.
He was a charming lad, Frank, and he had the gentleness and tenderness that any girl could dream of in a guy. Indeed, as my friends and I observed, whoever married him would be one very lucky girl.

They say the only constant in life is change, and unfortunately, Frank began to change again. Remember I said he was a beautiful butterfly? Well, ever heard of de-metamorphosis—the change of a beautiful butterfly into an ugly caterpillar? Obviously you haven’t because it never happens. But believe it or not, it happened to Frank. He began to lose his beautiful academic appendages and became encased in a hideous cocoon of failure, laziness and nonchalance.
He started missing lectures, he stopped attending labs, and he hardly did any of the assignments we were given. Everyone was appalled by his attitude, but not as much as I was. Unlike them, I knew him from way back, and I definitely knew what he was capable of… Yet, he just let himself go…
Having come close to Frank, I knew what led to his change in attitude towards school. It was church. He got really serious with his church and preaching. I remember one day when he told me:
“You know what, Nasilele, don’t be surprised if I miss a lecture or even a test for the sake of doing God’s will.”
“I wouldn’t,” I had replied. I admired his faith and courage. For some of us, when confronted with something as malicious as a test, church—and even God—would have to wait, but not him. True to his words, he missed a countless number of lectures and about two tests. Eventually, he became so detached from the rest of us, his classmates, that he hardly had a clue about what was going on. He became a total wreck.
Though I felt the urge on several occasions to scold him for behaving so imprudently, I could not, because, in an interesting sort of manner, I was beginning to get his point. You see, Frank had suddenly lost interest in school because, as he put it, it was utterly unrealistic and was teaching none of us real engineering. According to him, it was teaching none of us the art of self-sufficiency but was only preparing us for employment, which was dismally lacking in the real world. And instead of teaching us real knowledge and how to study, it was teaching us nothing but how to cram and memorise dozens of facts that we neither understood nor would even use.
“This is not what I expected,” he told me one day, “you leave this place emptier-headed then you came…”
Ah! You guessed right. With this dangerous attitude, he did not last long. At second year, he failed his exams and left. Indeed, the exam was hard, for it did me a good blow. I failed several courses and therefore had to go on part-time to catch up. But with that thick cocoon around him, Frank did not stand a chance. He failed almost all his courses and earned himself an ignominious record of failure. He later admitted it, saying:
“This failure is a record in my history I wish I could erase.”
It was indeed an interesting topic for discussion—Frank’s academic demise. My classmates talked about it in between lectures, in the privacy of their rooms and along the corridors. Whenever we were hit by nostalgia and reminisced about our ‘departed friends’, we could not help but discuss the incredibly stupid attitude of Frank.
But, as they say, we got to move on: and so we did move on. We all eventually forgot about Frank and soon caught up in the hustle and bustle of university life—of cramming, memorising, and gambling (it was gambling because lectures were known to repeat past questions, so we would sit down to go through dozens of past questions in the hope that the lecture might repeat them).

