by Derek Owusu
Derek Owusu
* * *
THAT REMINDS ME
Contents
AUTHOR’S NOTE
AWARENESS Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
REFLECTION Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
CHANGE Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
CONSTRUCTION Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
ACCEPTANCE Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
RESOURCES
About the Author
Derek Owusu is a writer, poet and podcaster from north London. He discovered his passion for literature at the age of twenty-three while studying exercise science at university. Unable to afford a change of degree, Derek began reading voraciously and sneaking into English Literature lectures at the University of Manchester. Derek edited and contributed to Safe: On Black British Men Reclaiming Space. That Reminds Me is his first solo work.
For Berthy, whose friendship defies definition.
For Joel, for coming into my life
when I needed him most.
And Yomi, always for Yomi.
‘To scathe walls of white and black, it is the crime of the tainted man’
KALEKE KOLAWOLE
Author’s Note
This is the story of K. If you believe your life to be as fictitious as K’s, if you find yourself within the pages of this book, then you are holding the pen and not me.
AWARENESS
* * *
Anansi, your four gifts raised to Nyame grant you no power over the stories I tell, stories that build like dew, alerting you but creating no music when they drop onto the drums of our sky. Take my ‘gift’, words bound in time, directly to him and tell me if his features betray recognition or sorrow.
1
He was the only one who didn’t laugh. She stepped onto the escalator thinking it could sweep her away, swallow and shred her at the bottom. He would watch as she jumped off like a schoolgirl, brown skirt waving in his memory, and wait to see her smile rise like morning had begun, the shine of his morning cleaning. But her slow pace meant the last he saw of her was as she turned the corner of the underground and he was carried away by the indifference of the train. One evening he decided the strain of longing for love outweighed the strain of longing for home, so in the morning, after watching her nervous dance with the escalator, he stood in the middle of the train doors, arms wide holding them open, waiting for her. Turning the corner, she saw her Samson and ran towards him. It became their rite. Until train doors became bolted doors and Chubbs in the door of a flat. He loved her enough to turn off the lights before bed – though she could sleep with brightness, bills kept her awake. He took care of that too. She helped him become a man; let him use her calling card to speak to his mother while he pounded fufu, vigorous as he shook the stove. So maybe they kissed, maybe they laughed, maybe he did love my mum from the start.
2
My mum suffocated under the pool of light called an imperial sun, so my life begins with a nose broader than the wing on which I was weighed. But blessings are missed on the ward where wails are watered down by gasps of meconium. So to breathe (my mum thought) I needed to be streamlined. Without sense, my nose was pressured by two fingers to fit the box of Europe, the centre of my face growing close, comforting the holes in my appearance. Unknown abuse, I was being moulded for progress, a model given by God on which my mother could add the finishing touches – a joint project on which to project imbibed insecurities. So now I breathe British air with airs akin to royal heirs – my mum thought she was making a dark life fair.
3
Watch the little boy bobbing up and down on his father’s lap, no one caring if he falls or where he’ll land, and you’ll think the boy has no chance, no way to change what’s to become his life. His father wrote his destiny on the back of a betting slip, fixing it, and now he plays roulette with his boy watching the numbers, wondering what difference it makes where the ball settles. His father smacks his hand as he reaches for a button – he’s not allowed to roll the dice or send the ball spinning, only an observer, black or red, eyes closed while he’s winning.
4
London homes were closed to young, foreboding darkness, and so were the doors of a family letting go of the past. Once I’m in care, my mum occasionally picks me up but can’t recall how I got there. There’s six of us, three who soak their beds—me looking on thinking they’re confused as to which way their tears should flow. And two who stand with me in the bathroom, water running but clothes still on, forced hands down my trousers. I learned to clip my nails daydreaming about my foster mother trimming hers, the cutting hurt, index and thumb pressed into my lobe when I misbehaved. Or there was a raised cane, a light cracking sound, no atmospheric stomach rumble as I think back, a white hand raised to strike black skin. How can the truth and my love not begin to lose synergy? So facile, it was all so easily flammable – the jet left, and my mum’s hearty inhales, were enough to spark my curiosity, so I watched as my thumb gave rise to light, delivering the dissolving tissue to the plastic bin with our leftovers. There wasn’t enough time for ashes to be born but I stepped back in awe of the flaming wings rising to the ceiling. The fire was out with air to spare – my foster mother’s age containing a vitality that doused the flames, throwing a jug of water then taking me to the fridge. She held onto my arm while cutting a Scotch bonnet, then rubbed it into my face – to burn off that troublesome nose and the thick lips that talked back. I was in bed early and as I tried to sleep, the dripping tap taunted me with promises of solace. But I stayed where I was, and cried. In the morning, when I opened my eyes, the hot residue was gone. The bed for summer visits spoke with relief as my foster mother sat up, fully clothed, and looked at me.
