‘How you getting on in there? Anything needing immediate attention?’
The scissors were at the back. His hand reached but pulled the drawer too far. The whole load dropped on the floor. Typical.
‘Wait a minute, man. I ain’t no priority speedy boarding, innit.’
The laughter from the kitchen was full and deep, in that comfortable way that was sort of a bit too grandfather for the age, but which Karl proper liked about Godfrey.
‘You’re too much. Get your groove on though, I got to get back.’
Karl smiled. Groove, he smirked. So last century. You getting old, man. No swag at all.
A letter fell under the table next to Karl’s trainers. He picked up the papers. Neat handwriting stuck out. Airmail. Hardcore old school. Karl didn’t bother to sit down, just opened the thing. Quick.
Dear Rebecca,
I pray this reaches you in the best of health. I’m writing today to alert you of my brother’s sudden injury. The doctors are concerned. In the last weeks he has been unrecognisable. A different man, as I told you on the phone. A few days after our conversation, he spoke of you.
I have kept your promise until a few days ago but couldn’t keep it from him any longer. He himself had brought you up. He now knows of the child and wishes to see him. Her? It was not my intention to disregard your wishes. Please forgive any shortcomings of mine. I will call you to discuss further but as it has been difficult to reach you, I am informing you in this rather old-fashioned way. Please kindly send your email address.
Always Yours,
T.
Ikeja, Lagos
[email protected]
It had been re-opened; the torn bit of sello on the outside was a sure tell. Another pen colour scribbled on the side.
I’m in Italy from 4th until the 16th. Kindly call me.
And a number. Inside Karl, things sank. The heart, the stomach, the lung. All fell, crashing hard, pushing out the shallow bit of air that had survived his hasty opening-stuff-that-wasn’t-his operation.
‘I want to go.’
Karl’s head changed to red, his arms stuck by his side.
Godfrey had entered the room and now stood next to him. He picked up the letter. His brow furrowed. His eyes had skimmed over the words, to get level playing field with Karl. Eyes wandered from thin paper to Karl’s face, then back to the paper. Back to Karl.
‘I will go.’
‘I can’t let you do that, Karl.’
‘Godfrey.’
Karl was using Godfrey’s weapons, one of his favourites: the calling of the name. Complete with dramatic pause. Very classic. They were eyeing each other, ready for the next round.
‘Are you trying to say this isn’t like major, I mean like proper? Don’t give me your “just let it go” this time.’
‘Karl.’
But Karl had learned from the best.
‘Godfrey.’
Afternoon sun hit the open window right where the MDF fitted neatly into the corner. The window frame was old, wooden; it had started to crack over the years. It needed replacing.
‘Karl.’
‘Godfrey.’
Godfrey exhaled, his breath heavy from the opinion that he had dropped on it. A tactic that people, especially oldies like him, used when talking sensible shite to youngsters. It was so much more important when you left the words out.
‘I heard you and Abu had some trouble the other night.’
‘You’re changing the subject.’
‘Karl.’
‘Godfrey.’
‘Karl!’
‘Godfrey?’
‘But you did have some trouble.’
‘We did.’
Both stopped. Paused. Looked away, then at each other. Godfrey in his early-thirties-ness. Sporty Trinidadian, stocky. That nice nice type of guy. Proper solid, who believed in the right side of things. That you could find it with the right amount of effort, the right amount of care.
And that was exactly the sort of care he had for people like Karl. For Karl in particular. Who he had taken home and kept there when things were difficult. Before they had the arrangement that involved calling him when things went downhill with Rebecca. Before he got the special guardianship and Abu’s mum became a kinship carer. All of them tied in by law. A group effort to get this thing safely to the other side: Karl’s growing up.
