Where Women are Kings

by Christie Watson

  *

  If he couldn’t live with Ricardo, Elijah wanted to live with Chioma. She was a Nigerian and she believed in God – she must know all about hell and damnation. But Chioma said he wasn’t allowed to live with her, either. Sometimes they played with the castle and sometimes they made shapes in the sand with tiny instruments: a small plastic knife, a bucket, a small scoop, a rake. Elijah liked the rake the best. No matter what they had been playing and what mess they had made, the rake smoothed the sand out completely until it was in neat flat rows. He liked touching the sand and holding it in his fist, then letting it fall slowly between his fingers until his hand was empty. Chioma let him play with water and make a big mess and she said it was good to make a mess sometimes. But Elijah didn’t like making a mess; he liked cleaning it up afterwards. When he held sand in his hand, he pictured the sea above it – deep, dark blue – and the smell of salt. Sometimes, at night, he’d fly over the oceans and swim right down to the bottom, until it got darker than midnight and tiny fish flashed like miniature stars.

  ‘Do you want to do some drawing today?’ Chioma asked. She wore a long patterned dress and a scarf tied up high on her head. Elijah loved her clothes and the tiny slices of fried plantain she brought him to snack on, wrapped in kitchen roll.

  ‘We’re not supposed to eat in here,’ she’d whisper, ‘but who wants to play without a snack?’

  Elijah looked out of the window. He felt closer to Mama when he was there. Chioma’s play room was on the same road as the contact centre. He always wanted to stay in Chioma’s play room in case Mama was searching for him, and he wouldn’t mind sleeping on the floor. Mama only went to the contact centre when there was contact and there hadn’t been contact for so long, since Mama was ill in the special hospital. Still, Mama had breathed the air in the contact room and her feet had walked on the path outside.

  ‘I wanted to talk to you today,’ said Chioma, ‘about something important.’

  Elijah flicked his eyes towards her.

  ‘It’s nothing bad,’ she said. ‘In fact, it’s quite a good thing.’ She smiled and shone and sparkled. It was impossible to not smile back. ‘I think you are doing so well with our sessions that I wonder if you’re ready to start thinking about a forever family. Have you heard of adoption?’

  Elijah shook his head. He looked out of the window, past the bars, at the patches of sun changing the colour of the grass outside. Then suddenly he remembered. A boy from Sue and Gary’s had been adopted and sent them letters every year and a photo of himself on a bike or on a skateboard or climbing a tree.

  ‘I’d like you to have a think about it, and a talk with Ricardo. And we can talk lots and lots. But I think you might be ready to live with a family forever. A family who you would belong to, and who would belong to you.’

  Elijah tried to shrug but his shoulders were frozen.

  ‘Let’s play now instead of all this chatting,’ said Chioma, her eyes sparkling brightly. ‘What would you like to play with?’

  Elijah thought for a minute or two then knelt down near the giant dolls’ house in the corner. He had never wanted to play with the dolls’ house before. It was painted pink and white on the outside and had five different levels. Inside were different furnished rooms and miniature wooden people. A family. ‘Shall we play mums and dads?’ he asked.

  ‘That’s a good idea, Elijah.’ Chioma put the pens and paper away, and walked towards the dolls’ house and sat down next to him. ‘I love this dolls’ house,’ she said.

  Elijah looked at the rooms. There was a living room with tiny chairs and patterned wallpaper, and a bathroom with a real-looking bath and taps the size of ants. At the top of the house was the nursery, where a baby doll was lying in a cot. Elijah picked up the baby. ‘The baby is crying,’ he said.

  ‘Poor baby,’ said Chioma. ‘Why is he crying?’

  ‘He wants his mama.’

  Chioma peered into the dolls’ house and frowned. ‘Where is his mummy?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  Elijah made crying sounds and lifted the baby into his fingers and gently out of the room to show Chioma. The crying sounds got louder and louder.

  ‘Poor baby,’ said Chioma. She stroked the doll’s face with her thumb.

  Elijah made the crying sounds really well until it sounded exactly like a baby was crying. He looked at the wooden baby and felt so sorry for it. He imagined how the baby must feel and how his cry would sound.

