Team Fugee

by Dirk Mclean

  Team Fugee

  Dirk McLean

  James Lorimer & Company Ltd., Publishers

  Toronto

  For Reneé, Jessica and Melissa.

  And my mother, Jacqueline and father, Alonzo.

  “He is looking at me, like a brother, a big brother who cannot feel the awful pain but whose compassion is meant to ease it.”

  Austin Clarke, The Origin of Waves

  Prologue

  Leaving Homeland

  The scorching Nigerian sun beat down upon the soccer field. Boys in blue shorts and red shorts, all in white T-shirts, were clumped at one end of the field. All of the watching Norfolk Hope Orphanage residents and staff, including kitchen helpers, chanted along with six drummers:

  You scored once. Ose!

  Now score twice. Ose!

  Better still, three is nice

  Bounce the ball

  Bounce the ball. Ose, Ose!

  Eleven-year-old Ozzie, dressed in all-red, crouched in front of the goal.

  “One more save in this penalty shootout, then victory will be ours,” he muttered to himself. He wiped the sweat from his forehead with his bare arm.

  The striker jogged three steps and kicked the dusty, white ball hard. Ozzie guessed that it was heading to his left. He dived in that direction. But the ball, with a mind of its own, curved and found the right corner of the net.

  Silence.

  The spectators swarmed the field as the other team celebrated. In fact, everyone celebrated.

  Ozzie rose and limped over to pick up the ball. A car accident when he was little had left him with one leg shorter than the other. Ozzie knew that he still had a lot to learn as a goalkeeper. But after tomorrow it would be in another place, on different soil.

  Ozzie’s sister, Rebecca, ran up and gave him a big hug. Her short braids tickled Ozzie’s neck as she hugged him.

  “Nice play, little brother.”

  “I had fun.”

  His captain handed him a black marker saying, “Sign, Ozzie. We’re retiring this one.”

  As Ozzie signed the ball he scanned the crowd. Some were friends from the past three years. He held the image in his mind of boys and girls with brilliant smiles, laughing, hollering and high-fiving.

  He would miss them all.

  The orphanage was on Victoria Island, south of Nigeria’s capital city, Lagos. It was made up of four buildings with balconies facing into a square. Ozzie had heard that it had once been a private boarding school. But now, instead of the rich, it was children who had lost their parents to crisis and civil unrest who called it home.

  The following morning, in Room 4B of the Boy’s Wing, Ozzie unwrapped a purple silk scarf to reveal a book.

  “Should I leave it for the library?” he asked Rebecca.

  “No. Perhaps one day we will read it,” she said as she packed Ozzie’s clothes. “It’s the only thing we have from our father.”

  He passed his hand over the cover. There was a crimson stain on it. Then he shook the dust from the scarf, wrapped the scarf around the book and tied a knot.

  Rebecca hooked a red and black beaded chain around his neck. He found himself on the verge of crying. He kept his head down so his sister wouldn’t see.

  “Show me where we are going again,” he asked with dark eyes blinking.

  “Okay,” Rebecca sighed. “But we must get to the Canadian Embassy soon.”

  Rebecca took two maps from her knapsack and spread them onto his bed. One was a map of Canada they had both had studied closely the past few months. The other one was of the Greater Toronto Area in the province of Ontario.

  Ozzie’s hand trembled as he pointed to Scarborough where new parents were waiting for them.

  “What if they don’t want us and send us back?”

  “Don’t worry, Ozzie. We’ll be okay,” Rebecca reassured him. She rubbed his low-cut hair.

  Ozzie did not feel reassured. This was one big change. And though it was one he had looked forward to, he hoped it was the last one. He hated big changes.

  1

  Incident on the Field

  Ozzie cradled a well-used soccer ball as he trotted onto the grassy field at William Hall Public School. He was now thirteen, and was followed by eleven other grade seven and eight Nigerian refugees. They all chanted:

  Soccer is our favourite sport

  Favourite sport, favourite sport, favourite sport

  Ozzie stood in the middle as they formed a circle around him. He dropped the ball to his side and silently led their first stretching exercise.

