33 East

by Susannah Rickards

  He bit his lip and clenched his fists wondering how he was gonna put her on lockdown with security officers in lime green vests darting into war formations whenever trouble zipped and zapped amongst yout’ dem.

  Na wa, o.

  As usual, she looked on point in dark blue treggings that defined thighs delectable for suya, nyash, and an itsy-bitsy waist topped off with snakeskin knee high stiletto boots: an antidote to her ‘smallie’ complex. Ndi was amazed that she could function in them and rock her locs despite the lamentations from her aunts, uncles, cousins and anyone else that played stickybeak in her business. When she was on the damn mobile, it was raucous laughter lathered in sticky, spicy gossip.

  Yet he was dry like harmattan: cruising in his double bedroom that groaned under his stuff. His mates rarely persuaded him to step out, down beer, shake waist, and enjoy. Chy, how times had changed.

  He signalled her to come quick now – mek dey do. Nne caught his eye, saw he was boning, and ended the conversation.

  ‘Ah beg o, mek you no vex,’ she whispered hugging him. ‘Cool down.’

  Ndi pointed at the Primani bag. ‘I know, yeah, you came straight from work and it ain’t work stuff in dere. Why are you goin’ to Primark when you know you’re meant to be meetin’ me? I don’t get you, really I don’t.’

  ‘Ah-ah, is that all?’ She beamed at him and pulled out her oyster as they entered the packed bus. ‘Nna, this is therapy. Can you believe I just found out that Paul has girlfriend?’

  Ndi laughed – Paul was her FWB. ‘Really, how did dat happen?’

  ‘Helen just called me to find out how we’re gonna do the kids’ assembly later this weekend and she mentioned dat Paul’s girlfriend is doing barbie. ‘Do I wanna come?’ I said: ‘Eh? Which kind girlfriend?’ She said dat her and Paul have been dating now for the past six months – didn’t I know?’ Nne blew a bubble and popped it. ‘Heh, I just called this bwoy now two’s two’s and do you know what he’s tellin’ me?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Since when did he become accountable to me? Aren’t we both grown adults? They haven’t agreed anything between themselves, o: him and dis chick aren’t in a relationship.’

  Ndi snickered.

  ‘I don’t know why you think that’s funny, bro. I went mad! I said you was fucking well accountable when I was chokin’ dat monkey!’

  Ndi winced at the kids around them. ‘Nne, must you be so blaytant?’

  ‘It’s da fucking truth! Bastard, a whole me deputy girlfriend? For where? All dis shit for someone who get liver to wear white shoes? Eeh, I don’t roll with mans that has gyal, o. If you wanna give me benefits, let’s all know that we’re single and ready to mingle. It’s coz I have nothin’ else beta to do than catch STDs, abi?’

  Suck teeth.

  ‘You have a weird logic, do you know that?’

  Her response was her fiercest cut eye.

  ‘I’m more pissed that I went through three cigarettes after bullocking him on the phone and I know when I go home,’ Nne’s voice dropped to a whisper, ‘I’m gonna need a spliff.’ She stretched in her seat. ‘That’s why I had to reach into Primark; dis stuff was on sale so even beta!’

  Nne appraised him in the navy jacket that sculpted his slim shoulders, crisp white shirt, and matching trousers. Bobo! What a dramatic change to his tired skinny jeans, trainers and hoodies. His goatee was cut low and she noticed confidence in his light brown eyes that hadn’t existed before. ‘Fine boy, no craw craw. You’re lookin’ sharp; I like it.’

  He shrugged. ‘Business is good.’

  ‘I can tell! How many food orders have you got now?’

  Ndi smiled shyly and sat up straighter. ‘It’s coming up to forty – about seven grand worth of business.’

  ‘So you’ll be able to pay back Momsie then?’

  He bowed his head. ‘She said no pressure, it’s all good.’

  ‘I’m glad she hooked you up – she’s always liked you. Ndubuisi, Ndubuisi!’ she laughed touching up her lip gloss. ‘At last she’s off my case and is now harassing you. E no easy o.’

