New Daughters of Africa

by Margaret Busby

  The one kid, chubby and shy, looked unsure about swimming. The Asian-looking one sized up the pool like she’s got an appetite for it; like the pool’s a man, a nice-sized man that’s gonna make her feel her muscles, make her heart beat faster. When I was young I used to look at men that way, like I could give them a run around the block too.

  The fat one squawked, surprised—the pool is heated. See? We don’t live in trees. I ignored them carefully, diving in to start my routine 1km. No need to give them special attention. Let them have a story to tell.

  After the swim I came out the shower as they entered the women’s bathrooms. Yes, naked you know. From the shower. My mother used to look down on middle-aged women, telling me “Never let yourself go, sweetie.” My round belly, momentous thighs, breasts still perky but less so than before confronted, they shrank into their young skins. I turned around slowly, turning the portrait to landscape, with texture.

  They scuttled into the superintendent’s room. Maybe I could have made them feel safe, disarmed them with smooth welcoming words, interpret this strange encounter for them and help us surf home on a wave of cheerios. But I didn’t wanna. I wanted to be weird. I dried myself carefully, took my time to dress.

  They were quieter as I swung my leg over the bike, I got a glimpse of them doing a selfie under that big fever tree by the entrance. An uber lurked nearby, waiting to gobble them up. As I blurred into the buzz of colour that is Troyeville, I wondered if they feel like they’re elsewhere, or if everywhere feels like home. If they even curious about the difference, or wash it away in our world-class showers.

  Heritage

  The first time I saw my father it was like the whole continent was walking towards me. It was like his skin unzipped, opened up to let me in, and for the first time,

  I was able to see my black skin as a badge of courage.

  (Original Skin. For the woman at Goethe Institut Accra, who wanted to know what that meant.)

  First, you never denied me, even after I had summoned you out

  of the blue yonder, father of three turned to father

  a stranger. At the small provincial airport your eyes found

  my shy, eager face, collected me with husband and son

  swept us in, made place at the table, gave us clothes, fed the baby

  his first solid food; took him from my breast and told him

  that is good, but there is also turkey. You gentled my memories out

  like handwashing underwear, a necessary task, without shame. You

  faced the people who had raised me, listened to the legend

  of my rage, gave

  thanks, especially to me for returning. Closed the

  broken fence. From you I learned being in black skin.

  Whole, unlike those dispossessed

  running from torment:

  of land, value, meaning

  I am white Coloured Cape Malay

  Griqua

  Other coloured

  a throwback your father slept with

  the maid an experiment

  Their children stolen. aboriginal doll.

  Abandoned

  not quite. she never said “if your

  father had

  been white”

  Now you, my child,

  get over it already you

  are different.

  Song

  River of my delight run on

  the glint of the sun on your curves

  scattering light in fragments feed us

  your smile in the morning

  the warmth of your hand in mine

  the secret in your velvet gaze

  tells me I am a treasure in your heart

  unique your voice curls around sounds

  names of all you love, dreams and memories

  things and people wonder and your voice

  beside me within me

  river of my delight run on

  beside me within me

  river of my delight run on

  never fear that you leave me behind

  for I will always find my way

  back to the river

  back to our meeting place.

  Kit de Waal

  Born in Birmingham to an Irish mother and Caribbean father, she worked for 15 years in criminal and family law, for Social Services and the Crown Prosecution Service. She is a founding member of Leather Lane Writers and Oxford Narrative Group and has won numerous awards for her short stories and flash fiction. She has written two novels. My Name Is Leon (2016), her debut novel, won the Kerry Group Irish Novel of the Year 2017 and was shortlisted for numerous other awards including the Costa First Book Award and the Desmond Elliott Prize. The Trick to Time, her second novel, was published in 2018 and was longlisted for the Women’s Prize for Fiction.