  Suddenly, Victor Bayazid, trailed by the Syrian soccer players, stormed through the circle. Ozzie’s and Victor’s groups never played against each other, only among themselves.

  “It’s our turn to use the field today,” Victor said.

  “I don’t think so,” said Ozzie, straightening up. “Go back and check the schedule,” he offered calmly.

  “I checked.”

  “Check again.”

  “I... did,” Victor said, but he did not seem sure. “I checked.”

  “What, can’t you read?” Ozzie chuckled.

  Victor’s mood darkened. “You all leave... now!” he screamed.

  It was a hot September afternoon in third week of the school year. Each group had been allowed twenty-minute sessions on the field to play six-a-side soccer before the school’s flag football team began their regular practice. The Nigerians and the Syrians alternated Monday through Thursday with no Fridays. Ozzie had organized his group, who had played through the summer on neighbourhood fields.

  “Victor, Victor, what are you going to do, hothead, start a war with us?” Ozzie taunted.

  Ozzie’s players laughed.

  Victor blushed. He shoved Ozzie, who stumbled backwards. As he regained his balance, Ozzie struck Victor with a head-butt. Victor’s head snapped back, throwing black hair off his thin face. He grabbed Ozzie’s chain. It broke and scattered beads among the blades of grass. Ozzie became enraged.

  Both groups, Nigerians and Syrians, all refugees, formed two semicircles around Ozzie and Victor. He and Victor crouched like wrestlers about to dive at each other.

  A dark, towering figure rushed in between. His arms were outstretched to keep the two team leaders separated.

  “Boys, enough,” he said firmly. “There will be no fighting on this field.”

  It was Mr. Greenidge, the gym teacher. His skin was blue-black, he had a round face, and you saw his prominent cheeks before noticing his calm, dreamy, black eyes. Those eyes were ablaze with accusation as he looked from Ozzie to Victor.

  “Victor started it,” tall, muscular Ade yelled from Ozzie’s side.

  “It’s our turn!” Muhammad shouted from behind Victor.

  “No way!” cried Sunny from behind Ozzie.

  Mr. Greenidge held up his arms silencing them all. Before Ozzie or Victor could say anything, he glanced at his clipboard. Then he blew air out of his mouth in a sigh while his eyes bulged. Ozzie thought that Mr. Greenidge looked funny. But he dared not laugh.

  “Ozzie, Victor, follow me, please,” said Mr. Greenidge. “The rest of you may go home. No soccer today for anyone.”

  “My beads,” said Ozzie, looking at the grass.

  “Don’t worry, Ozzie, we’ll find them,” Ade promised.

  * * *

  The three arrived at Principal Jenny Arsenault’s office as she was locking the door. She carried a purse and a laptop case and wheeled a briefcase.

  Principal Arsenault was athletically tall with shiny black hair and green eyes. Ozzie had asked his dad about the school he would be attend
ing. So he knew that the old school here had been saved from closure by the arrival of various refugees to the area. The principal had come to run the newly opened school, still named William Hall Public School, after a Black Nova Scotian who fought in World War I and was awarded the Victoria Cross for bravery.

  “If this can’t wait until tomorrow, walk with me,” she said.

  As they hurried along the main hall, Mr. Greenidge explained what had happened on the field.

  “After checking my clipboard I realized that the mistake was mine and mine alone,” admitted the gym teacher. “Ozzie and Victor, I apologize to both of you for mixing up the sessions. But I knew that the incident had to be reported to you, Principal Arsenault.”

  He pushed open the side door. They all stepped into the yard and headed toward the parking lot.

  “I appreciate your apology, Mr. Greenidge. And the fact that you volunteered to coordinate two groups of students who wanted to enjoy their sport,” she said. “However, there is absolutely no reason for the two of you to resort to physical assault.”

  Both boys looked at the ground.

  “I am sorry that there isn’t a proper soccer program at this school,” she continued. “We are still in a rebuilding phase.”