  ‘For real. Anyways, I wanna take you out to dinner to celebrate my first five grand,’ he said depressing the bell to stop the bus. ‘Mek we enjoy! I’m also renting a new place to myself in Winchmore Hill!’ He chuckled. ‘I can’t wait to leave shank town I’m tellin’ you. Mans always has to sleep with one eye open these days, y’get me?’

  Jealousy strangled her into widening her eyes and gaping. Why him? He’d only been self employed for six months and yet was sprinting over Great Cambridge Road into serene suburbia with classy restaurants, clean wide streets, imposing properties, and grandiose pubs. Who was his chi in this business? Was hers sleeping? Didn’t she attend uni? For eighteen months as a teacher all she had to show was a £20,000 debt doused in blood, sweat and tears, and an investigation that had shaken her to the core. She was living in crowded accommodation where sullen housemates refused to respect the kitchen and neighbours dumped splitting mattresses and old clothes on street corners. People were so trifling; it was abracadabra with black recycling bins and foxes had the balls to bop beside residents at night.

  He fed her as promised, but it was difficult to relax following her visit to his beautiful one bedroom Victorian flat with high ceilings, polished fireplaces, original caramel wooden floorboards and French patio doors that led to a charming white rose bush garden.

  She couldn’t touch the brand new furniture that he bought. She couldn’t blow the big grammar he had these days from pushing his business. Ndi had an outside life that she couldn’t relate to. This order, that business term; this obstacle, that government policy, Mr Supplier, Miss Recommendation. He came back late, was tired, and couldn’t talk. And he dismissed her stories of wrestling a white middle class power structure where she had to work twice as hard just to keep up with ‘Leave, innit?’ That rankled her: there was an effing recession! He didn’t listen anymore and was spraying the poppin’ punani glitterati who prowled the clubs, restaurants, shops and bowling alleys.

  IV

  Walking briskly along Fore Street towards Momsie’s place, Nne was eager to reduce the bloated belly from choppin’ welu welu at Helen’s flat. The girl had thrown down a serious feast shah to secure the crown in their Come Chop With Me spinoff.

  Ndi had laughed off joining them claiming unfair advantage as he was running a catering business. His rejection stung and Nne just couldn’t understand her reaction to him. Was she hatin’? Nne wondered. A whole me asking who dey dere? His fair skin was shining; he was looking finer after gyming. The more he became a dick, the more she wanted him. When she joked about spending his money, he played hard to get. Wetin happen? Anyone else, she would have dumped long time. Haba! But Ndi…? She was hanging on, just about, and it frightened her being a groupie.

  Before the locs era, Ndi was the only person she trusted to get down and dirty in removing her extensions – not even Momsie – so hair couldn’t stew in any juju pot. After all, had this woman bothered to look for her in Naija? Pass on any message? Pray for Nne’s deliverance when her stepmother lavished knocks on her head? Did Momsie weep at all at all for her only child?

  Kai, it was cold! She nestled into the upturned coat collar as the chilling wind bit her neck. Only in this nonsense country in May would you still be rockin’ and rollin’ scarves and thermal wear because spring refused to comot. It was at times like this that Nne longed for Naija’s sultry heat as she preferred sweating to shivering any day.

  Spit whizzed past her; a middle aged man sauntered ahead oblivious to the screw face burning into his back. She didn’t have the strength to challenge him. What was it with these animals masquerading as human beings? Another twenty minutes and she would be at Momsie’s where she could chillax and pick up her forgotten books.

  With sunlight streaming through the lacy nets, the tableaux bounced back the howls that fractured every crevice of the parlour.

  Nne was the only one screaming.


  Nne, biko: mother, please!

  The stuffed silence wasn’t enough – it wasn’t enough because nothing was changing. The dinky grey pebble dashed terraced cottages on Cornwallis Grove were framed by drab brown curtains. The recycling boxes spewed crap onto the road and there was the faint rumble of the rubbish van progressing on its collection route. Bin bags piled like pimples ready to burst and opposite the house she could hear Amy’s terrier yapping excitedly.

  Nne saw Ndubuisi’s ‘chi’ in this business.

  They stared back: Ndubuisi and Momsie – her chocolate nipple nestled in his mouth and his hands splayed on her naked nyash.