One fine afternoon, I was seated relaxing in my room when there was a tap on my door.
“Come in!” I said with a yawn, wondering who the heck could be disturbing me at this time of the day.
The door slowly opened and in walked Frank. He looked taller, more handsome, and most of his girly features were gone.
“Frank!” I shrilled, shooting up to my feet to hug him.
“Hi Nasilele,” he said.
“Frank! What a wonderful surprise!” my eyes were indeed almost popping out of my sockets from sheer surprise and delight. I quickly brushed away the onion peels which where on the chair that stood in the middle of the room and wiped it clean with a cloth.
“Take a seat, take a seat,” I said enthusiastically.
“Thanks,” he said in a heavy voice that was so unlike the sharp feminine voice he used to have sometime back. He slumped onto the seat and stared at me from behind his colourmatic lenses, all darkened by the sun.
I sat in silence for several moments, goggling at him with both my palms against my cheeks. He giggled when he noticed the astonishment on my face.
“How have you been?” he asked with a chuckle.
“I haven’t been too well, dear,” I said with a dazed expression.
He was somewhat taken aback by this affectionate address. He narrowed his eyes and asked:
“What has been the problem?”
“School—it’s been doing me bad…”
“Hmm—don’t give up yet, you are almost there…you are almost done.”
“Yeah,” I shook my head despondently, “‘round here there is nothing like you are almost done: they can fail you in your final year.”
“I am aware of that,” he smirked, and for a while said nothing more.
“What has been happening with you?” I finally asked, my hands still to my cheeks.
“Nothing much,” he grunted, “Just a lot of writing.”
“Oh, yes,” I said, nodding my head with a knowing smile. “Frank the writer…”
“I have written a lot, you know….”
“I can imagine…”
“That is my life now—I am a writer.”
“That is good,” I said, wondering in my head if this was the boy who had failed ignominiously at second year. Most probably, he knew what he was doing. He obviously had a plan, and it seemed it was working out.
“You know what I have always wanted?” he suddenly said in more serious tone that sent me slightly shuddering.
“No…” I shook my head, the expression on my face was that of wonderment.
“I’ve always wanted to be different.” He smiled in an enigmatic manner that sent me into more and more wondering.
“But you have always been different,” I said, my voice so soft that I hardly heard it myself.
“Maybe so.” He grasped his chin and slumped forward with his elbow on his thigh.
“Frank, the path you took was very different—you left school, you pursued your writing, and you…you succeeded.” I stated firmly, remembering his rather warped up view of school.
“Left? I was kicked out!” he barked, starting upright and throwing his head back with laughter.
“We all know that you did it deliberately,” I said patiently. “Frank, I know very well what you are capable of. You just did not want to do it…”
“I guess you are right…” he fell into a musing stance. “You know when I remember those days, I laugh: remember the time I missed the test because I got the timing all wrong? There I was, studying in my room while the rest of you guys were writing!”
He fell into spasms of laughter. I could not help but laugh along. It was funny, now that I thought about it.
“And the time when the lecturer chased me to the back of the class because I was boring him to tears?”
“Yeah, that was certainly funny!” I gasped.
“Good times, those; good times.”
Eventually, we ceased laughing and Frank put on a more serious disposition.
“Hey,” he began, “those things I told you—about being a friend of God; about paradise; about all the wonderful things God will do for us: did you believe any of ’em?”
“Um, yeah…” I said with uncertainty.
“That is wonderful!” he seemed thrilled. “So are you going to continue studying the Bible so as to be a friend of God?”
“I’ll try to find time.”
“You should—you definitely should; ‘cause this world is going to end soon you know. I am sure you can see how bad things have become in the world.”
“I have…” I nodded my head somberly. “I most certainly have.”
“You are really a wonderful person, Nasilele—God loves you very much.” His eyes were glowing with affection.
“He does, huh?” I was incredulous.
“Yes—he sent his son to die for you,” he breathed. “He wants you know him better so that you don’t get destroyed. When I think of primary school, I remember you as that gorgeous girl standing on the stage singing that song…” he scratched his head as he sought for the lyrics. Presently he said:
“‘There is power in our voices all from a song’—there is a song that all those that survive Armageddon are going to sing: the victory song. Our voices will be powerful, alright.”
“Wow,” was all I could say. In my head, I was wondering if he was really being sincere, or if he was just flattering me.
“There is something that I feel I should tell you,” he said, with discernable heebie-jeebies.
“What’s that?” I asked curiously.
“You remind me of my mother.”
My heart raced upon hearing those words. I reminded him of his mother? When a guy told you such words, it only meant one thing—
“Why are you telling me that?” I bravely asked, looking him straight in the eyes.
“Because I don’t have long to live!” he laughed. “So I should tell you before I pass on. You definitely remind me of my mother. You have a soft and motherly disposition which I find very…nice…”
“What do you mean you don’t have long to live?”
“I am dying soon…” he said in a matter-of-fact way that made my hair stand on end.
“Frank, what are you talking about?”
“Remember I said I want to be different?”
“Yeah…”
“There is this girl I love: she told me she wants to be different too—you know, deviate from the path that most humans take, and pursue one that is unconventional and nearly eccentric. So I was like: ‘this girl and I can really work well together as a couple’. But then she recently dumped me—told me I was all wrong. So she’s gone with a large chunk of my heart. How long can a person live with only a little bit of heart?”
I had a great urge to laugh, but I thought it would be very mean. Trying to sound as sympathetic as possible, I said:
“That’s very sad—she broke your heart.”
“Not really. I think she was right: I am all wrong, and I did not deserve her. But I loved her so much—I still do—that when she left, she left with a good amount of my heart.”
“Frank!” I exclaimed in surprise. “Remember I have always said that whoever marries you will be very lucky? That girl does not know what a loser she is…”
He chuckled. “Maybe so…but it is very understandable that not everyone thinks so…”
“I understand,” I said, biting my lip when I recalled my own failed romance. “It’s part of life. But please: don’t say you are going to die. You will find someone else soon.”
“It’s not that easy,” he said glumly. “When you love someone, and they leave, it’s as good as dying.”
“I know,” I said nodding my head.
He suddenly grinned. He did not look half like someone who was just recovering from a broken heart. He said:
“You know, if I were to die, and if God were to raise me in the resurrection, I would be very happy to see you there—welcoming me...”
“I will be there,” I said firmly.
“You promise?”
“Yeah…” I raised my brows in bewilderment, wondering how in my sane mind I could make such a promise.
“Good—then continue with your study of the bible.”
I winced. “Okay…”
In this way we talked, and before long, an hour passed. Eventually, he got up to leave. Before we parted that day, his last words were:
“It’s been wonderful—meeting you after so long a time…I just hope that the next time we meet, you will be my spiritual sister.”
“I thought I already am,” I said in protest.
He just chuckled.

Two days later, I was preparing to go for an afternoon lecture when my friend Patience burst into the room with a wild expression on her face.
“Nasilele!” she squealed breathlessly. “Have you heard the news?”
“Whoa!” I exclaimed. “Calm down…We are having a test right?”
“No…” she hissed. “It’s about Frank...”
“What about him?” I asked, my heart nearly halting to a stop.
“He’s dead!” she cried. “He died yesterday!”
“No!” I spontaneously backed away, reeling with shock and disbelief.
“It’s true!” she was shuddering all over.
“God no!” I threw my hand to my mouth as the tears poured out of my eyes. I flopped onto my bed. A dreadful noise was raging in my head as I recalled the conversation I had had with him two days ago. I remembered the words he had uttered:
“I don’t have long to live… How long can a person live with only a little bit of heart?”
I watched my friend, who had broken down and sprawled on the other bed, through a flood of tears. I shook my head in disbelief. I slowly got up, walked over to her and hugged her tight. We cried like babies on each other’s shoulders.
“I can’t believe he’s gone,” Patience blubbered.
“Neither can I,” I sobbed, my voice chocked with emotion. “I made him a promise…and I have to fulfill it…”
Short, kinky haired, stubby nosed, lean, girl faced—that is how I said I remember Frank? Not really. I remember him as the boy who wanted to be different. Yes, indeed, in his own way he was different.
It’s hard to believe that he is really gone. I often imagine that he is out there, writing stories…pushing away that pen with relentless enthusiasm…Maybe he still is…
Yes, he was different. At school, he was different. At church, he was different. At writing, he was different. Indeed, at everything he was different. And each time I remember him, I smile, because I know I will see him again.

Remembering Frank
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