They stared. At each other. Away. Godfrey, who was through and through: there are no wrong kids, just wrong outcomes. There were things to be grabbed with both hands, opportunities to make one’s own and so forth. In and out. Like trains, his sermons. Karl didn’t listen to too much of it, not because he didn’t care but because he had been hearing it for a while. For the past six years. Godfrey’s dark, almost black eyes, coin-shaped and normally a little too large for the face, narrowed and focused on the youngster’s. His tight-cropped hair shining, both from being proper black and the bloody pomade he’d used. Pomade! Twenty-first century, hello! right?
‘I’m cold.’
‘Then close the window.’
Karl stepped to it. All casual, so shrugging-shoulders type it amplified. And slowly he closed it, carefully. Must remind them again. The council. Then out loud to Godfrey:
‘Take a minute, a day, a week. Whatever. I’ll ask you again.’
Full-on assault now.
‘You know why, Godfrey. You understand. We both know it.’
Karl took the letter from Godfrey’s hand. Pushed it into his back pocket.
‘You always look out for me. You really do. And my appreciation is like crazy. For real.’ He paused. ‘Maybe you can’t let me go legally but I doubt it. You can sign anything you want for me. You know that. I know that. I thought I had no dad. That mum didn’t know him or he was such an arsehole that she couldn’t even talk about him.’
Karl’s voice was all screeching metal now, low volume, but still. It pierced your ears for sure. Godfrey pressed his lips together, trying to stay alpha.
‘Be honest. Tell me that you don’t get it. Forget even that mum lied to me my whole life, avoiding anything to do with the topic. Me and her don’t have the same bloody life. If it’s not the wannabes, it’s the bloody police. ’Cause we’re always causing trouble, right?’
Godfrey was still pressing his lips together.
‘Would be nice to experience something else for a change. Not be suspicious. For a minute.’
Karl was looking at Godfrey. He waited, taking his time.
‘I’ll ask you again, seven days from now. If you can look me in the eye and say you would not go if you were in my shoes, I’ll drop the whole thing.’
He continued on his sense-making, teamwork process. Looked away. Back at Godfrey. Arms dangling now, doing nothing with them, just loose and open and clear.
‘I promise.’
He held out his hand, showing most of his rosy palm. Was waiting for Godfrey to accept the fair deal. And you couldn’t say it wasn’t fair. Made a whole bloody load of sense. Karl had cornered him. That’s the thing when you train your people. Sooner or later they beat you at your own game. Punch. Strike. Defeat.
A week later Godfrey said yes.
4
* * *
When we speak of nothing
we don’t end the silence.
The way she walked in gave her mood away. Karl hid in the living room. Hiding was pointless. You couldn’t get lost in their one-point-five-mini-bedroom mansion. Everywhere was present. Like over the top. When Rebecca entered, he pretended to be tidying up. But there were no stray papers or clothes, nothing to put away or straighten. Nothing. It had all been taken care of. The day before yesterday. The day his mother came home energised. Ready. Because it hadn’t been a relapse. Karl stood with half of his back to her. His face towards the TV. Rebecca waited. It was rude. You didn’t treat your mum that way. Ignoring, pretending, avoiding.
‘I thought I’d skip counselling this time.’
It wasn’t a laugh t
hat came out of his mother’s mouth. ‘And you failed to mention it beforehand?’
‘I thought I’d give you time. So you could have proper chat and all …’
She left the room. Not pleased. So not pleased. Karl could hear her bedroom door open, then the water in the bathroom. He sat on the small couch and checked his phone. No messages. Abu was out with the twins and his mother. Visiting relatives. He was stuck with his own life.
gesture /ˈdʒɛstʃə(r)/
noun
What you show.
verb
How you do it.
He could smell the bath oil from here. His mother returned, already in her bathrobe.
‘We don’t have to have these sessions. It’s something we’re doing for the both of us. If you don’t want to go, say. But don’t take me for a ride.’
Karl was staring at the TV. ‘Sorry mum.’
‘Sorry? Can you explain yourself? Much more important than your apology. What were you doing?’
‘Nothing.’
