New Daughters of Africa

by Margaret Busby

  —Pura Belpré, the visitor responded, and at the Director’s gesture accepted an invitation to take a seat.

  —Mrs Belpré, I am the director of this Public Library, Lindsay Adams. I was waiting for another person, perhaps my secretary was confused. What can I help you with?

  —I came to—

  —The places for maintenance employees have been filled, the director interrupted. If you leave your paperwork, I will gladly refer it to the person in charge.

  —Mrs Adams, I came to interview for the position of foreign assistant in the library’s children’s room.

  —I understand. What we are really looking for is a person who speaks Spanish. Are you qualified?

  —Of course, she said very confidently.

  —I believe your resume and recommendations are right here—after searching her desk and finding them, she examined them at great length.—Apparently there was a mistake, excuse me. Are you from Cidra, Puerto Rico?

  —That is correct, and I know how to speak Spanish perfectly—she stopped speaking in English and continued the conversation in Spanish.

  “Vine los Estados Unidos cuando era adolescente . . .”

  —I am sorry, I do not know how to speak Spanish—she stopped her immediately.

  —I was saying that I came when I was a teenager—she said, returning to English quite naturally—By then, I had studied at the Central Superior School in Santurce, Puerto Rico, and I started my university studies on the island. I came to the United States for my older sister’s wedding, and I have not yet returned. I am interested in working at this library.

  —Your academic record and credentials are favorable. I must consult with the Board of Directors and the Office of Personnel before giving you an answer. I must also interview other people.

  —When can I find out if I have been chosen?

  —We will call you; we have your information and we will let you know as soon as a decision has been made. Thank you very much and good afternoon.

  —Good afternoon.

  After waiting around a month, Pura Belpré was chosen to occupy the position at the New York Public Library. She was the first Puerto Rican to obtain this position. Eventually, she became director and was in charge of the Children’s Room.

  January 6th, 1935:

  —I think you are wasting your time. So many years studying to become a librarian and you dedicate yourself to reading children’s stories. If Mrs Gould Davis, who insisted so much on your learning, knew what you were doing she would be so disappointed!

  —I like narration and children’s stories. In Puerto Rico, there is a great storytelling oral tradition.

  —Children need to read, that is why they come to the library, which is why the books are stored in the room right next to them. You manage the library, take advantage of that and teach them to appreciate books.

  —I will do it. Do you know what? I just finished writing a story based on the folk tales of “Martina, the little roach” and “Perez, the mouse”. My story is called “Perez and Martina”.

  —Your thoughts always surprise me. Perhaps that is why they confused you with a maintenance employee, Barbara reminded her.

  —They will like it, you will see.

  —Excuse me, Director Belpré—interrupted her foreign assistant.

  —Tell me, she said, turning towards the door.

  —The children do not fit in the hall.

  —Well then, remove the chairs and fit them in on the floor. Thus, we will have more space. Today is the celebration of the Day of Epiphany, and that is why there is so much commotion.

  —Every time more and more children come.

  —I know, I know, but it is the only way to read them the stories and tales of Puerto Rico. Their parents are Puerto Rican, do not forget it, and their first language is Spanish—

  —Respectfully, Madam, are you going to continue using that cockroach and that mouse to entertain the children? Don’t you think that they are somewhat disagreeable animals, unhygienic and rather battered?

  —Mildred, I have used them as a narrating source for many years. Do not forget, the cockroach is “Martina” and that the mouse is “Perez”. It works. You yourself affirm that more and more kids come each time. Are you forgetting how beloved is Mickey Mouse from Disney, even by adults?

  —But this is a public library and not an amusement park.

  —The mice are very agile and the cockroaches survive. The symbolism is important for those developing minds.

  —Their countenances are so ugly. How can you hold them without feeling disgust? They are quite deteriorated.

  —The children like them. They stay focused, entertained, and that is the important thing.

  —I do not understand your education method.

  —Come, let’s go, I hear the voices of the little ones. Are there enough candies? We must be ready. Can you bring me Martina and Perez?

  —I do not want to touch them, you will pardon me, but I cannot. They disgust me. Mrs Belpré, you always request the same thing and my answer continues to be the same: NO.

  —It is ok. I cannot believe how scared you are of a couple of puppets.

  Yvvette Edwards

  A British East Londoner of Montserratian origin, she is the author of two novels—A Cupboard Full of Coats (2011) and The Mother (2016)—as well as having written a number of short stories published in anthologies and dramatised on radio. Her work has been nominated for many literary awards in the UK and USA, including NAACP Image Awards, the Commonwealth Writers’ Prize, the Man Booker Prize, the International IMPAC Dublin Literary Award and the Hurston-Wright Legacy Award. She was a judge for the inaugural Jhalak Prize for Writers of Colour and mentors emerging writers for the National Centre for Writing. She has described her hobbies as including “reading, writing and pursuit of the perfect carrot cake”.