  Principal Arsenault started walking again. She aimed her key at a green Volvo. The door unlocked and the car started.

  “Ozzie and Victor, I’d like you to apologize to each other,” she said, standing next to her car.

  “I didn’t start it,” said Ozzie, looking at Victor.

  Victor looked at Principal Arsenault. She looked at her watch. Both Ozzie and Victor remained silent.

  “Fine. I have to rush to a meeting. You boys have the evening to think it over. Report back to me at eight-fifteen tomorrow morning,” she stated. “If you do not apologize to each other, neither group will be allowed to use the field for soccer.”

  She placed everything in her back seat, waving off Mr. Greenidge’s offer of assistance. And she drove off — leaving each of them in their own thoughts.

  2

  A Decision to Make

  Ozzie found taking an interest in his surroundings was a way of feeling at home. Since arriving from Nigeria two years before, Ozzie had learned about local history. What he learned added to his love of history in general. Malvern was a constantly changing community of various races and incomes. There were rich people whose homes dated back to the 1800s, but it was always becoming more colourful, Dad would say, as new immigrants found it. Some new arrivals did well. Others struggled, even with government support.

  Ozzie, towered over by Ade and large-bodied Josiah, walked up Neilson Road. Ozzie held a tissue wrapped around the beads his friends had recovered from the field.

  “Don’t wimp out and apologize,” said Ade.

  “Victor was wrong to push you,” Josiah chirped. “He got off lightly. I would have given him one kick, yes.”

  “Maybe I teased him too much,” Ozzie said.

  “It was Mr. Greenidge’s fault. He admitted it like a man. That should be enough,” said Ade.

  “You’re right, Ade. That’s why you should face Principal Arsenault tomorrow, not me,” Ozzie joked. “Pretend you are me.”

  “Make sure you get that limp right, or she’ll know you are an imposter,” Josiah added.

  They fell into laughter as they crossed the tiny bridge over the tracks. Below, a GO train sped commuters toward their homes from downtown Toronto. That train did not stop in this area. Ozzie had read about how Scarborough residents felt that they were treated like orphans by the city. He spent a lot of time in the library, especially on Saturday mornings, and would often get librarians to fill in gaps in the facts he got from the Internet.

  As they neared their homes, the boys knocked fists together, saying their goodbyes. Ade and Josiah lived in the same co-op. They had been adopted by neighbouring families around the same time as Ozzie and Rebecca came to live with theirs.

  “Tonight Toronto FC is going to give the Vancouver Whitecaps a good pounding,” Ozzie called out as Ade and Josiah dashed across Neilson Road.

  Ozzie tried to focus on the upcoming game, rather than his own problem. Dad had promised that Ozzie could watch the first half of the match if he finished his homework beforehand. Ozzie could watch the recorded second half on the weekend. It was all learning for him, for both teams had goalkeepers who were exciting to watch.

  Ozzie lived on a street called Crow’s Trail, where everyone knew their neighbours. Every Labour Day weekend there was a community block party called a Blocko. In the street, party music blared, children were entertained and food was shared banquet style under huge tents. Ozzie couldn’t wait for the next one, even though Labour Day had been only a few weeks ago.

  Ozzie walked up to their plain-looking row house. Mom’s front garden still boasted a small patch of peonies, daisies and pink roses.

  Inside the house, African and Caribbean décor with well-kept ferns, long-stemmed aloe and other, colourful plants greeted him. Ceiling fans instead of air conditioning kept the house cool. Nigeria’s popular HighLife music was blaring, a favourite in the home because of Mom’s own Nigerian roots. The drum beat transported him to another place and time as the outside world retreated swiftly.

  Ozzie removed his running shoes near the front entrance and leaned his backpack against the basement door. He washed his hands in the half-bathroom near the entrance. Then he danced his way into the kitchen. Rebecca, now sixteen, and with long braids, was singing along while she put supper in the oven to warm up. The smell of the spices filled his nostrils, and his belly gurgled in anticipation.