  TOWER HAMLETS

  The Djinn

  Tabitha Potts

  Salimah heard the front door slam. Ibrahim had left their house for his early morning shift. Reluctantly, she got out of her bed, shivering slightly as the house was never quite warm enough. Omar and Farihah were still asleep, so she had time to wash and say her dawn prayers before dealing with the children. Drawing back the curtain, she saw that the street light was still emitting its sickly glow, while the rest of the street was plunged in darkness. Over the wrought iron fence she could see the churchyard, the gravestones looming masses against the grass. Further away in the distance, Canary Wharf flickered, its sparkling lights adding a incongruously glamorous backdrop to Salimah’s immediate surroundings of Victorian terraces, each small front garden signaling the socio-economic background of its inhabitants with unerring accuracy: here, an aspirant box tree in a square metal container, there a defiant multicoloured display of geraniums. Salimah’s home said little about her. Even the lightbulbs hung on their flexes with no shades to shield their glare, but the house itself was scrupulously tidy, every surface reflecting back the light like a mirror.

  She showered and dressed and then, went to pray. Intoning the familiar words, she felt her mind calm and become still and was half way through when a noise in the room startled her enough for her heart to pound uncomfortably for a few seconds. Eventually she discovered the source of the noise; the scroll inscribed with verses from the Qur’an that she had hung on the wall had fallen from its hook. Carefully hanging it back up, she made sure it was fastened firmly. A sound from the room the children shared made her go to them. Omar was still fast asleep, but Farihah was up in her cot, gripping the sides and staring at her mother with an intense, questioning gaze. Salimah picked her up, enjoying the feeling of the small, warm body wrapped in hers. She went downstairs with the little girl, leaving Omar to wake by himself and come down.

  It was daylight by now and as Omar had not emerged Salimah left Farihah in her highchair for a moment and went upstairs to check on him. He woke up when she stroked his cheek but she noticed he felt a little hotter than usual to touch. She sighed. This could mean foregoing her trip to the market and Brick Lane. Standing by the door, while the three year old reluctantly got out of bed, she felt a sudden, icy chill. It was as though someone had opened a window directly behind her; the feeling was so strong she even looked around. Of course, there was nothing there. But she shivered and decided to put on her warmest veil rather than any of the lighter ones she sometimes wore.

  A couple of hours later, she was wandering down Whitechapel Market with the two children safely stowed in their pram. Omar still was not his normal lively self and was napping, long eyelashes flat on his cheeks. Passing a stall of fruit and vegetables, jackfruit, okra and bunches of herbs, Salimah found herself transported for a moment back home as she inhaled the distinctive warm tang of coriander. She was in the kitchen, holding onto her mother’s bright sari while her mother prepared supper, her hands stained with intricate patterns of henna as she chopped the herbs with expert speed. And then she was back on the windswept street where for a moment even the beloved faces of her children seemed unfamiliar, the faces of strangers, part of a life that might easily not have been hers.

  Salimah was officially not the ‘pretty one’, that honour had belonged to Asna, whose luminous skin and whose eyes, large, limpid and richly fringed like the sleeping Omar’s, had always seemed fit for a Bollywood star. Salimah’s mother had whispered to her once: ‘Someone will always watch over you, my darling’. But Asna married young and went to England, their mother died, and Salimah was left at home.

  ‘Salamu Alaykum, what do you want today?’ asked the stall holder in Bangla. Salimah bought two bunches of coriander and some chillis and hung the striped shopping bag over the handles of the pram. Omar woke up and started whining as he had spotted the ice cream shop next to Whitechapel station. Wearily, Salimah steered the pram away.

  ‘1, 2. 1, 2. Bethnal Green? Anyone going to Bethnal Green? You got a bleeding heart, love? Is your heart bleeding?’ came the disembodied voice of the office manager. White noise.

  ‘Oh shut up.’ Sheila on reception.

  ‘76 I got something for you. Can you hear me 76?’

