Second Class Citizen

by Buchi Emecheta

  Every door seemed barred against them; nobody would consider accommodating them, even when they were willing to pay double the normal rent. She searched all she could, during her lunch hours and on her way home from work. Francis would then take a turn. They had one or two hopeful experiences, but they were rejected as soon as it was known that they had children.

  The landlord and the landlady were walking on air. They had got the proud couple down at last. They started to complain about everything. When the children cried, the landlord would stamp upstairs, warning them that they were disturbing the other tenants. The landlady, still childless, claimed that Adah was showing off her children. Why must Adah allow them to toddle about when she came out to fetch water? She must lock them up in their room. The landlady complained to her husband that Adah was bringing them downstairs to distress her.

  Adah did not know what to do about this. If it looked like showing off, she was very sorry about it, because she knew what her Ma went through when she didn’t have another child after Boy. Due to this childhood experience, Adah learnt to keep her pride in her children to herself. She was always wary of telling another childless woman what Vicky or Titi said, though she could babble endlessly to other young mothers like herself. But what was she to do? She told the babies not to follow her about. But, pray, how could a mother tell her young children not to follow her about, when those children had been all day in the nursery, in somebody else’s care? The only way the children could keep an eye on their mother was by following her about.

  This was made more difficult because, though she cooked in their small room, the only tap water for the tenants was on the ground floor. This meant Adah had to go up and down a great deal. And when she was downstairs the children would call to her, wanting to hear her voice for reassurance. Well, you know how the voices of children of that age are, especially to the ears of people who have never had children and who are dreaming that, when they do, they will bring them up in such a way as to make them behave like “decent” children from the very earliest age.

  One of the peculiarities of most Nigerian languages is the fact that one could make a song of everything. Native housewives used this method a lot. If an older wife of a polygamous marriage wanted to get even with a younger rival who was the favourite of the husband, she would make up all sorts of songs about the younger woman. Many women would go as far as to teach their children these songs, which were meant as a kind of psychological pressure on the young woman.

  Of course, at Ashdown Street, neighbours would start singing as soon as they saw Adah coming. Most of the songs were about the fact that she and her husband would soon have to make their home in the street. What use would her education be then? the songs would ask. To whom would she show her children off then? It was all so Nigerian. It was all so typical.

  Matters came to a new head when the landlord got so fed up with them that he decided not to accept their rent. Only someone who had been in a similar situation would know what an emotional torture this could be. Adah and Francis had the solicitor’s letters pouring in every week, counting down the number of their days for them, just like a blast-off day for astronauts. They knew they were not wanted, because they were Ibos, because they had their children with them, because Adah worked in a library and because they found it difficult to conform to the standard which they were expected to live by.

  Meanwhile the songs and the laughs took a much more direct form. “I can’t wait to see them pack their brats and leave our house,” the landlady would say loud and clear along the hallway, to nobody, just like a mad woman roaming about in an open asylum. At the end of her proclamation, she would then burst into one of her improvised songs, sometimes dancing to them in a maniacal sort of way. All this jarred on Adah’s consciousness, almost driving her crazy. She had to bear it without responding in kind because, having lived most of her formative years in a mission fee-paying school, she had long forgotten the art of hurling abusive songs at others. Sometimes, though, she would scream “The Bells of Aberdovey” or “The Ash Grove” at the top of her voice, but her listeners did not understand what she was singing about. And even if they had, the songs were as inappropriate as wearing a three-piece suit on a sunny afternoon in Lagos. This went on so much that Adah started to doubt her senses. She would laugh loudly at nothing, just to show her neighbours how happy she was. The funny thing about the whole situation was that she was not unaware of the fact that her showy behaviour was really uncalled for. But it seemed that, like Francis, she had lost control of the situation. Just like a person living with a madman would. You come to behave and act like a mad person if you are surrounded by mad people. Was that what people call adaptation? she wondered.

  Two weeks later, on the noticeboard in front of the post office at Queen’s Crescent, she read on a blue card of a vacant room. There was no “Sorry, no coloureds” on it. Adah could not believe her eyes. And the vacant room was not very far from where they lived: just around the corner, in Hawley Street. To make sure the room would be kept for them, she decided to phone the landlady as soon as she got to the library. She would make sure she phoned when the other assistants were out of earshot, otherwise they would think her mad or something. She had it all planned in her head. She had worked and talked for almost six months in London, so she was beginning to distinguish the accents. She knew that any white would recognise the voice of an African woman on the phone. So to eradicate that, she pressed her wide tunnel-like nostrils together as if to keep out a nasty smell. She practised and practised her voice in the loo, and was satisfied with the result. The landlady would definitely not mistake her for a woman from Birmingham or London, yet she could be Irish, Scots or an English-speaking Italian. At least, all these people were white.

  It was stupid of her though, because the landlady would find out eventually. She was simply counting on human compassion When the landlady found out that they were blacks, she’d beg her, plead with her to give them a place to stay, at least till after her baby was born. Adah was sure her plea would move anybody, forgetting that her plight had failed to move her countrymen.