  ‘Poor baby,’ said Chioma. ‘It must be so hard for him to miss his mummy so much.’ She touched the doll’s head, and her fingertips touched Elijah’s hand. ‘Look at the lovely baby,’ she said. ‘He deserves to have a mummy, and a daddy, and to be loved and to be safe forever.’

  Elijah cried and cried like the baby. He let his hand fall into Chioma’s and she held it tight before pulling him towards her. Chioma wrapped her arms around Elijah while he cried and cried. She held him so close that he didn’t notice the doll fall to the floor. She wasn’t supposed to hold him; Elijah knew that. On their very first week, Chioma had told him that she couldn’t hold him or touch him, that it was the rules and her job was very different from Ricardo’s. But she must have forgotten because she held him close enough that he could hear her heart beating slow and steady, and he felt his own heart beating over it, so quick, like it wanted to get away from his body.

  ‘Poor baby,’ Chioma whispered, over and over and over, straight into Elijah’s ear.

  SIX

  Obi and Nikki sat together on the sofa, but there was space between them where a pile of magazines waited, children’s faces smiling from the covers: Be My Parent! one side, and Children Who Wait the other. Daddy sat in the chair opposite, grinning. It always surprised Nikki how much he looked like Obi, only slightly smaller with greying hair and smiling eyes.

  ‘Can I get you anything, Daddy?’ Obi asked.

  ‘Stop fussing,’ said Daddy, laughing. Then he looked up at Obi and half stood, reached across the table and patted Obi’s leg before sitting back down. ‘Such a good boy,’ he said.

  Obi rolled his eyes but Nikki could see the smile in them.

  She looked around the living room and thought back to their first visits from Ricardo. Usually she hated cleaning, but now, as things became more real and the adoption was more than simply a possibility, she found herself nesting. Obi laughed whenever he saw her pottering around and, the day before, he’d grabbed her and lifted her up to him. ‘I can’t believe I’m saying this, but stop cleaning!’ he’d said, and then they’d both laughed.

  ‘I feel nervous,’ said Nikki. She thought of Ricardo’s questions about what she and Obi would feel able to accept when they got to matching:

  Parental schizophrenia?

  Child born of incest or rape?

  Child with overtly sexualised behaviour?

  What about a child who had had one parent killed by the other parent, or a child who had a life-limiting illness?

  Obi had said yes to everything. But she’d said, ‘A child with a life-limiting illness? I couldn’t ever lose a child. Not another child.’ Obi had held her, and nodded his head gently against hers. Then Nikki had looked at the list again. A child with overtly sexualised behaviour? How would she cope? How would she know what to do? The thought made her feel sick.

  ‘These are real children, Nik. We can’t be picky.’

  ‘I’m not being picky, Obi. I’m being serious.’

  He had shaken his head. ‘This is what we’ve signed up for – any child we adopt will be damaged. How they behave is just a symptom of that.’

  Nikki’s heart hurt. She felt cruel. But what was the point in not being honest? ‘It doesn’t matter if it’s just a symptom. It’s their behaviour. It’s them. And I don’t think I could handle a child who … who …’

  Obi had just stared, waiting, but the words wouldn’t come. This was why Nikki wanted a baby: a life too new to be too damaged; a child who’d be easy to care for. She closed her eyes and sco
lded herself. Why was she trying to limit their options? They wanted a child; she wanted to be a mother.

  When Ricardo next visited, Obi told him that they weren’t able to accept a child with a life-limiting disease. ‘It’s out of the question,’ he said, looking at Nikki.

  ‘That’s fine,’ said Ricardo. ‘I think we’re done with the home study. I think you’re going to be wonderful parents,’ he said, and Nikki’s arms threw themselves around Ricardo before she could stop them.

  Nikki shook Ricardo and the home study and difficult questions with difficult answers from her head. She took a big breath. They were finally going to be parents.

  ‘This is exciting! We could be looking at our son or daughter.’ Nikki touched the magazines, ran her finger over the faces. They had collected three months’ worth and Ricardo had brought them a few that were much older.

  ‘They’re out of date,’ he’d said, ‘but they give you some idea of the ages and needs of children who are waiting to be adopted. I think all families should look at these to understand that most children who need adoption have special needs, or are sibling groups of three or more children, needing adopting together. It helps them if they have a fantasy of a single, healthy little baby.’

