New Daughters of Africa

by Margaret Busby

  We lived in Torpoint, a nondescript town on the other side of the river from Devonport Dockyard in Plymouth. Plymouth was in Devon, which might as well have been a foreign land. Torpoint was solidly Cornish, with only me and a few other kids betraying roots of far-away places—Mercedez from Cyprus, Ted and Mary from Ireland and Mark and Sofia, whose dad came from Malta. Mark had black hair and olive skin and like me was described as a “darkie”. As a small kid, I was aware of being different but this did not unduly preoccupy me. My mother was able to provide all the security and love I needed and I thrived in the fresh sea air and rolling green countryside.

  When I was around twelve, though, it seemed as though a cloud suddenly descended on my world. I had a feeling that adults were looking at me strangely out of the corner of their eye, or giving each other knowing looks about me. I felt uncomfortable and afraid, but when I told my mother she told me not to be silly. I knew she didn’t understand. A spate of Keep Britain White slogans around the town filled me with more dread.

  There were two other black kids in the school in higher years who came from surrounding villages. But I can’t remember saying a single word to either of them or vice versa. It’s as if we instinctively knew that any coming together would have been viewed negatively.

  I was clever and good at sport, so people looked up to me. But I was always on my guard, ready to deflect remarks about coons and the like—“Oh, we don’t mean you, Angy.” If teachers were aware of the difficulties I was experiencing they didn’t show it. Once, during a dance and movement class when I kept being out of step with the rest, the PE mistress bellowed: “What’s the matter with you, Angela? You people are meant to have such rhythm!”

  So I muddled through, taking pleasure in being near the top of the class and breaking athletics records. But I was on the outside looking in, tiptoeing around in the shadows, trying not to draw attention to myself since my very presence got everyone’s heads turning. My friends fulfilled my need for companionship but the people I felt most comfortable around were those who also saw themselves as outsiders, like Hazel who was still hurting from having to give up her first child for adoption.

  When I was sixteen my periods suddenly stopped, as if the constant assaults on my psyche had disrupted my physical balance. I didn’t tell my mother, who now felt like a stranger to me. It was the local library that proved to be my lifeline. Here I sought out books that could offer an explanation for my predicament. I read George Orwell’s Coming Up for Air several times, finding common ground with its middle-aged protagonist’s disillusionment and loss of innocence. I avidly read anything about human psychology. Eric Berne’s Games People Play was another favourite. Over time, I came to the conclusion that there was nothing wrong with me, but a lot wrong with “them”. They were not only mean-minded and emotionally dishonest but also plain stupid. Armed with this knowledge, I became rude and difficult in sixth form, making no effort to fit in except with a little band of rebels who played truant and listened to Leonard Cohen. That year my form teacher wrote in my report that I needed psychiatric help. What a fool, I thought as I tossed the report in the bin to save upsetting my mum.

  The library was running out of books for me, so I began visiting the big one in Plymouth. Not being a member, I couldn’t borrow books so would spend hours reading them there and then. One day, I spied a black man at one of the study tables, writing in a very concentrated fashion. I cast aside my usual shyness and approached him. He seemed pleased to see me too, set aside his fountain pen and shook my hand, introducing himself as Prince. As it seemed obvious we had a lot to talk about and people had begun to frown in our direction, he suggested we go to a nearby café. His suit looked a bit threadbare but he walked with a dignified air, briefcase in hand. He was about thirty yet described himself as a student, saying he was writing a book. “It’s all in here,” he said, taking several exercise books of neatly written script from his case to show me. As to the book’s subject, I was unclear, but it contained his views on philosophy and life in general. “I believe I am ahead of time,” he declared.

  Prince certainly sounded erudite, enunciating his words carefully as they tumbled forth. He talked as if addressing a large crowd. But he was genuinely interested to hear all about me too, his ears pricking up when I told him my father was from Ghana.

  “The first African country to shake off the colonial yoke,” he exclaimed. “We prefer self-government in danger, to servitude in tranquillity—thus spoke the late great Kwame Nkrumah,” he added with a flourish. “You have great antecedents.” And he proceeded to give me a history lesson: “The white man came to Africa with a Bible in one hand and a gun in the other. They made us pray, and by the time we opened our eyes they’d taken our land. We should have known better, my child, because long before that they had used the gun to enslave us.”

  What part of Africa did he come from? I asked.

  “I come from St Lucia, indisputably the most beautiful island in the Caribbean; my forefathers came from the Motherland before being taken away in captivity.” In an attempt to erase their guilt, white people spread the lie that black people were inferior, he stated. “But they are always looking over their shoulder, afraid that we will rise up and punish them. So they always want to put us in our place. My book touches on all these things, which is why it probably won’t ever be published,” he added darkly.

  The last bit of the puzzle was falling into place, I thought excitedly. Of course, I knew the colour of my skin was central to my predicament but now I realised it was part of a much bigger picture. I was eager to find out more.

  We met up at the library the following week, once again falling into a deep conversation until Prince suddenly got up saying, “Now, Angela, you must come home and meet my wife.”