  Rebecca gave Ozzie a quick hug. “Taste this,” she said, offering him a spoonful of the sauce she was preparing. “For the red snapper.”

  “Not enough salt,” he suggested.

  “Salt kills the spices,” she replied. “You’ll have to live with it.”

  “Yes, chef.”

  Ozzie handed her the tissue with the beads. He told her about the incident with Victor and that he might be banished from the field forever. Even if he was banned only for the rest of the year, it would be forever. This was Ozzie’s final year at that school, unless he failed and had to repeat Grade eight. They both knew that was never going to happen, since Mom and Dad were strict about school. Proper Education was their middle name.

  “Promise me you won’t tell Mom and Dad anything,” Ozzie pleaded with his sister.

  “I promise nothing. If this blows up and they ask if I knew, I won’t lie. This is between you and your girlfriend, Principal Arsenault.” She smirked.

  “Stop it.” He blushed. His dark skin did not redden. It simply took on a glow.

  “I thought she liked you.”

  Any answer Ozzie might have made was stopped when Dad arrived in the family’s Lexus, home from his job as a social worker. Mom followed, a minute later in her Mini Cooper, from Scarborough Centenary Hospital where she worked as a doctor.

  As he entered the kitchen, Dad lowered the music a little. Rebecca did not mind.

  “Anything new at school?” Dad asked, rubbing Ozzie’s shaved head.

  “Same old, same old,” Ozzie replied. He looked at Rebecca to see if she would betray him.

  “My History teacher keeps complaining that the room is too hot. We think she’s going through menopause,” Rebecca said.

  “Or she could be pregnant,” Ozzie said, relieved that the conversation was not about him.

  “Well said, Dr. Oz,” Dad teased. “Two doctors in the family now. I’ll live to 125 with all this health care.”

  “Let’s all eat,” said Mom wearily. “I have to go back to the hospital.”

  “And I have a parent council meeting,” Dad added. “You’re on your own for the match tonight, Ozzie. Remember, only the first half.”

  “Fine, Dad,” Ozzie beamed.
r />   Mom and Dad had not noticed that he was not wearing his beaded chain.

  * * *

  Fifteen minutes into the soccer match, Toronto FC led 1–0. Rebecca came into the living room and tossed the restrung beaded chain to Ozzie.

  “Thanks, Sis. You are the best.” he said, slipping the chain around his neck.

  “You owe me. And I will collect,” she warned.

  Rebecca held up a purple scarf. Ozzie recognized it and what it was wrapped around...

  The book, he thought. Our father’s favourite book.

  “I’m going to start reading this now.” She smiled and headed to the basement.

  Ozzie nodded. He picked up his cell phone and speed-dialled his best friend.

  “Dylan Michael Gabriel Uriel Hollingsworth,” Ozzie said to the voice who answered. “Are you watching?”

  “Yeah, Ousmane Ocala Holder. I think the Whitecaps will come back strong. They’re always better in the second half,” Dylan replied.

  “That’s what I’m afraid of. Toronto FC could be lulled into false security.”

  Taking breaks to watch the game, Ozzie told Dylan about the incident with Victor. “What do you think I should do?” he asked.

  “If I was you, and I’m glad I’m not you, I would not want to be in this situation, with it being only September and all. A balmy September at that...”

  “... get to the point.”

  “Sorry, Ozzie. Rambling on is a Welsh trait from my dad. I’m trying to shake it.”

  “You can’t help it. So?”

  “Say you’re sorry. Beg for the royal court’s mercy. Promise you’ll never head-butt any of Her Majesty Queen Jenny’s subjects again, even if the jerk pushes you first.”

  “What if I apologize and Victor doesn’t? Won’t I look like a wuss?”

  “Nah, Victor would look like the weakling. Keep in mind, Her Majesty likes to hand out suspensions like red cards at the World Cup.”

  “Okay, I’ll think it over. And over. Thanks, Dylan.”

  The Whitecaps scored. It was an equalizer. The score became 1-1.