  The voice that answered the phone was that of a middle-aged woman. She sounded busy and breathless. Not a very cultured voice, rather like the voices of the shrieking women who sold cabbages at Queen’s Crescent market.

  Yes, the two rooms were still available. The rent was the exact amount Francis and Adah were paying at Ashdown Street. Yes, she would keep the rooms for them. No, she did not mind children. She was a grandmother herself, but her grandchildren were somewhere in America. Was Adah an American, the voice wanted to know? She sounded like one, went on the voice. She’d be very glad to have them, to keep her house alive.

  It was all so friendly, so humane. But what would happen when the landlady was faced with two black faces? Adah told herself that it would be better to postpone this discovery to the last minute. One could never tell, she consoled herself, the woman might not even mind their being black. Hadn’t she thought she was American? Adah realised that perhaps she made a little mistake there. She ought to have jumped at the woman’s suggestion and claimed to be American. After all, there were black and white Americans!

  Meanwhile she walked, as it were, on air. The woman had invited her and Francis to come and that was all there was to it. Why expect refusal, when the woman had sounded so jubilant? On her way home on the platform at Finchley tube station, it seemed to her ears and mind that the train that curled gracefully into view was singing with her. Sharing her happiness and optimism. It was going to be all right, the silent passengers seemed to be saying to her with their eyes, not their mouths. In fact everywhere and everything seemed saturated with happiness.

  It was nearing the end of summer. The wind that blew carried an autumnal nip. The leaves were still on the trees, but were becoming dry, perched like birds ready to fly off. Their colour was yellow approaching brown. One or two eager leaves had fallen already, but those were isolated ones, too few to matter. As far
as Adah was concerned, it was still summer. The trees still had leaves on them. And that was all she cared about.

  She banged at their front door impatiently. Francis came out, in his loose, unbuttoned pale green cardigan, his belly bulging like that of his pregnant wife. The tail-ends of his shirt were hanging untidily out of his grey trousers. He peered at Adah over the top of his rimless glasses, blinking angrily, wondering what it was that had taken hold of her to make her behave so audaciously in a house where they were still like beggars.

  “Don’t look at me like that,” she cried with joy. “We’ve got a room - no, two rooms. She advertised for one room, but when I phoned, she said she had two vacant. And, guess what, we will have to pay only the same four pounds we pay here. Two rooms for us in London!”

  All this was too much for Francis. He had either been reading and concentrating hard, or he was sleeping before Adah’s bang on the front door woke him. Either way, he was like somebody in a daze and it was taking him quite a while to come out of it. He succeeded in jolting himself into wakefulness.

  “Who, er … what, er …? Just wait a minute. Who is this person offering us a room, er, er … two rooms. Is she all right? This woman. I mean … she’s all right, isn’t she?”

  “Of course she is all right. We’re going to see the rooms this evening. I told her we would come at nine. Janet will look after the children for us. We must take the rooms,” Adah explained, her voice ringing musically.

  But Francis maintained that there was a catch in it somewhere. He went on probing Adah. “You said you spoke to her. So she heard your voice, then? It’s amazing, I must say.”

  Adah hoped very much that the woman would take them. The joy on Francis’s face was like that of a little boy. He always reminded her of their little Vicky when he was pleased. She did not delude herself into expecting Francis to love her. He had never been taught how to love, but he had an arresting way of looking pleased at Adah’s achievements. Adah hoped she would never stop achieving success. Maybe that would keep the marriage together until they got back to Nigeria.

  Children used to be one of the great achievements Francis appreciated, but in London, the cost, the inconvenience, even the shame of having them, had all eroded his pride in them. As long as Adah could bring home little triumphs like this one, he would go on looking pleased.

  Adah did not tell him that she had held her nose when talking to the woman, neither did she tell him that she chose nine o’clock because it would be dark and the woman might not realise in time that they were black. If only they could paint their faces; just until the first rent had been paid. She dismissed this idea, mainly because she knew that Francis would not play. There was nothing she could do but to hope for the best. Even if it all failed in the end, she was thankful for the temporary happiness they were experiencing. Francis started calling her “darling”, talking to her just like ordinary husbands did to their wives. He even volunteered to get the kids from the nursery, so that Adah could do the cooking. It was like a stolen hour. She was even beginning to think that Francis might be in love with her after all. All she need do was to bring up surprises like this once in a while. She did not allow herself to think that they might fail to get the rooms. The disappointment would be too heavy to bear.

  Janet, now very friendly with Adah, did not need much persuasion to come and baby-sit for them. She was as excited as Adah, and they spent the time before their departure speculating on how nice Adah’s flat was going to look. For, said Janet, two rooms made a flat. Didn’t Adah know?

  The night air was nippy, but Hawley Street was only ten minutes’ walk from Ashdown Street. At first, they walked quickly, burning with hope. But when they came near to Hawley Street, Francis started to blow his nose, lagging behind as if he were going to face castration.