  Security

  Merle noticed the security guard the moment she stepped through the entrance of Penny World: a tall, heavy-set white man, mid-forties, who had positioned himself on top of a barstool at the front of the store to have an unobstructed view of customers entering; and she knew he’d clocked her, because he stood up straightaway, trying to make the action seem natural by generally surveying the store, as if that had been his intention all along, and it surprised her, the anger she felt—hot and rapid, erupting inside her chest like a volcano come to life—surprised her at a time when she was upset with so many other things, proper problems with longevity attached, that this incident, when she’d just popped out to pick up some Sure deodorant and a roll of clingfilm, was the blow that finally swept her over the edge.

  Her flight was tomorrow morning at 11 and arrangements had been made to pick her up at 5 a.m. so she didn’t miss it. She’d bought the suitcase last week, had to, because the only one she’d ever owned was the one she’d brought with her when she made the six-week boat journey from Jamaica to England in June 1964, which had for years been reclining on top of her wardrobe, the metal handle broken, clasps defunct, reduced in status to a storage container, nothing more. She’d not been back to Jamaica since arriving here, had never gone on holiday abroad, never had need of a passport, and here she was, at the age of seventy-eight, making the journey back with a suitcase from Cheap Cheaper Cheapest that had a zip that kept catching when she tried to close it, and brittle wheels that clattered noisily behind her, after she’d paid for it and hauled the brand-new empty thing home.

  She’d packed—probably overpacked—it, and it sat open on her bed, just waiting for the Sure deodorant to be put inside. Once she’d done that and wrestled again with the dodgy zip, the clingfilm would be wrapped around the suitcase to give her the greatest chance of making it to Kingston, on this, her first journey back, with her dignity and its contents intact.

  The security guard wore a dark clean-pressed uniform and a flat black army cap pulled so low on his head, it almost touched the thin-rimmed frame of his large mirrored glasses, and he had the restless air of the American
coppers Merle had seen in Hollywood action movies, lounging on the bonnet of a police car, impatient to use their gun. Ordinarily, she would’ve picked up a basket to put her goods in as she walked around, held the basket high and visible, would’ve kept it on the opposite side of her body to her handbag, in the hope of conveying the fact that she was an honest person who’d never shoplifted a thing in her life; but today her anger prevented her doing that. A voice in her head whispered a sentence she was too polite to dream of saying aloud, but it so perfectly synchronised with her mood, she nearly smiled: Let him kiss out me backside.

  She knew the deodorants were shelved on Aisle 4, and the clingfilm on Aisle 5. The most direct route was to cut across the front corridor between the tills and the aisles, but she decided against that. Instead, she began walking the length of Aisle 1, stopping in front of shelves filled with nuts and dried fruit, stealing furtive glances upwards in the direction of the store camera fixed to the ceiling, in a manner she hoped looked very suspicious. She picked up some pistachios, examined the package, turning it over as though reading the information on the back, even though what was written there was in another language. She didn’t check in the direction she had just come, didn’t need to, because she knew the security guard had followed her. She felt him the same way she had felt him watching and following her around on previous visits. She peered up again at the camera, then away, put the packet back on the shelf, and carried on walking.

  Seventy-eight years of age, and with the neat and tidy way she always dressed and carried herself, were she a stranger trying to work out what kind of person she might be, the word that would have come to mind is church. Despite this, in the fifty-four years she’d been living in England and spending her money in shops with security guards, she’d regularly been followed around like a thief.

  Forty-one of those fifty-four years she’d worked as a care assistant in homes for the elderly, spoon-feeding geriatrics, dressing and undressing them, giving herself back problems that plagued her to this day, from lifting them in and out of bed and bath, on and off seats, toilets, floors; cleaning their dirty behinds and infronts, their soiled bedding, while acting like it was just sticks and stones to have them tell her they didn’t want her black hands touching them, their food, their cutlery and medicine cups. She’d been watched with suspicion by those same people she’d looked after, watched as she mopped up all manner of nastiness, as if the only reason she dressed in the uniform her employers issued, wearing gloves and carrying a mop and bucket, was to rob them of the little shekels in purses and wallets they hid under mattresses and at the back of their drawers. And had she harboured any grudges against them? Nope. She had not. After all that, she’d still given them kind words on Mother’s Day and birthdays and Christmas, when no family or children or friends from old times arrived to share their special day; doled out comfort in their isolation, smiles to stony faces, and fellowship in their final hours when they would otherwise have been alone.

  Merle dawdled as she approached the end of the aisle, handling products she had no intention of buying, touching everything she felt like, without a backward glance. Then, as she rounded the corner, out of the security guard’s sight, she began marching briskly, nearly but not quite running, careful not to slip or trip and mash up her seventy-eightyear-old body, hurrying only as fast as she could manage safely, because if she injured herself, they’d probably say she’d done it on purpose to avoid the flight, and God alone knew whether after all the years of paying National Insurance contributions from her wages, she’d be entitled to treatment from the National Health Service. She scurried determinedly down Aisle 2 and around the corner so she was back in Aisle 1, continued swiftly along it, then for the second time rounded the top, slowing only when she spotted the security guard a few feet ahead, facing away from her, body alert, his head pinging back and forth like a meerkat, no doubt wondering where the old lady had vanished. She stopped immediately behind him, and as he turned around in confusion, Merle picked up a column of fifty disposable cups and stared at it, trying to calm her breathing, while joyfully basking in the vibe of his astonishment at discovering the woman he’d been following was now behind him.

