by Peter Akinti
Table of Contents
Title
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Acknowledgements
Epigraph
Chapter ONE MEINA
Chapter TWO MEINA
Chapter THREE MEINA
Chapter FOUR MEINA
Chapter FIVE MEINA
Chapter SIX JAMES
Chapter SEVEN MEINA AND JAMES
Chapter EIGHT MEINA
Chapter NINE JAMES
Chapter TEN MEINA
Chapter ELEVEN MEINA
Chapter TWELVE MEINA
Chapter THIRTEEN MEINA
Chapter FOURTEEN NUMBER 5
Chapter FIFTEEN JAMES
Chapter SIXTEEN JAMES
Chapter SEVENTEEN JAMES
Chapter EIGHTEEN LARRY BLOOM
Chapter NINETEEN MEINA
FOREST GATE
PETER AKINTI
FOREST GATE
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ISBN 9781409076063
Version 1.0
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Published by Jonathan Cape 2009
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Copyright © Peter Akinti 2009
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ISBN: 9781409076063
Version 1.0
Excerpt from 'My Dungeon Shook: Letter to my Nephew on the One Hundredth Anniversary of the Emancipation' © 1963 by James Baldwin. Copyright renewed. Collected in The Fire Next Time. Reprinted by arrangement with the James Baldwin Estate.
'Every Beat of My Heart' Words and Music by Johnny Otis © 1952 (Renewed) Fort Knox Music Inc and Trio Music Company All Rights Reserved Used by kind permission of Lark Music Ltd (Carlin) London NW1 8BD
Material from The Satanic Verses by Salman Rushdie, published by Jonathan Cape. Reprinted by permission of The Random House Group Ltd.
Every effort has been made to trace and contact copyright holders. The publishers will be pleased to correct any mistakes or omissions in future editions.
For William Oluwayeni Akinti, my father
In memory of Lucia Ekunola Akinti, my mother
and
for Simone Akinti, my daughter
Acknowledgements
I am more than grateful to: Ellah Allfrey, my editor, who may well be an angel; Kathleen Pyne for putting up with me; St Charles Borromeo church (Ogle St London) for strengthening my wavering faith; The Arts Council of England – thank you; Bidonville where I sit and write; Miranda Pyne for inspiration, friendship and love; Michael Fountaine, for always waving the flag; Cheryl Henderson for doing that stuff; Joyce and Susan Akinti (love you both wherever you are), Don Smith and Dej Mahoney, kind, generous men; Taponeswa Mavunga, for your patience; my early readers for their kind words and encouragement: Agnes Kuye, Lynee Butkiewicz, Bomi Odufunade, Donna Williams, Regine Zamor, Aissatou Minthe, Nadine Rubin and James Berry . . . Thank you all.
A special thank you to my wife, Kelly who somehow manages to make everything all right. God bless your nutty little African-American heart.
I know what the world has done to my brother and how narrowly he has survived it. And I know, which is much worse, and this is the crime of which I accuse my country and my countrymen, and for which neither I nor time nor history will ever forgive them, that they have destroyed and are destroying hundreds of thousands of lives and do not know it and do not want to know it.
James Baldwin, 'My Dungeon Shook', The Fire Next Time
ONE
MEINA
'YES,' I SAID, MY eyes fixed on the dead body. 'Yes, it's him.'
I stared at the policewoman, at her almond-shaped eyes and her slow-moving mouth. I swallowed and tried to clear a stubborn glob of phlegm from my throat. My heart stalled at a solid memory of my brother Ashvin laughing at the ceremony of my third marriage to a forty-year-old with rotting teeth and a bunch of rowdy kids.
'How long do you think you'll be away this time?' Ashvin asked at the wedding.
'A week,' I said. 'Maybe two.'
After the ceremony the two of us spent the entire day hiding away from all the others in a stinky chicken pen with hungry mosquitoes and the burning sun shooting through the holes in the roof. We laughed so much at that old man. I remember laughing until dawn as we feasted on meat from the dowry I had been sold for: a few goats and a bull the size of a truck. We were like soil and grass my brother and I. Whenever my aunt married me off, my brother would never leave me alone. It seemed he knew how I felt even before I found the words to say.
He would walk for miles, sometimes twice a day. Sometimes he would sit silently outside the compounds of the men I had married, not saying a word. He would not leave until he had seen me. And when he saw me he would say nothing, just get up and trek back to my aunt and her rum-drunk lecherous husband, just like that. That was before he came up with the blind beggar routine – you would be surprised at what a few strange-tasting meals, odd noises at night and a cat-eyed boy can do to the psyche of a Somali husband. Believe me, I know. Divorce worked for me six times.
'It's him.' I repeated.