It was true. He had begged Godfrey not to say anything and Godfrey had agreed. For the time being. And then his mother came home all chirpy and ready to proper gel again.
‘Karl! I’m trying to talk to you!’
She had loosened her hair. It was falling over the top of the purple robe. He hated that thing. Or seriously disliked it, if you wanted to be more therapy talk like. It looked too cheap, too old, too unglamorous for his mother. Rebecca always laughed. ‘It’s perfectly fine, does the job,’ she would reply. She would laugh even more when he claimed it didn’t do her justice. But there was no use buying her a new one. She didn’t need one, didn’t want one, loved this one. The softness from endless washes. The familiarity. She wasn’t wearing it to show off. She wanted to be comfortable. Rebecca retied the belt, held on to the loose ends.
‘Karl, I’m waiting for an explanation.’
‘Just ground me or something.’
Rebecca’s mouth would have hit the street if it had been big enough to make it through the lower floors. It flapped open, heavy. ‘You want some form of punishment?’
Karl shrugged. He was pushing the boat out, major operation. He was already lost but once you ride a wave you have to keep bending your knees and go in, all the way.
‘For what?’
He had been grounded once. In seventeen years. And that was because of Piers. Aunty Sarah had insisted because Karl had broken Piers’ tail light. The grounding consisted of not coming along to an outing with them, which is what Karl had gone for in the first place. Piers gave offensive lectures while eating, walking, breathing. Basically he couldn’t stop his mouth from hating Karl. Ever. No therapy could soften that.
His shoulders moved up and down again. It wasn’t easy to be whatever on his mum. Not easy at all.
‘I want to know what’s going on.’
She grabbed her book from the table next to the couch. Her legs brushed his as she walked by.
‘I expect you to explain yourself. It’s not OK to leave other people hanging. You have a mouth; use it. We’re all reasonable people.’ She had been looking at him but walked out of the room now. ‘If you want, consider it your punishment.’
A text came in. Abu. On his way home.
‘We can talk tomorrow. Properly. You’re right, I should have come to therapy. Let’s talk about it next week.’ Karl, in the hallway as well, took his jacket off the wardrobe.
His mother was only a few steps away, hand on bathroom door. ‘I thought you wanted to be grounded? I expect you to stay here until you have given me a reasonable explanation. Suit yourself when you want to do that.’
The door closed and the radio went on. Jazz FM had some old-school hour. His mother had probably waited for it. He could hear the water, and her skin settling in on the enamel.
Godfrey came by the next day. Agreed that the joint therapy sessions were to be joint. Like they had discussed and agreed. All of them. Unless Karl said so beforehand. Or his mother did. It was worse. They really hadn’t done any sessions for a while. This one was supposed to be a catching up to see if everything was still going well. They did that from time to time. How was it with their alternative-style family? Were Karl and Rebecca still on track, meaning close? How was Karl doing in general? How was Rebecca? Did they spend enough time with each other or did they get lost in their own lives? Especially when Rebecca was ill a lot. It helped. The checking in. Rebecca stayed main parent that way even in those rare times when a depression shut her away for weeks.
Karl had simply forgotten. A father looming on the horizon can make you do that. Especially when you intend to keep that new intel from your very clued-up mum.
‘I was just dealing with some stuff. Got caught up.’
His eyes were glazing over. Now a proper reason. Twenty-four hours and he still hadn’t come up with a good excuse. He wasn’t unreliable, so people, his people, asked to get an answer, not for rhetoric.
‘Probably the stuff with the bullies from your year?’
Godfrey could throw a lifeline like no other. Didn’t agree one single bit with the not telling his mother, but he could understand it, somehow, could feel Karl on this one.
‘Yes, yes. Distracted. So much going on. I need some time out, for real. Don’t really know where my head is at.’
He was trying to work his Karl magic – smiled sheepishly, dimples and all – but Rebecca waved it away.
‘Don’t try your cutesy face on me. I gave birth to you. Been seeing it since.’