  He looked at Nikki then, she was sure of it, but Obi didn’t notice. He had thanked Ricardo and put the magazines away. It was only now that they had felt able to look at them. Only now they were approved adopters. Only now it was real. A child.

  ‘One of these children in here could be ours,’ said Obi. ‘Imagine that! What a thing we’re doing. What an adventure.’

  ‘A grandfather at last!’ Daddy laughed out loud. ‘I don’t like these magazines,’ he said. ‘Feels like a sales conference. But I am very, very pleased that you are finding my grandson.’

  ‘It might be a girl!’ said Nikki, but when she looked at Daddy’s face, she could see that look in his eye. He was teasing her.

  Obi looked at Nikki for the longest time and touched her cheek with his thumb. ‘You are going to be the best mum. This is what we’ve been waiting so long for. All those months and intrusive questions, and before, all that pain …’

  Nikki closed her eyes and felt the softness of Obi’s thumb, the certainty of his voice. He was right.

  ‘All those miscarriages,’ whispered Obi. ‘All those children we lost. And here are children waiting to be found. It all makes so much sense.’

  ‘I can’t wait to see my grandchild. Honestly, having grandchildren is better than having children. You are older and wiser and can give them back at the end of the day when they’re tired!’

  Nikki smiled. Daddy had been such a support for them. He was the first person they called to tell they were pregnant and the first person to call to say they’d miscarried. Yet he’d never once told them to give up, or been any less excited each and every time, or less sad each and every time. When Obi had collected the magazines, Nikki had suggested they look at them with Daddy. ‘He’s been with us every step,’ she’d said. ‘Let’s get his opinion.’

  *

  First there was giggling, loud enough to float into the house, then high heels clicking on the pavement outside. Then a guffaw. It sounded like two drunk teenagers were messing around in the street outside, but Nikki knew it wasn’t.

  ‘I’m not holding them,’ said Jasmin’s voice. ‘I look like a baby.’

  She heard her sister whoop in response and imagined her pulling a silly face at her daughter.

  ‘Chanel,’ said Obi. ‘I told her not to come over until later.’

  ‘You can’t blame her. She’s excited too.’ Nikki looked at the outlines against the frosted glass: a tall, thin one and a shorter one with pigtails. The shorter one was passing a bunch of balloons to the tall, thin one. Her sister. Her niece. She smiled, ran to the front door and opened it before they could knock again.

  ‘Approved adopters!’ shouted Chanel. She handed over half a dozen pink balloons. ‘A baby! We’re going to have a baby!’

  Nikki pulled them into the house and held the string on the balloons, not knowing what to say.

  ‘Approved adopters,’ said Chanel again. ‘So exciting.’ She walked into the living room with Jasmin trailing after her, and Nikki followed them in. ‘Have you picked one yet?’

  Chanel was hugging Obi, then Daddy, so they didn’t notice the balloons at first, but then Obi started to laugh. ‘We haven’t actually got a child yet, you know. And what’s with the pink? We are not specifying the gender.’

  Jasmin suddenly looked interested. ‘Ew. You’re getting a boy? Maisie in my class has a baby brother and her mum spends all day cleaning snot off his nose.’

  ‘Jasmin.’ Nikki let the balloons go and dance in the air above them and put her arm around Jasmin’s shoulder. ‘It could be a boy, or a girl.’

  ‘And it probably won’t be a baby,’ said Obi. ‘Whoever we get matched with will be perfect for this family. Most children who need adopting are older. Look.’ Obi picked up a magazine and laid it on his lap, flicking open the first page.

  Nikki sat down next to Obi. Daddy got up from his chair and moved next to Obi, sitting on the arm of the sofa. Nikki made to move but he shook his head. ‘I’m fine,’ he said, looking down at the magazine on Obi’s lap.

  ‘I’m not sure we shouldn’t save this for later,’ said Nikki, gesturing with her eyes to Jasmin.

  But Jasmin didn’t move.

  ‘She’s fine,’ said Chanel. ‘It’ll be her cousin, after all.’