  Ibrahim switched off the radio. He wasn’t going to Bethnal Green, he was going home. The night had begun on Brick Lane with four noisy City boys wanting to be ferried from the curry house they were gracing with their presence to a strip joint in Hoxton. They had only tipped a pound, despite the fact that one of them had been sick in the back of the cab. The night continued with a drunken set of Rag Week students dressed as Alice in Wonderlands and Ronald McDonalds. One of the Ronalds was unable to remember where he lived, so Ibrahim had had to cross the Mile End Road three times. The scent of pine from the air freshener hanging in the front of the cab and the smell of vomit from the back seat mixed with the strident perfume of the Alices had made his head ache. As he didn’t drink, the boredom of listening to the rambling chat from the back seat intensified his exhaustion – it was now 3.30am - but it was at last time to go home.

  He found a spot for the cab outside the front door of the house. Meticulously tidy as always, he took his cleaning kit out of the back of the cab to replenish the air fresheners and tissues. He was startled to see Salimah sitting at the kitchen table in her nightgown and overcoat. All the lights were on.

  ‘Salamu Alaykum. What’s wrong?’

  ‘It’s happened again.’

  Ibrahim sighed.

  ‘What’s happened this time?’

  Under the harsh lighting the whites of her eyes looked sore and her mouth looked pinched. The photograph of their wedding day back in the village was still on display on the windowsill. Salimah was dressed in her red and gold wedding sari, her usually solemn face smiling up at him. This morning she seemed very different to that young girl, yet it had only been four years since he had married her and brought her here.

  ‘I cleaned the kitchen and then I was making some chicken – the one you like with spinach – while the children were taking their nap. I had my back to the storage cupboards and I was quite busy, you know, chopping up the onions. Then suddenly there was this loud noise, the doors of two of the cupboards opened behind me and everything fell out, the flour and the chickpeas landed on the floor and made it all dirty again. And I feel cold. I’ve been feeling cold all day.’

  Her hands were wrapped up inside the overcoat.

  Ibrahim went over to the cupboards and examined the shelves. She had tidied up but he could imagine an explosion of flour and mess. Nothing seemed to be near the edge of the shelves, and everything was safely in its box or packet. He looked under the stairs for his tools and checked the shelves with a spirit level, as he had done before. No, the shelves were not crooked in anyway. The units were cheap but fairly new. He shook his head.

  ‘I can’t see anything wrong. Are you sure you hadn’t left something on the edge?’

  ‘I’m sure!’

  She was close to tears, he could hear it in her voice. He shivered. All this superstition was getting to him. He didn’t need this, he wanted to sleep.

  ‘I only feel peace when I am in the garden.’

  Salimah’s garden at the back of the house looked bleak now but in summer it would be bright with tier upon tier of chillis, squash and
spinach, tomatoes and beans trained up canes and trellis. She had learned how to handle the sticky and dense London soil and grow the plants she remembered from home. The children and the garden were what made her happy, he thought, and felt another wave of irritation.

  Asna offered Salimah another samosa but Salimah shook her head.

  ‘Acha. You’re looking too thin.’

  ‘I can’t eat much. I feel ill all the time. The only time I feel better is if I stay away from the house’.

  Asna looked across the room at the children playing. She was proud of the lounge; she had had it decorated in a pale pink and it looked out onto a well-kept patio garden. Her eldest boy was showing Omar his toy collection, while Farihah was playing with the tea-set that Asna had got out for her. Her teenage daughter was too grown up for it now.

  ‘Have you been to see the doctor?’

  ‘I tell him about the chills I’ve been getting but he can’t find anything wrong with me. He says I’m depressed and wants to give me pills.’

  ‘You don’t think… he could be right?’

  ‘You’ve felt it. When you came round the other day you said you could feel how cold it was downstairs. And then you lost your purse.’

  ‘I’m always losing it!’

  ‘You said you’d put it in the kitchen, and it wasn’t there. Why would you have left it in the bedroom? You didn’t go in there.‘

  ‘The kids must have moved it.’

  ‘I know there’s something going on. I can feel it.’

  ‘What did the Imam say?’

  ‘He said some holy verses to make it go away. But it isn’t gone. You know why I think that is?’

  ‘You tell me.’

  ‘It’s something to do with that graveyard. I went to the council and asked us if they could help us find somewhere different to live, but it’s going to take a long time’.