  From My Name Is Leon

  Right below the ball of his skull, right where his knuckly backbone pokes up towards his brain, Leon has a little dent. It’s a groove that dips in between two hard bits and Maureen made it.

  She must have made some kind of mark by now after six months of living with her. It’s where she pushes Leon with her thick fingers whenever he has to do something, to go somewhere, to pick something up, to watch what he’s doing. Go to bed. She never pushes him hard but it’s always, always the same place, same spot, right on his neck. Leon’s dad used to use funny words and he would have called that place his “neck-back” and then it would have been clear where it was. But Leon hasn’t seen his dad for such a long time that he’s nearly forgotten the things he used to say and the funny way he talked. Leon’s dad used to say “Kyarell” instead of “Carol” and say “soon come” every time he left the house. That’s when Leon’s mum used to get annoyed with him because he never came soon and he never came back when he said he would. And now she’s doing the same thing.

  Leon’s sitting back on the sofa with Jake asleep on his legs. Jake always gets hot and starts to sweat when he sleeps and beads of water on his forehead sparkle in the light from the telly. His curly blonde hair goes brown and two round pink spots appear on his creamy face.

  Leon likes to watch Jake breathing. Jake breathes through his tiny perfect nostrils and lets the air out either side of his dummy. Then just as the dummy is about to drop out, Jake, in his sleep, draws it back in, sucks on it three times and starts all over again. Breathe in. Breathe out. Catch the dummy. Suck three times. Breathe in. Breathe out.

  But sometimes, if Jake’s dreaming maybe, he mutters something or cries out and the dummy falls on to his sleep suit and Leon has to be there to catch it and plop it back in for the three sucks before Jake notices and wakes up. Because if Jake wakes up before he’s ready, nobody gets any peace. Least of all Leon because Jake always messes up Leon’s games and Maureen nearly always sides with Jake and that’s that.

  “Up you come, sweetheart.”

  Maureen carefully lifts the damp baby off Leon’s bare legs and as soon as she has Jake in the crook of her arm she pushes Leon towards the stairs. Pushes him in his neck-back. Leon realizes then that all his toys have been tidied away and the cushions have been rearranged while he and his brother have been sitting on the sofa.

  Someone is coming. Leon knows who it is. The air is different. And there have been phone calls. And Sally or whatever her name is has come and bounced Jake on her lap and said how precious he is and that he has to have a chance. Maybe Carol is coming back. Maybe she’s got better. And Sally has given Leon lots of sad smiles like he’s sick or like he’s fallen over and cut his knee. It’s not Pretend Sad either. And Maureen keeps shaking her head and saying it isn’t right. Maureen has been quiet for days and keeps looking at him and saying, “I don’t know, I honestly don’t. It’s a bad, bad world.”

  The air has been different since yesterday.

  “Upstairs with you, Leon, love. Upstairs and give that face a good going over and put a nice top on. Up you go. Quick as a flash. And wash your hands.”

  She fattens the cushions he’s been s
itting on and sits herself down in his spot, which is near the door where she can get up quickly and let the new social worker in. He watches her from the staircase snuggling her nose against Jake and he knows what she’s doing. She’s smelling the baby smell of him. The baby life of him. His perfection.

  Maureen’s broad back obliterates the whole of Jake and because she’s just washed her orange hair it runs like wet snakes down the skin on her freckled back. It’s hot in the house and Maureen’s wearing a pink denim dress with no sleeves and one huge pocket at the front like she’s a massive kangaroo. Leon comes down with a new face and a new top. He sits next to the social worker because every other social worker always says “Come and sit next to me” and this will save everyone the bother.

  “Remember me?” she says. “Salma? I came yesterday to talk about you and Jake. Remember, Leon?”

  It was only yesterday and since then nothing has been the same so of course Leon remembers her. She has the sad smile back on her face and also the look of fear. Maureen also has a different face. Leon knows that if the social worker wasn’t here, Maureen would have rung her sister and said, “Know what, Sylvia? They’ve pissed me right off again, they have. Social Services? Waste of bloody space, if you ask me.” But she never swears when the social workers are around. Neither does Leon.