  He lived on one of Plymouth’s most notorious estates and his flat was pokey and cluttered. His wife was sitting at the table beneath the dim light of a forty-watt bulb, the two forlorn-looking toddlers beside her completing a miserable tableau.

  Melsa came to life when she saw me, giving me a broad smile, saying Prince had told her all about me. “Now we mus’ feed you up with some good soul food,” she said, going into the kitchen.

  Later, during a meal of chicken and rice, she advised me to move to London when I finished my A-levels. “You need to be among you own people. There’s nothing for you here. Look at we,” she gestured at the flat.

  I couldn’t help feeling that Prince himself may have contributed to his family’s plight since he seemed to spend most of his time in the library.

  The next time I was with Prince we were making our way to Torpoint. At our last goodbye he had announced he wanted to meet my mother, who was now waiting for us with a meal of Hungarian-style fried chicken and home-made noodles. I’ve no idea what she thought as she welcomed my much older friend into her home and, looking back, I am amazed at her open-mindedness. But the evening proved a great success. Prince was particularly charming, congratulating her on doing such a fine job of bringing me up and listening sympathetically to the story of my father’s disappearance.

  “Your mother’s a fine woman,” he said, as I took him back to the ferry. “The Magyars have always been real fighters. Make sure you look after her when you grow up; don’t do like these English kids.”

  A couple of weeks later I received a letter from him in his neat, even handwriting saying that he and the family had had to suddenly move back to London, though he didn’t explain why. Melsa and the boys sent their love. I never heard from Prince again but did not feel sad. I regarded him as a good fairy who vanished once he’d accomplished his mission. My periods had resumed and I felt a lot happier.

  Then came a school trip to London to see Carmen at the Coliseum. As soon as I got off the train at Paddington, black people seemed to be everywhere, smiling at me, winking at me; one even tried to chat me up, much to the amusement of my mates. I was in heaven.

  Within a year I was boarding the train to London again and soon it w
ould be a hop, skip and jump to Ghana, where I would go in search of Jimmy. It was to be quite an adventure.

  Carolyn Cooper

  Born in Kingston, Jamaica, she is a literary scholar and author who studied in Jamaica and Canada. A Professor of Literary and Cultural Studies, she was instrumental in establishing the Reggae Studies Unit at the University of the West Indies and founded the annual Bob Marley Lecture. She is the author of books including Noises in the Blood: Orality, Gender and the “Vulgar” Body of Jamaican Popular Culture (1993) and Sound Clash: Jamaican Dancehall Culture at Large (2004). She writes a weekly column for the Sunday Gleaner and is a consultant on culture and development, as well as having been a broadcaster and host of television programmes. In 2013 she was awarded the Jamaican national honour of the Order of Distinction in the rank of Commander “for outstanding contribution to Education”.

  Finding Romance Online in 2018

  On the very first day of the new year, I signed up for membership on the Singles Club 876 website. I’d read about Everton Tate’s clever idea in last Sunday’s Gleaner. Mr Tate’s smiling baby-face promised honesty, if not expertise. Looks can be very deceiving on the world-wide Anansi web.

  I’ve taken a very old-fashioned approach to this business of romance: waiting for Mr Right Now to just show up. But I have concerned friends who’ve decided that I must help him to find me.

  A year ago, one of them gave me a crisp US$20 bill to register on Match.com. I know you usually get what you pay for. And I really didn’t think I needed a man I could get at that cut-rate price. An executive search was more my style. I thanked my friend for her gift but told her I wasn’t going to use it as intended.

  Managing Powerful Women

  Another friend decided to take matters into her own hands. She got in touch with a man she thought would be ideal for me and asked if he would consider inviting me on a date. She was so distressed when he told her he couldn’t “manage dem powerful woman”. And he’s a magistrate!

  To be fair to him, I don’t think he meant “manage” in the literal sense of the word, as in this dictionary definition: “be in charge of, run, be head of, head, direct, control, preside over, lead, govern, rule, command, superintend, supervise, oversee, administer, organise, conduct, handle, take forward, guide, be at the helm of.”

  I suspect that the magistrate meant something more complex. It wasn’t so much that he felt inadequate at management. It was more a self-protective suspicion that he, himself, might be subjected to management. Forced to negotiate the terms of the relationship! So-called powerful women have a mind of our own. And we expect to be able to use it even in romance.

  What I think the magistrate meant by “manage” is “cope with”. Having to take into account the needs and desires of a powerful woman! This is, in fact, the very opposite of being in charge of. Of course, “managing” a certain kind of woman can be both quite challenging and rewarding. But some men will never find out.

  Seemingly Self-Confident Man

  Without the help of my concerned friends, I began “talking” to a seemingly self-confident Jamaican man who is a professor at a brand-name US university. The conversation didn’t last very long. He soon told me, in all seriousness, that he was shocked to discover that a relative of his, who lives in rural Jamaica, knew about me. And he didn’t want to be with a woman in the public eye.

  The professor could have come up with a better excuse. In the age of the Internet and cell phone, connectivity across all media is the norm. And there are no communication barriers between town and country. In 1993, Desmond Allen, founding editor of The Observer, asked me to write a weekly column. He promised to make me a household name. It was actually a threat. Look how him mash up mi love life!