I am Meina. Armeina. I'm named after the river that runs through Baidoa, a city south of central Somalia. 'It glistened,' she said when I asked Mama why. 'It was a long glistening river, never disturbed.' I lost my parents at the beginning of the fourteenth civil war and between the ages of seventeen and nineteen I was married off six times by a jealous aunt, an old uneducated village woman. My life has never been undisturbed. So I prefer to be called Meina.
What I know of this story begins in the autumn of that dreadful year, 2006, the night my only brother, Ashvin, took his life. He wanted to be a doctor once; but he had lived with real pain. I know what I know about that fatal night because James told me. I guess you could say James's life, our lives, began the day after my brother's death. You see, he (James) almost died too. But I'll begin at the real beginning, on the dilapidated rooftops on an ordinary estate, in an ordinary neighbourhood in London. I owe that much to my brother, this is his story too. I understand that now. What I will never understand is why my brother killed himself then, why he waited until that night to leave me. The way I saw it, for the two of us, all the bad stuff, the real tragedy, was over.
Coming to London should have been our fresh start, our new beginning. I remembered how very happy we were because we were going to Great Britain. I remembered the shock of finding
ourselves alone in a small council flat in east London. Truth was, in many ways we lived better in Somalia, where despite years of war we were around familiar things that at least made life seem constant. In London we had to start all over.
If you look at a map of Africa, you will see my country wrapped around the horn between the Red Sea and the Indian Ocean. I have a clear memory of my last moments in Somalia. It was jilaal, the dry season. I remember taking time to pause and inhale deeply on the steps of the plane. I remember staring at the horizon and at the fierce sun as though my heart knew I would never see my country again.
Things were different from the London I had read about or seen in pictures. Until I arrived here after a six-hour flight, I imagined a different universe of street parties, white girls with ponytails – and boyfriends – who ate chunky chocolate bars while jumping rope on lush, green grass; ice cream and fine wines and homes with tended hedges.
I had never heard of bipolar disorder. Those were the words the coroner used to justify my brother's death. It wasn't a term ever used where I was from – where we learned to recite the Holy Qur'an before we learned to walk, where we were taught to work like immortals, to pray and to trust in Allah as if tomorrow was the last day.
The Oxford Concise Medical Dictionary describes people with bipolar disorder as being under the darkest of clouds. Somalia has been through fifteen years of war. People walked under these darkest of clouds, oblivious to beautiful things. But we did not have words for this state of mind.
Back to that night. It was cold and velvet black. The moon had risen early, it looked like dripping wax and cast eerie judgement over the oaks, sycamores, and bare hornbeams and over the twin towers of Wanstead Flats, Forest Gate, east London.
James and Ashvin, best friends, stood on two separate roofs of the towers, aware of the danger of leaning so close to the edge, the impetuous energy of death pulled at them like the high tide from the shore. Both rooftops were wide and dirty with piss puddles and sprays of overgrowing weeds.
The binmen were expected; that muscular smell of refuse made it difficult to breathe. The smell drifted everywhere, covered everything, like concrete in your developed world. It mingled with the tightly coiled smell of stale urine and frying bacon, together they made the air dank and thick like camel stew. The horizon, as far as the eye could see, was enveloped in the gritty fabric of the London skyline at night, traces of the permanent stench, the stooping rhythms of failure: aerosol cans, empty plastic carrier bags, orphaned toys, rubbish everywhere – a three-wheeled pram, a sodden mattress with orange foam hanging out of it, a fashionable construction boot with no laces, trampled cigarette packets, a slashed rubber tyre, empty Scotch bottles, half-full condoms; all scattered relics from battered lives.
A sudden burst of static from a semi-professional walkie-talkie bought less than a week earlier from Currys, Stratford, a closing-down sale that had been going strong for eight months.
'You ready?' James's rasping voice. He sat on the edge of the roof of John Walsh Tower, a thirty-one-storey block of high-rise council flats as oppressive as the environment within which it was built. James waved his right arm at his friend.
Another burst of static. 'Like Freddy.' My brother Ashvin's voice, a refugee with an evasive Somali accent, a sullen tone. He was lying. He wasn't ready to die at all. If only he would have talked to me.
Ashvin sat on the edge of Fred Wigg Tower, an identical block opposite John Walsh. He stared down blindly at his trembling hands. He put a hand in the knee pocket of his combat trousers, fished around, took out his compass; the needle directed him and he faced the Middle East. Then he washed his head and his hands and feet with icy bottled Volvic water. Slowly, he began to recite his sura, his face dripping wet. Despite being taught, he only remembered one of the seven beautiful verses from the opening of the great book.
Ashvin could only see James's silhouette on the opposite building. When he completed his prayer he returned James's wave and then checked his watch. Almost time.
James and Ashvin. Teenage boys dressed mournfully in black. Friends who some might have said shared the same looks: the same wide flat noses, full lips, hair cut short enough to see the scalp and recently enough to feel the sharpness of the bristle. James had soulful black eyes while my brother's were firefly orange – like the desert sands. They were good-looking boys in an African fashion.