  Faces stared out at them: a few babies, but mostly older children in pairs or threes, most of them mixed race or black. Every single one of the children looked beautiful to Nikki. Children waiting to be adopted were all beautiful, unusually so, with thick, long eyelashes and eyes that opened wide and glistened. All the photos showed the children in their best clothes, ribbons in their hair, clean and neat. Underneath each photo was an advertisement for that particular child, as though the children were white goods – fridges or washing machines. Nikki tried not to focus on the babies’ faces, but she felt her eyes drawn towards theirs, wide open, their smiling gums and chubby cheeks.

  She touched the pages on Obi’s lap. ‘Ricardo said to read between the lines, whatever that means. I suppose like here, it says, “Sammy (not real name)”, so that might mean the birth family are looking for them – want to take them back. There might be a possibility of abduction.’

  ‘Abduction?’ said Daddy. ‘Really? Is that a possibility?’

  Nikki nodded. It was true. There were so many possibilities. Abduction by birth families was just one of them. ‘These children aren’t given up, they’re taken from their birth families due to the worst abuse you could imagine. Often families try and trace them; that’s why they like to place children out of borough.’ The words rang through Nikki as she looked at the photographs: not real name.

  ‘Abducted by aliens,’ whispered Jasmin.

  ‘Or it might mean that they’ve got a ridiculous name,’ said Obi. ‘Look. There’s one here called Lion; I mean, who calls a kid “Lion”? In seriousness?’ He laughed.

  ‘Lion!’ Imagine a child in Nigeria called Lion,’ said Daddy. ‘Nobody would have him visit their house.’

  Chanel laughed so loudly the balloons moved across the ceiling. Jasmin walked towards Daddy and he reached out and pretended to tickle her. He was the only person that Jasmin let treat her like a child, and her face lit up whenever Daddy was nearby.

  They turned the next page, and the next. The adverts were all similar, but occasionally Obi would stop at one and read it out.

  ‘Lucy is a happy three-year-old girl who attends nursery part time where she is showing some difficulties but progressing well with support. She has some developmental delay, which may be due to her past experiences. Her foster carers describe her as a happy little rainbow who enjoys Peppa Pig and dressing up. Lucy would benefit from one parent being at home full time and no other children in the household.’ He paused. In the photo was a little girl
with blond hair, blue eyes, pale skin. ‘She looks lovely,’ he said. ‘Mind you, they all look lovely.’

  ‘Aw, Nik, she looks perfect. I can picture her now in that new Rhianna collection they have for kids at River Island. O.M.G. Like clothes for adults, but just miniature. She could totally pull off leopard print.’

  Nikki hit Chanel’s arm gently while Obi chuckled and shook his head.

  Nikki looked down at the magazine again. She did look lovely to Nikki, but all Nikki could think of were alarm bells. Read between the lines, Ricardo had told them. Support, developmental delay, cannot live with other children. What would she do to the other children? thought Nikki. What had happened to her?

  ‘Too white,’ said Daddy.

  Nikki leant forward and shot him a look.

  ‘Well, she is,’ he said, his eyes laughing.

  ‘Or, look at these two. Gorgeous.’ Obi pointed to two smiling children, a boy and girl, both mixed race – or ‘dual heritage’ as Ricardo kept correcting them – with beautiful happy faces. ‘Talesha and Malika, age four and five, are a brother and sister who need to be adopted together. They have an older sibling who is to be adopted separately. Talesha has recently started reception and is settling well. She enjoys making cakes and flying kites. Talesha is a confident little girl who would benefit from clear boundaries. Malika is a boisterous boy who likes playing outside on his bike. He has shown some signs of attachment difficulties for which he is receiving extra support. Malika is very protective of his younger sister and finds it hard to let others care for her at times, though we anticipate that with time this will improve. Talesha and Malika’s foster carers describe them as a cheerful handful.’

  ‘Cool names,’ said Chanel.

  ‘Nightmare,’ said Nikki.

  ‘What do you mean? They look lovely.’

  ‘What kinds of names are those? They don’t sound Nigerian!’ said Daddy.

  ‘Daddy, we’ve been over this,’ said Obi. ‘The child we adopt probably won’t be Nigerian. At least not Igbo. And it really doesn’t matter to us anyway.’