  Seriously though, far less accomplished men than the magistrate and the professor have no reservations at all about managing powerful women. What I admire about the typical Jamaican man is his absolute confidence in his masculinity. From yu name man, yu can get any woman! They really believe it.

  There’s a nice young man at Hellshire Beach who always greets me affectionately. I make a point of calling him “Son”. You think that would deter him? Not at all! He recently told me, “Miss Cooper, no bodder wid di ‘Son’ business. We a go get married next year.” Another young man told me with great self-assurance that I wouldn’t have to worry about going out with him to social events. As he put it, “Me know when fi keep my mouth shut.”

  Staying Focused

  According to the Gleaner report, the registration fee for Singles Club 876 is US$25–35. That’s not much more than for Match.com. But I’ve now conceded that cost and value are not always identical. When I went to register, I was a little concerned about a couple of punctuation errors:

  The Singles Club 876’s sophisticated, we pride ourselves in providing the most exclusive singles-orientated Dating services for establishing long-term, committed relationships.

  I reminded myself to stay focused and not get distracted by minor details of style: a bright apostrophe mark pretending to be half of a verb and an out-of-order comma taking the place of a full stop. In matters of the heart, it’s character that counts; not punctuation skills.

  I signed up and immediately got an email with this subject heading: “We have received your response for Club Membership Registration Form.” I considered offering to help Mr Tate with copyediting. But mi catch up miself. No corrections; just romance! I’m waiting for the vetting process to be completed. I hope to be matched with a sensible man. No fool-fool magistrates or professors!

  Patricia Cumper

  Born in Jamaica, she studied Archaeology and Anthropology at Cambridge University. Returning home after graduation, she became an award-winning playwright with work produced throughout the Caribbean, in the US and Canada. Back in England in the 1990s, she worked for the UK’s largest Black-led theatre company, Talawa, as writer, script reader, tutor, director and dramaturge, and artistic director from 2006 to 2012. She has won awards for her work in radio drama with the BBC, for both original series and adaptations of the work of others (including Andrea Levy, Alice Walker, Zora Neale Hurston and Toni Morrison). She is the author of a novel, One Bright Child (1998). Her recent play Chigger Foot Boys, about black soldiers in the First World War, was performed in London in 2017. She is a Fellow of the Royal Society of the Arts, a trustee of the British Museum, and in 2013 was awarded an MBE for services to Black British Theatre.

  Just So Much a Body Can Take

  A short film

  INTERIOR. EVENING. THE HALLWAY OF ETHEL’S HOUSE

  Ethel Gordon stands in the hallway of her small house, the phone cradled between her shoulder and her ear, as she carefully dries her hands on a dish towel. The living room, which we can see over her shoulder is a little untidy, but not remarkably so. It is too early to turn on the lights, just about that time when shadows are beginning to fall.

  ETHEL: . . . so how long you think you going to be? Das right. You remember di address? You write it down? . . . Good, good, I waiting on you.

  She hangs up the phone, then looks at a small cut on her hand. She presses the dish towel over the cut and when she looks at it again, it has stopped bleeding. She begins to walk determinedly up the stairs, dishcloth over her shoulder, her age showing in her steps.

  ETHEL: Wonder what dis ole house going to do withouten me fi haunt it? So much years a life live in dis one said place, so much years a drawing breath: never t’ought I would leave it dis way, but what to do, eeh? What to do.

  She passes a sepia-coloured picture of herself and her husband on her wedding day at the top of the stairs and touches it gently as she stops to look at it and catch her breath a little.

  ETHEL: Twenty-four-inch waist. You used to be so proud a mi twenty-four-inch waist, eeh, Donville? Used to take you hand and span it mek all you friends see how mi shape nice. Say dat mi pretty like money, pretty like money.

  She goes into her bedroom. The bedspread is chenille, the dresser genero
usly spread with hand-crocheted and starched doilies. She takes a brown, hard-shelled suitcase down from the top of the wardrobe and lays it on the bed, opening it. In it she finds a yellowed page of a newspaper at least twenty years old. It is folded to reveal an ad for cheap flights back to Jamaica. She crumples it up and throws it on the floor.

  ETHEL: ’Bout we going to go back home. Always talking ’bout how we going to go back home. Build a likkle house fi wiself pon di half acre you inherit from you uncle.

  Build wah, eeh Donville? (kisses her teeth) Build wah?

  (sings a revival hymn as she packs)

  Mother, the great stone got to move,

  Mother, the great stone got to move.

  Mother, the great stone, the stone of Babylon,

  Mother, the great stone got to move.

  As she sings, she begins to pack the suitcase. Her hands work with the expertise of years, folding precisely, piling neatly. She is not taking a great deal with her and she soon finishes packing. She looks around the room.

  ETHEL: And I don’t even know if I am sad to be going. England is mi home still, but mi navel string never bury in dis country. Sometimes mi skin so hungry fi di sunlight even after forty, fifty years, it feel like it a go mad me . . . The great stone got to move . . .