  Then Salma starts talking while Maureen bounces Jake on her lap. Maureen keeps shaking her head like she would like to say no, no, no but she doesn’t say anything at all. Leon agrees with everything Salma says.

  “Jake is still a very young baby.”

  “Yes,” says Leon.

  “He needs to be in a family.”

  “Yes,” says Leon.

  “Lots of families are looking for babies.”

  “Yes,” says Leon.

  “You love Jake, don’t you, Leon?”

  “Yes.”

  “Everyone knows how much you love your little brother. Even though you look very different, you can see you’re brothers and that you love each other. Maureen’s always telling me how you let him play with your toys and he will only sleep on your lap and no one else’s. And that’s lovely.”

  Leon nods.

  “Wouldn’t you like Jake to be in a family with a mum and dad of his own?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s what we want as well. We want every child to have the best. You and Jake and all the other children who can’t be looked after by their first family.”

  Salma takes one of Leon’s hands out of his lap and he’s glad he remembered to clean them.

  “You’re not a little boy now, Leon. You’re nine. You’re nine years old and so tall that you look about eleven or twelve, don’t you? Yes. Or thirteen. A lot of people think you’re older than you are. And you’re very sensible as well. You had a long time looking after other people, didn’t you, and that made you grow up very fast. Oh, I know you still like your toys and your games, but still.”

  Salma looks at Leon’s hand and puts it back where it was. She then folds hers together and coughs. Leon sees her look at Jake. Then she looks at Maureen and he wonders if she’s asked a question because no one speaks for quite some time.

  So Leon says, “Yes.”

  “Leon, we’ve got a family that want to look after Jake. They want to be Jake’s new parents. Isn’t that good, Leon? Jake is going to have a new mummy and daddy.”

  “Yes.”

  “And soon, one day, a family will come along that will want you for their little boy.”

  Leon nods.

  “Do you understand, Leon? Jake is going to be adopted. That means he’s going to have a new forever family. But even though he won’t be living with you any more you will still be able to get letters from him and find out all about him.”

  Leon looks at Maureen before he speaks.

  “Jake can’t write.”

  Salma laughs very loud and Leon knows she’s pretending.

  “Of course he can’t! He’s only ten months old! No. His new mummy and daddy will write the letter to you and probably even send a photograph as well. See!”

  She has his hand again.

  “I know this is hard for you, Leon. Very hard. We wish things were different but if Jake is going to have a chance . . .”

  Maureen is up. “Thanks, Salma. He understands, don’t you, pigeon?”

  Maureen taps his neck-back and inclines her head to the kitchen.

  “Curly Wurly?”

  Leon gets up and goes into the kitchen. It isn’t Saturday. It isn’t Christmas and his room is very untidy, so why he’s getting a Curly Wurly is a mystery. Then again, he has been very polite. He hasn’t interrupted, answered back or tried to be too clever by half. There are three other Curly Wurlys in the cupboard and, as he’s the only one in the house who eats them, Leon smiles. Maybe every time Salma comes and he doesn’t lose his temper he’ll get a Curly Wurly. He eats it in the kitchen but, before he’s finished, Maureen calls him back in to say goodbye to Salma while she changes Jake in the bathroom. Salma puts her hand on his shoulder and shows him her sad smile again.

  “You’re a good boy, Leon. I know this is hard and you’re a good brother to Jake but we have to think of his future.”

  “Yes.”

  Later, when Jake’s in bed and Leon’s watching the telly, Maureen asks him about what Salma said.

  “She means it, you know, love. Did you understand that, Leon? Jake is going to be adopted.”

  “What’s adopted?”

  “Jake is going to have a new mum and dad.”

  “Why?”