They encircled their necks with rope, nooses tightened with well-practised slip knots. And then they held the slack from the rope in the palms of their hands, training their thoughts, allowing for no further doubt. They looped their hands through the rope leaving enough room for slight movement of their wrists. And then their final preparations were complete. There was a moment's pause as they both took a final glance down at the lights across the vast city – to the west, Leytonstone; Wanstead to the north; Manor Park and Ilford to the south and, to the east, Forest Gate. I often put myself in his position. I feel as though I know my brother's last thoughts. When I close my eyes I see it all clearly.
In that moment, Ashvin let his gaze fall down on the headlights from a car travelling towards Ilford, down a long dark road far below. He became giddy as his thoughts turned to the driver and where he was headed. To a beautiful home he owned? A bed with clean sheets? The warm breasts of his wife? The sound of laughter from his kids? Ashvin wanted to be the car driver, but he wasn't. In five minutes he would be dead. He suddenly felt unspeakably weary, his hands trembled, realising the terror he felt coursing through his veins. He blew a long sigh and tried to remember the words to another prayer. He couldn't. He bowed his head and allowed his tears to spill.
On the other roof James was trying in vain to focus his last thoughts away from death, trying to sharpen his dimmed senses. But, as always, dark thoughts lurked, a heavy, silent presence like a stalking python. He thought of his own funeral and then he thought of Ashvin; of their conversations that went long into miserable nights when they smoked chronic and spoke with rage about human nature and global economies, about a future world they felt was stacked against them and about other old, jumbled resentments.
The trouble with my brother and James back then was that they were possessed with what they thought was the truth but they both lacked imagination. My brother was an extreme, a fighter, but he thought too much, if that is possible. When we first arrived in London he allowed himself to become angry and he forgot what we were taught by our parents about the wellbeing of the spirit and the heart. He said he wanted to fight, but London was different. Where we came from we knew the faces of the enemy. In London there was no one to aim for. In London, he said, you never saw who kept you down. He spoke of the relentless rhythms of machinery and mechanisms that acted like the wind, swept you up high in the trees where you swayed and you swayed until one day in the autumn you lost your grip, you fell and you closed your eyes and hoped, even prayed, for a soft landing. But in London you knew you wouldn't land well because everything, everything around was so hard.
James could hardly breathe up on the other roof and he was beginning to panic. Far down below in the stink of the backstreets he caught a glimpse of a pack of boys he recognised. Gangs. The Forest Gate Man Dem had been warring recently with the Paki Panthers from Ilford. He stared down and thought of the boys filled with perpetual rage, want and hunger. Some of them were wearing masks. He knew they would be armed with knives and wooden bats, as they rode pedal bicycles like delirious locusts; guarding a crumbling territory they would never own. The boys in the gang watched the high road in both directions for anything, scanning for prey to close in on. Sometimes James hated those boys, sometimes he understood them.
He looked out across Leytonstone, down by Forest Gate. So quiet. James hated the houses, the shops and the streets. He hated Forest Gate. More than anything James hated his life. He could never grasp the point of it all. He wouldn't ever quite become the person everything around him told him he was supposed to be and, for as long as he could remember, he felt he ha
d been born at the wrong time, into the wrong family, in the wrong place. That night he would put it right.
James felt his forehead grow cold. He was tired. He remained stiff in contemplation, slipping into a familiar place within, where he could not be touched. It was Tuesday. He had thought the day of his death would feel different, special, but it began like any other. He woke with the same deep despondency and, as always, he dreaded getting up.
He thought of the day before when he and Ashvin had inspected both rooftops one last time. They had watched a man – one of those middle-aged, new-money types with a fresh haircut and Italian slip-ons whose profession you could never quite tell. The man stood with a delicate-looking woman with an unattractive, angry face. She had lush hair, wore pendant earrings cut from jade, and a loose milk-white dress, silk, mottled with red. The couple quarrelled.
'Stop calling me at home. She knows it's you. You knew what this was about when we started.' His English was clunky, his accent Slavic. He wore a smile as he spoke but it did not hide the malice in his words.
She looked at him and nodded but her eyes revealed her suffering. Then she struck his face in fury and tore his cheek with her nails; he struck her back, and with contorted faces they stood slightly crouched and held each other for what seemed like a long time.
In the quietness of that tender moment James's eyes met Ashvin's. Both boys remained still and watched closely, hypnotised. James wished the couple would go away because they were white people like ghosts and for him, because of the things he knew, their pain, their reality could not be identified as the same as his own. Watching the couple argue was like watching unbelievable characters from some American B-movie.
Without saying a word, as if reacting to some signal, the woman hitched her dress and popped the buttons on the man's fly. She stroked his prick until he was stiff and then she straddled him. The boys made an effort not to look but they couldn't remove their eyes.