5
Dry, I felt no pain as I watched dense b
alls of fluff fall to the floor and my foster friend, brother really, sweep them up, eager to be involved. He’d experienced a few cuts but now his head’s covered in scabs, suppressed hair, cultural significance dried up, so every time someone was getting a trim, there he’d be, broom in hand waiting for the 4C weeds to tumble to the floor. I once watched him put my hair in his pocket and inhale it behind a door. My scalp had some sores too, but the plump tangle of my hair kept it a secret my 1A carers had no reason to wonder about. When the cut was over and I slid off the chair, immediately forgetting my fro, there were no puffs of hair to cushion my steps, the job of sweeping them away done so well. I felt lucky only to get the snip because I’d seen the fits of the suffering girls – soft hair falling like floss, no fro to swell – white hands going into black hair but never acknowledging its curls.
6
I’ve never smiled again like I did on my sixth birthday, looking into the camera while my foster mother guides my hand through a symbolic slashing of years. I can feel the failing elasticity in her hand and smell the dissolving lungs on her breath. My foster dad, a quiet favourite, dozes, tired from a job I’ve never known him to have. Some kids are only here for summer. I watch them, unconsciously thumbing my singed skin, a scar from separated kin, a melding with warmth severed too late, and remember what loss feels like, deciding to stay around faces awaiting the same school as I am. I’ve crunched through several chocolate cornflake cakes before I remember I have presents to unwrap. I walk to the gifts, eager but satisfied, tonguing the soft cereal stuck to my teeth. I notice the handwriting on the first present and retreat to my foster mother’s leg. ‘All right, dear, we’ll open this one later.’
7
He wasn’t A’s real dad or carer, so I struggle to place him in fostered thoughts. He liked sitting with his legs crossed in our living room eating cheese sandwiches. His posture, chewing and satisfaction made me envious, made me want to bite from the same plate he did, his full stomach moans enough to make me crave cheese in the extreme, casu marzu dripping and crawling through my dreams. She always asks for a piece and is refused and told to go get ready. Both gone, my mum preoccupied with plucking pheasant, I’d eat the crusts left on his saucer, which often had teeth-marked slices of cheese between them. A day came when I was able to open the fridge and take out the cheese, which first refused my knife, knowing the rules of the house, take two pieces of bread and create what was slowly becoming a delicacy. I took a bite and the static in my jaw shuddered through my body. I bent over the bin and spat out what I had desperately sought, realising getting what you want is not what you thought.
8
Thin lips beneath a film of moisture, my foster mother trying to teach me how to pronounce letters of the alphabet. We flip through Biff and Chip, me waiting for parts with Wilma.
Turning keys was fascinating to me so I clutch one and stroll off like a schoolboy, leaving the house searching for hours to help the bathroom door speak once more. I join the family but, bored, place my hands in my pockets and feel something cold and hard – I must own it. I step towards the table where my foster mother sits, regal, smoking while the sound of her children opening and closing doors, pacing around and climbing bunk beds combines with her nicotine to heighten effects dulled by chain smoking. I took the key, I confess, and expect a cane but am freed and taught the importance of honesty.
Cursive presents as the RP of pen to paper; I envy that dexterity denied me, the first difference of ability I noticed between myself and others. My foster mum finds pages of failed attempts, notes of a voice failing speech therapy, pain, straining imprinting on paper. She forces me to look at my writing, pointing at sentence after sentence, her finger finally resting on a tear absorbed, covering my shame, and then tells me my handwriting is lovely without the fancy lines.