  He looked round him, the excitement of the evening still with him, and exclaimed, “Good Lord, the place looks like a burial ground.”

  Adah had to laugh. The laughter of relief. Yes, the house was in a tumble-down area with most of the surrounding houses in ruins, and others in different stages of demolition. The area had a desolate air like that of an unkempt cemetery. Some of the houses had their roofs ripped off, leaving the walls as naked as Eve with no fig leaf for cover. The bare walls could be tombstones or the ruins of houses bombed by Hitler.

  Adah did not mind the ruins and demolition, because the more insalubrious the place was, the more likely the landlady would be to take blacks.

  They knocked at the door. A woman’s small head popped out of a window, like that of a tortoise sunning itself. The head was like a mop being shaken at them. The voice was high and sounded strained, as it had been when it talked to Adah in the morning. She could not tell the age of the woman from the small head, full of loose-hanging curls. But there was something she could tell: the owner of that head could either not see properly or was colourblind. Or maybe she actually did not mind their colour. Adah started to shake, not from the nippy air but from that sort of cold that comes from the heart.

  “The rooms - the advertisement on the noticeboard,” Francis yelled at the quivering head.

  “Yes, shan’t be a minute. Be down soon to show them to you. Just wait a minute.”

  Then the head disappeared. It was looking as if they were going to be given the rooms. God, please let it be so, Adah prayed. The two of them were too astounded for words. Adah put both hands in her coat pockets, to cover her bulging middle. She remembered she had not told the woman that, in less than four months, there was going to be another little Obi added to the group. That would be a problem for the future. For the moment, she must cover the baby up.

  They could hear the light steps racing down the stairs. Even Francis was beginning to be confident. The woman did not mind blacks living in her house. The steps tapped down the hallway and the light sprung on. Now the day of reckoning had arrived, thought Adah. The lights would certainly show them up for what they were. Niggers.

  The door was being opened …

  At first Adah thought the woman was about to have an epileptic seizure. As she opened the door, the woman clutched at her throat with one hand, her little mouth opening and closing as if gasping for air, and her bright kitten-like eyes dilated to their fullest extent. She made several attempts to talk, but no sound came. Her mouth had obviously gone dry.

  But she succeeded eventually. Oh, yes, she found her voice, from wherever it had gone previously. That voice was telling them now that she was very sorry, the rooms had just gone. Yes, both rooms. It was very stupid of her, she condescended, because she ought to have told them from the upstairs window. She would put their name down, though, because she was sure another room was going to be vacant down the road. She pointed to some of the waste land further down. If there were any houses in the direction of her pointed finger, only she could see them. All that Adah and Francis could see was tumbled-down ruins. She hoped they would understand. The room had just gone. She was breathlessly nervous and even frightened as she explained.

  Francis and Adah said nothing as the flood of words poured out. Adah had never faced rejection in this manner. Not like this, directly. Rejection by this shrunken piece of humanity, with a shaky body and moppy hair, loose, dirty and unkempt, who tried to tell them that they were unsuitable for a half derelict and probably condemned house with creaky stairs. Just because they were blacks?

  They stood there, as if rooted to the spot. The frightened woman hoped they would go. She begged them once more to understand that the rooms were gone. Her little eyes darted in Francis’s direction, and Adah was sure the woman was going to scream, for the look on his face was ugly. All the letters that formed the word “hatred” seemed to be working themselves indelibly into it, like carvings on a stone. He was staring at this woman, and he seemed to be looking beyond her. She started to close the door, firmly. She was expecting opposition, but none came. Adah could not even utter the plea she had rehearsed. The shock was one she would never forget.

&
nbsp; “Let’s go,” Francis said.

  They walked away in silence. Adah could not bear it. She had either to start screaming or talking; anything that came into her head. She started telling Francis the story of Jesus. She went on and on, how they were turned out of all the decent houses and how Mary had the baby in the manger.

  Francis looked as if he was in another world, not listening to her. There was nothing Adah could do but to keep talking and try to keep up with Francis, though he was now walking fast, as if chased by demons. Then, all of a sudden, he stopped. Adah was startled. Was he going to kill her now, she wondered?

  But he did not touch her. All he said was, “You’ll be telling the world soon that you’re carrying another Jesus. But, if so, you will soon be forced to look for your own Joseph.”

  “But Jesus was an Arab, was he not? So, to the English, Jesus is coloured. All the pictures show him with the type of pale colour you have. So can’t you see that these people worship a coloured man and yet refuse to take a coloured family into their home?”

  If Francis was listening, he gave no sign of it. He probably realised that Adah did need to talk, because he did not hush her. He seemed to be enjoying her voice, but his mind did not register what it said.

  Exhausted, Adah stopped talking. They were near their home in Ashdown Street. It dawned on them that nothing but a miracle would save them now.

  And what saved them was just like a miracle.

  7

  The Ghetto