‘John. Ahbeg. Make you take care of dis boy very well o. Anything happen, me I dey find you. You hear?’
‘Yes sah.’ He looked mischievous and winked at Karl. ‘Nothing go happen sah.’
Was just like Karl, like Abu, and a whole lot of other peeps: John liked to have himself a main man, someone to roll with. And since working and trying to build his own business and his wife having their first baby and all those damn things that needed taking care of there hadn’t been much time for any of that sort of thing. Karl was welcome, very welcome indeed.
They went to John’s place. An apartment building located on a wide dirt road that heaved with activities. Small traders lined the length of the street with their little ramshackle stands. The sun climbed from behind the edges of a city that seemed to burp, constantly shaking and pushing out more. People, vehicles, dust and commotion. Hectic. It had something of rush-hour Tube service. We are stuck in the tunnel before the one in front moves. Karl smiled.
Only here it was so much louder, shouting and horns beeping and arms swaying upwards, exclamations, frustration. The taxi driver didn’t participate. He had something very, very cool about him. When the taxi got stuck for a good twenty minutes between rows of other vehicles, he got his phone out of his back pocket again and spoke in a low voice to what sounded like his wife or girlfriend.
Karl sucked in the scene. The stalls at the side of the dusty road with women sitting behind them, legs apart, leaning slightly forward on their thighs, mostly chatting to each other, or fanning themselves with a bit of cardboard. Pyramids made of tomatoes, grains, beans, smoked fish, vegetables and tins. All perfectly balanced on enamel trays. Customers in front, haggling. Kids with or without clothes running in-between, playing and shrieking and waving and looking at Karl with open mouths. Karl aware. He was the main attraction. The one sticking out, being random in all the chaos.
People were in bright outfits with so many colours it was unreal, let alone the patterns and textures, sometimes all proper coordinated, matching purses and shoes for some of the glam-looking ladies. Others were in faded, washed-out clothes that had probably never gone together in the first place. Some of the women walked so slow they were, like, floating. For real. Heads perfectly straight. Hips swaying, left, slow, right, slow, step, slow. If you didn’t concentrate you would think they weren’t moving at all, their bodies just hanging in space. Karl’s eyes followed them. They were fully inside. Their own skin. Nothing spilled over, nothing shrank inside. Comfortable. Abundant. Themselves.
Men in suits. Men in long shirts in the same fabric as their trousers and small bags in their hands. Kids, women, men, shouting, trying to sell Karl a hand vacuum cleaner or CDs or handkerchiefs or second-hand books and magazines or ‘pure water’ (which John said was not as good as bottled and not for him, just for the locals), or crisps or sweets and a million other things. The car completely surrounded, drowning in the sea of people trying to get or sell something. And watching him with open mouths. Beggars with all sorts of limbs missing, waving half an arm or a deformed leg in front of the window. Looking straight at Karl, hands asking. For money. Karl frightened. John just waving them off.
‘Don’t mind am.’
Then suddenly there was an opening and traffic moved again, slowly, but at least they were in business. The house was near, at a street corner, a short way from a small, local market.
‘In the day the activities here are too much,’ John said. He turned around once in a while during their journey, like Uncle T had done when Karl first arrived. But John was stiffer, never jumped or anything, even when the car jerked them all around in sudden moves. Instead he moved up and down, all graceful and shit, as if he were advertising perfect posture and the smoothest streets ever. Not as smooth as the women Karl had seen, though.
‘I will show you tomorrow. The market.’
The house had a cemented parking area in front and a woman was selling small items from an overloaded wood stall, which was positioned at its edge, where the property made friends with the dust road. Little packets of coffee and laundry powder dangled in portioned sachets from both sides of the wood edges. There were a couple of shops at the bottom of the road. Between them the way inside the building. He couldn’t see much; it was dark. Stairs led up, probably to the occupants’ flats, and as they walked closer he inhaled the smells that called for attention: breakfast, brunch, almost lunch. Some people were already cooking. A dark woman with hair in shiny, spiky twists, greeted them with two perfect rows of white teeth.
‘Good morning. How are you?’
Karl couldn’t be too sure. The words felt familiar and strange at the same time. He wasn’t required to respond. Was he? He nodded instead, only so much he could do, shy or not.
John answered and they exchanged friendly words, her eyes wandering to Karl, looking at him, just straight at him, not even once taking the bloody time to blink. It wasn’t a bad look though; it was something else. Like in, good. Like in doing something, something inside of Karl. His palms got sweaty. She stood in front of the shop, which John explained was a little canteen, some aluminium pots in her hands. Water dripped off their sides.
‘You come eat here. Later. I’m Mena. We go talk small. You’re welcome. Welcome to your country.’
She looked at Karl, smiling. Her face all open. Her black top was cut deep enough to show cleavage. Karl was staring too. She had the usual wrapper tied around her waist. Karl threw his best cute boy smile her way, eyelashes patting each other. Hoping – you could only hope – for maximum effect. She was probably a good few years older but seemed like she was up for teasing him as if he was her equal. She winked and laughed, from deep inside her tummy. Karl didn’t know what was so funny.