  Coming to England had cost Merle her son. She hadn’t realised she was trading motherhood for the Motherland. George was only eight when she’d left him in the care of Uncle Backfoot, travelled on a ticket she’d begged and borrowed to pay for—then had to pay back—with no job or place to live, just the knowledge she was welcome and would have opportunities, the chance to make something of herself, earn a decent living, provide a future for George; security, hope. It was supposed to be for a couple of years, just long enough to save up, return home, and build a little house for them both, with a small store or rum shop or cooked food served out front. But she’d underestimated how hard it would be, how long it would take just to get her oneself on her feet, never realised till she arrived here, in her scanty island dress and thin jacket, that no provision had been made for them, that she’d be subjected to so much resentment, at job interviews, in council offices, on the doorsteps of houses with rooms to rent. She had moved home so frequently, it took nine years to fulfil the five-year residency requirement to apply for local council help with housing; and by then George had grown up without her, and full of resentment. They hadn’t spoken in years. He lived in the States with grandkids she’d never seen.

  As the security guard began walking away, Merle put the disposable cups back on the shelf and followed. She knew he knew he was being followed; she could see the strip of neckback between his hat and his jacket collar getting redder with every step. When he paused for a moment, probably hoping she’d continue past him, she stopped too, picking up a tea towel that unfurled as she held it to reveal an image of the Houses of Parliament printed on cheap cloth. At the periphery of her field of vision, she saw the security guard turn towards her as if about to speak, but he said nothing, just spun on his heels and started walking again, and she did too. He went right at the bottom, towards Aisle 3, and she tailed him, coming to an abrupt halt as she almost collided with his stationary body waiting around the corner. He was almost two feet taller than she was. Merle glared up at him and saw herself reflected in his mirrored glasses as he stared back.

  She said, “It doesn’t feel very nice, does it?”

  The security guard’s voice was deep, bassy, tinged with a strong accent that Merle couldn’t narrow down further than Eastern European. He said, “My job, stop steal.”

  The fact of his accent broke her; she didn’t know why. It made no difference to what had happened, to this latest affront. Was it because despite being new to the country, he’d been endowed with the authority to treat her like a criminal? Did she feel because he wasn’t British, he didn’t have the right? Or because until he opened his mouth he’d been able to pass, to silently position himself within the system like a native, whereas fifty-four years on, she was still being made to feel like a foreigner? Now a foreigner officially.

  She said, “Well you won’t have to worry about this woman stealing ever again. You’ll be happy to know, I’m being deported.” She thrust the tea towel she was still holding into his hand. She stepped around him and walked directly to Aisle 4, fiercely concentrating as she willed herself not to fall apart. She was confident there’d be plenty of deodorant in Jamaica, just not that they’d have Sure, her brand of choice. She picked up four of the roll-ons, remembered how hot Jamaica was, then took two more. The eruption in her chest was relocating to her head, which throbbed now, but she knew would soon begin to pound. She made her way to Aisle 5 to find the clingfilm.

  At the till, after she had paid for her items and packed them in the carrier bag she’d brought along, she noticed the security guard was sitting on his barstool again, and realised she’d have to pass him on her way to the exit. She’d decided to just ignore him, but as she approached his perch, he gave her a smile and she was unable to interpret what it was meant to convey. Solidarity? Pity? Gle
e?

  Her pace slowed, but she did not stop. Reflected in his glasses she saw a proud old lady, head held high. Her voice was steady as she spoke: “It’s me today, but tomorrow, they’ll be back for you.”

  Zena Edwards

  Born in London, she has been a multidisciplinary collaborative poet for more than 20 years as a writer/poet, performer, educator and creative project developer since graduating in Drama, Media and Communications Studies from Middlesex University and studying at the London School of International Performance Art. Her practice and passion is writing poems, articles and blogs for social and environmental issues, race and power, and also mentoring young and emerging artists. She is the Creative and Education Director for Verse in Dialogue (©ViD), an umbrella social enterprise that produces projects focused on live literature, creative inter-generational community engagement and wellbeing, transformational learning and liberatory practice.

  In A Walthamstow Old People’s Home

  They keep showing up out of the blue

  Fuzzy edged figures shaped like ghosts of memories

  your eyes are still 20/20, even at 96, sharp, bright brown,

  Now rimmed with pale blue yesteryears

  your curdled dreams, clouded in 1950s sepia dementia, so

  you have to keep asking the same question, “What’ your name again?”

  In amongst the others you sit

  a young old man, native Nevis citizen, England bound

  a tailor’s profession proudly tucked under your arm

  like a broadsheet—perfect and important like folded wings—

  Hawk hunting a new life under the protection of a Motherland

  beckoning

  you fledgling, sure of the uncertainty