  “Because, love. Just because. Because he’s a baby, a white baby. And you’re not. Apparently. Because people are horrible and because life isn’t fair, pigeon. Not fair at all. And if you ask me, it’s plain wrong and—”

  She stops suddenly and winks.

  “Tell you what. Now His Nibbs is finally asleep, let’s you and me get the biscuit tin out.”

  She comes back with a massive mug of coffee and the Golden Tin, which everyone knows is never allowed in the front room but this is, after all, a day of sad social workers and spontaneous Curly Wurlys so Leon says nothing. As she squashes a cushion into the small of her back, Maureen lets out a sigh that to Leon sounds a little bit shaky and he can hear something in her throat when she speaks.

  “You stay here with your Auntie Maureen, love. Eh? We’re happy enough, aren’t we? You stay here with me.”

  Elizabeth Walcott-Hackshaw

  A Professor of French Literature and Creative Writing at the University of the West Indies, she has published scholarly articles and essays on Francophone Caribbean Literature and co-edited several works including Border Crossings: A Trilingual Anthology of Caribbean Women Writers (2012); Methods in Caribbean Research: Literature, Discourse, Culture; Echoes of the Haitian Revolution (1804–2004) (2009); and Reinterpreting the Haitian Revolution and its Cultural Aftershocks (2009). She has also published creative works, and her short stories have been widely translated and anthologised. Four Taxis Facing North (2007), her first collection of short stories was considered one of the best books of the year by the Caribbean Review of Books. Mrs B, a novel, was shortlisted for “Best Book of Fiction” in the Guyana Prize for Literature in 2014.

  Ashes

  Sometimes leaves would fall from the trees, and sometimes ashes would just appear in the air, wriggling like black worms. I had just got home from a long day and was lying on a sofa on the veranda. Everything was complete now, the final payment made to the lawyer. Everything so easy, the secretary handed me the documents and explained carefully and slowly the next simple step. I handed over the final payment, she examined my cheque politely, with a cursory glance, assuring me that I was trustworthy, that it was fine, but all the while I was hoping that there would be a fault somewhere, something to cause a further delay, giving me just a little more time. The last documents were handed over with a gentle smile, a paper clip, and a manila envelope: “Could you sign here please?” “Is that it?” I ask
ed. “Yes that’s it,” she said.

  A divorce is like a death my good friend Sarah said to me, you grieve. But the difference from a real death? She had no advice then. We shared a friend who had lost a son, her only son, to a car accident, an unimaginable horror, “How do you get out of bed after that?” she said, “Especially if that was your only child,” I added. The lights would have gone out with him, my world at an end; these were thoughts, I couldn’t say the words.

  We were having afternoon tea and there were tiers of cucumber sandwiches, smoked salmon sandwiches, scones, strawberry compote, clotted cream, and small sponge cakes. The waitress left a handsome wooden box of teas: Darjeeling, Earl Grey, English Breakfast. We both chose Earl Grey. We stayed in the cosy tea salon until dark and they were ready to close their doors. The owner said it was okay for us to stay on a little longer even though all of the waitresses, save one, had already left. We thanked her but felt we had really stayed on for too long, so we decided to move our little party to a bar that was not far away. There was still so much to talk about we joked, divorce, sex, death.

  It was still early so there were only a few patrons scattered around the beautiful teak tables at the bar. Later in the evening, around seven thirty or eight the crowd would start to arrive. Sarah ordered a rosé and I got a beer.

  “Since when do you drink beer?”

  “Since last month, in London that was all I drank, all we drank.” I had been travelling with my husband; and that “we” seemed to bother Sarah, her divorce still left a bitter taste, like my beer.

  “If only I had known, how did I not see this coming?” She was looking directly at me when she said this.

  “But you didn’t know, you were friends, how were you to know that it would turn into what it did.”

  I didn’t believe what I had said to her and neither did she; I knew it was coming but it made us both feel better so we pretended that Sarah was the real victim, not the husband that she had betrayed.