They laughed. The air had lifted a little. Godfrey got up. He needed to be off, had just dropped by because of being in the neighbourhood, which was true. He left out that he was glad to leave this situation behind, withheld info and all. Rebecca walked him to the door; Karl followed behind. They both watched as Godfrey descended the stairs. Rebecca put her arm around Karl’s waist. Would have been the perfect time to bring it up. To start with the beginning. Of the story. Of what he was planning. But Karl lowered his head to her shoulder without any of those explanations.
‘Really mum, I just don’t know where my head is. Let’s leave therapy for a while.’
deception /dɪˈsɛpʃ(ə)n/
noun
The act of not showing what is but what looks good.
Better than what you want to hide.
Missed opportunity.
‘If you think so.’ She tried to get a view of his face. ‘If you don’t think we’ll get anything out of it at the moment …’
She wasn’t entirely happy. Karl wasn’t letting her in. But that was how teenagers were, wasn’t it?
5
* * *
We always think much higher
of ourselves, when we have
good reasons for our actions.
Godfrey agreed to a slow proceeding. Let’s start with a call. Tunde – who said, laughing, on the phone to Karl, ‘Ah! I feel I know you, just call me Uncle T!’ – was in Italy on business and happy to detour to London – his UK visa from a trip earlier in the year still valid – introduce himself, make his sincerity known and hopefully carry Karl swiftly to the fatherland. Sometime soon.
What turned Godfrey around wasn’t just Karl’s I can knock you sideways with your own game, any time. It was the lot. Sandwiched between Uncle T’s excitement and Karl’s calculated reasoning, it was difficult to get a straight thought in. Godfrey’s enthusiasm was so yeah sure that makes sense if not stupidly risky and I don’t know that man from Adam. Anything could happen. Anything. And Godfrey wouldn’t be able to do shit about it.
But then Uncle T came to London and told Godfrey how he had stayed in touch with Rebecca. And how Rebecca had tried to cut even those ties. From day one. Tunde told Godfrey how he had begged Rebecca to let Karl’s father at least know about the child. Even if she didn’t want to speak to him because that much was clear. Always said ‘the child’ until Godfrey corrected him:
‘Karl. Just say Karl. Please.’
And Tunde startled, his bo
dy stopping for a moment, the arms and hands left frozen in the air. Then realising, laughing.
‘I never knew. Even that, she never said. It was only the child, if she answered at all.’
‘First me alone,’ Godfrey had said to Karl. Suss it out. He and Tunde had spoken for three hours straight. Top to bottom. Gone over the details, verified the security measures. You had to. This was bloody this century, not no trusting 1960s. If they had been trusting. At the end of the mega-interview the uncle had said ‘Godfrey,’ extending his hand, ‘it will be OK.’ Godfrey almost thought it was a genetic thing. The truss me gene.
Uncle T wanted nothing from them. And he had not miraculously inherited/been given/made 200 million (of any currency that was impressive, thus not naira), which were now sitting in his account needing rescue, urgently.
Instead, Tunde came with a picture of Rebecca with Karl’s father, taken a bit more than eighteen years ago: a snapshot, a small bar in Lagos. The two sitting under an aluminium roof that shaded the few plastic tables and chairs. Behind them, a guy on a barbecue – ‘He’s making suya,’ Tunde said – giving his thumbs up and grinning. Tunde also brought Rebecca’s short replies to his letters, always on postcards that showed some variation on the Queen, or a similarly monarchy-type motive. Always ironic, the choice of card, always cryptic, the writing, always short, never mentioning anything specific about Karl whatsoever. Fine. We’re well, thanks. Baby is fine. Child is fine. Mother is fine. Now eff off already. Last thing implied. Please do not send money, don’t need any, we’re fine. Will not use it. As you returned it the last time I sent it back I’m keeping it aside now. Come for it when you’re ready. Yes, secondary school now. Fine. Fine. Fine.
When We Speak of Nothing Page 3
