The Big Read - Time: A country with no tree

Here's a story I've never told before, and I'm not sure they'll let me tell it now in uncensored form, but it's worth a try.

Some years ago I wrote a short story that was short-listed for the Caine Prize for African Writing. I was flown to London for the prize-giving and a week of festivities including a weird tour of the House of Lords and public readings at the South Bank Centre and in the lecture room of a Piccadilly club.

I was confident about the passage I'd selected to read: it was snappy and had laugh lines and ended on a note of suspense. But as I stood to offer this tender delight to my Piccadilly audience, my eyes fell upon the second row. Two ancient English women perched there, beaky and birdlike with sturdy shoes, and if they weren't wearing hats they gave the impression of being ladies to whom the hat was not unfamiliar.

They reminded me in various ways of my ancient grandmother and her ancient friend Mary, and I remembered with a hot lurch that my reading included a swear word. It wasn't just any swear word, it was a four-letter word, the noun they don't like in America but that's so popular in Scotland they turn it into an adjective and a verb.

My head raced as I started the reading. I couldn't say that word in front of these sweet old dears, could I? What kind of monster was I, a mouthy kid thinking he's smart, ruining the night out of a couple of sweet old ducks just looking for a little elevation in their Saturday evening?

Adulthood is odd: you spend years defiantly becoming someone who does what they like, then suddenly you're writhing mortified like a 12-year-old because this isn't how your mother raised you.

As I read, I frantically searched for a solution. What word could I substitute? None, really. I don't swear in print for the sake of swearing: there was no other word that could fit there. It needed to be short and plosive and a little startling; it couldn't be anything else.

I sort of went through with it, sort of chickened out. I said the word but my voice involuntarily lowered and slurred. The word has three consonants, all equally pronounced and important, but somehow they came out as though they were only one and a half. My cheeks burnt. Did I somehow get away with it? In the silence afterwards, one of the old ducks turned to the other.

"What was that last word he said?" she bellowed, loud enough for passengers in passing buses to hear.

"I believe," the other bellowed placidly, "he said 'cunt'."

This week I started receiving e-mails and Facebook messages from young strangers, all mysteriously wanting to discuss that story. "Dear sir," said my first correspondent, "I am currently reading A Joburg Story."

Oh! I thought. How nice! A small part of me living on in the world, offering some solace against the depredations of life and time! Oh art, you lingering languorous mistress!

"Could you tell me," she went on, "what your main theme and sub-theme are, and say a few words about them??"

Most peculiar. Then I received another.

"Heyy! I'd like your input on how the portrayal of Joburg is developed through the conflict the character grapples with in the story. Would you say that it changes from a social space to one of constant doubt and fear? Or that perceptions of places are often misleading?"

I began to understand: somewhere out there in the teeming wilds of Wits University, someone had set my story as an essay topic, and these enterprising young cheats were trying to score some primo answers on the side.

I considered a variety of replies about the nature of certainty or the danger of thinking that an author knows any more about his work than you do, but I found myself sententiously replying with words of advice that aged me even more: about the folly of adopting too casual a register when approaching a stranger who is not your contemporary or indeed your pal; about how "hey" is not spelt with two ys and wouldn't win me over even had it been spelt correctly; about how using two question marks doesn't make your question seem more compelling or urgent, but rather impudent and un-proofread; about the importance of language and knowing your audience.

I pressed send and thought about that foolish young man standing in front of that audience, unsure whether he was a grown-up or a kid. I thought about those two ancient ladies and whether they're dead now and whether I have taken their place. I thought about time and the fools it makes of us all.