9
My seatbelted body rose with the bumps, and with each bump dinner for the following days was decided. Pheasant, like rabbit, was delicious more than cute, and the smell of farmlands and my fascination as we drove by meant only chicken, pork and beef was barbaric. Tea time followed dinner time, the table spread with homemade marmalade and jam. Berries I picked myself, in between intervals of wiping up behind me with what I hoped would not sting. Blackberries were the easiest to find, evident from the black stains on my teeth, my foster mother becoming Ghanaian for a second in asking why I was acting like I didn’t have anything to eat. There were blocks of jelly I dreamed of sinking my teeth into, unprepared but still as appetising as the bars of chocolate destined to be melted and mixed with a collection of cornflakes and spooned into paper casing – my birthday was approaching. On days that our village was tearful for my loneliness, I wore wellingtons and jumped in puddles imaging the same miracle that touched the delightful wardrobe. The air smelled like horses nowhere in sight, until we’d take a trip in the van and someone would scream, pointing to the first black beauty they’d ever seen. Trees were planted on my arrival but as I left, petitions were passed around. This countryside melody played so loud it was years before the sound of boots on mud and friendly good mornings was taken over by sirens and the smell of booze and latex, a door buzzing instead of knocked, faces that were not hostile but indifferent.
10
What does a persistent cough mean to a young boy who is sick? He thought it brought them closer, always together but holding onto words that never rose beyond the swirling smoke that stained the ceiling, a burning kept inside. He never said ‘I love you’ because he sat with her when no one else would, watched TV and listened to the browned floating leaves in her breathing, trickling down her throat, and tried his best during the darkest moments to see their reflection in whatever was screening. Her feelings meant a lot to him, so when feet scratched and scuffed the floor, children escaping to play outdoors, he stayed, and listened to her finish the sentence she had started. His love was listening, hearing her weak voice address an empty house, punctuated by unexpected, persistent coughs that would make any eye water, never believing that the day he left was the day the countryside sky would call her. Too naïve to know that with every inhale the cerulean summit drew close, and her halo glow meant smoke was signalling her home. If only he had known it was cancer revealing her bones. If only he had known that it was the offspring of smoke that brought her to tears, not her being happy her son was so near. His visits to London lengthened as tumour and organs grew fonder. I miss keeping you company after our dinners, I wish you could have stayed a little bit longer.
REFLECTION
* * *
Anansi, though we are similar, you are selfish with stories and I share mine freely. I rapped on your door with unwrapped tales, tying nothing up as Nyame intended, but still your father ignores me. I will touch the threads of your web once more and ask that you pass on my words to the sky we both adore.
1
My aunt’s floor became a blow-up bed we sank into every night and hoped to rise above, where I’d dream about the hard surface I had come from. No heels hit pavement in my morning ear but I couldn’t tell the difference. I didn’t know we were poor because the preserves on savoury hors d’oeuvres, Jacob’s, were so satisfying I could stomach at least twelve every time, scrambling to eat my own crumbs. I was happy to share my mother’s hair-rollers, presenting as the girl she always wanted – but truthfully, they were fashion for her but soldiers for me. I’d pull up the clip part and bend it over the roll, arms ready for war, green vs pink, with my remotes on standby ready to change it all, silent, watching the brawl. Tottenham was beyond our balcony and every football match I’d hear the crowd shout for me, though I would turn my back, uninterested. We held onto superstitions tight as our silver; a few coins gathered to mix the farina with the mash. But often, the dry rivulets on my cheeks invited pound coins and 50 pence pieces from strangers that I’d have to throw away as soon as I got off the bus, a nervous flick of my hand as the disguise: to be generous was suspicious to the religious. A cultural fusion but paradox of Christianity.
/> I waited for friends while my mum waited for him. Our door was on the ninth floor but I was sure acquaintances would float through our window before my mum felt the gentle, now impatient, press of the foreign body she once had. And she knew it, so she cried. But not the same tears for tongues that were brought forth for Christ – as long as I’ve got my god, K, everything’s alright. In these moments, moments when James Avery, ready for an embrace, would flash before my eyes, all I could think about was my friend who had lied – with words so sure, he restored a shadow, one that only seemed to be looking over me – and told me that every person had a dad; this was compounded by the lie that you can’t miss something you’ve never had.
My mum and I, we stand at a stop, the same one she said my dad had almost been picked up from, with his tight jeans and Rick James sex appeal that I wished he’d passed on to me, and, coincidently, where she believed an angel told her the world isn’t hers to worry about. I have my hands around her thick coat, trying my best to steal some warmth, a more material form of affection that she can’t hold back from me. But I am wrong. She pushes me away and I notice her breath in the cold air, a horizontal stream fading as it ascends, in imitation of a smoker’s, so I focus on that, remembering another mum and trying not to feel the scorch of her scorn: I’m forced to feel warm. The bus arrives after five minutes and while I’m sitting, I’m offered another pound coin, one I imagine making a sharp sound on the icy floor when I’m forced to throw it away.