‘See you soon.’ And she took her pots, turned around and went inside the shop, waving with her free hand.
Karl confirmed, ‘Yes. I will try your food soon.’ His heart slightly giddy. And defo. Without volume. I’m going to be back here in no time.
John was waiting at the bottom of the stairs, reading his folded paper. ‘She only does lunch. She closes in the evening. Now she is busy preparing. We call it bukateria. Or buka. A small place to eat when you are not eating at home.’
Karl followed him up the stairs. Uzo, John’s wife, opened the door, baby in arm. It still had the undefined, young-baby face, all plump cheeks. John put his paper on a little side table. He grew in size as if his feet were soon to take off and he to hover over Uzo and the baby. Funny noises and funnier words came out of his mouth. Karl had to bite the inside of his lips. So much for the properness and perfect posture. Levitating would count as quite the feat but the baby talk and creased face probably didn’t. He shuffled out of the way. You had to know when to give a bit of space, right?
The living room was a lot smaller than his father’s. Three armchairs facing each other with a small table in the middle. A TV. His father’s place felt too proper (other than the bedrooms). All white leather and whatnot, all showing off in that I’m understating here! way but blowing it all up in your face. John’s was just warm. You knew you could hang here; this was for being in, not for showing to someone.
Uzo’s relaxed hair was pulled back into the shortest ponytail ever. Her face and hair almost one thing: from chin to nose to forehead to hairline.
‘Her name is Rose. We are so happy. My wife was very sick but by the grace of God …’
They split apart slightly and his wife extended her right hand, the baby still on her arm.
‘She is beautiful,’ Karl contributed, fingers stroking the infant’s cheeks.
‘You must be hungry. You like our Nigerian food?’
‘I’d love to try whatever you’re making. Thank you.’
He followed her into the kitchen to show that he could be very useful, master dishwasher in fact, helping mothers in England and Nigeria alike. Reel them in and impress was one of his transferable skills. He was still waiting for his career advisor to pick up on it. At least that
would make for a useful session.
Abu always said that. ‘If nothing else, you could make a living with that. Mama’s boy gets a whole new meaning with you, man, although you do forget your own, you know. You should offer services; take the whole mother-pleasing thing off the shoulders of stressed teenagers. Let us get on with business.’ And Karl always replied, ‘Whatever. I do take care of mum. It’s just different. Someone has to show that not all is lost with our generation. I’m doing you a favour.’
Usually they would be on to a lengthy discussion then. The state of the youth. Why not all was lost but why some were acting all gangsta all the time. You know the type that rules the street and makes things difficult, whether you were Karl or Abu or just bloody in the way. And mostly why Abu felt like he had to pretend sometimes as well, even when they were smashed into gates and metal fences together, and not only on snow days.
And Abu would hurl back that there was no place for no black or Asian youth in London. You didn’t even have to be smart to know that. But you didn’t have to be all political analysis all of the time. All that talking didn’t change a bloody thing. What was Karl going to do about it? And how come all his sense-making came with running at night, and why was he not doing the one thing, calling Godfrey, when he did? What was that? Wasn’t even meant to be an insult or anything.
Karl didn’t take any offence. Was just that they knew their shit. The stuff they did. Like Abu being all mouthpiece. And Karl all Nike advert gone proper inclusive. There wasn’t anything to do about it but accept and keep being friends. The ‘fag boys’ from around the corner. ‘Pussy boys’ as the wannabes liked to add. Both their words. And Karl would be all, ‘You know you can just tell them you ain’t gay and be done with it. It’s just me this is for anyway.’ And Abu would be, ‘For real? Bruv, do I look like I have a problem with gay or anything? They know we ain’t gay. I’m not even going to go there. When have I ever let you down? Tell me? Do I really look like I will talk to some pisshead? Got better things to do with my time, mate. If you want to preach again find yourself someone who doesn’t know how to act. Ain’t me.’
Would shut Karl up ’cause it was true. No one had a thing, not one single bit of competition, nothing at all, on Abu. That guy was major correct, knew how to brother from another mother like nobody else. If Karl wanted to talk he could, could tell Abu all about what and how, the whole how Karl wanted to be Karl. But you couldn’t pretend like you were better because you had read some books on the topic. Abu had too. Abu who hated anything college with a passion, which meant he hated anything book-related, had been first to say to Karl, ‘Look mate, found this online. Anything of interest there? Should we get it?’ From there they passed each other the brochures Karl got in the support groups. Karl teasing, ‘If only your teachers knew that you can actually read.’
And Abu, ‘If only yours knew you’re not as nice as you seem.’ And kicking Karl with his bare feet.
Uzo handed Rose to him.
‘I have cooked yam. I will fry some egg.’
Karl got all cosy; the mushy feeling poured over him as if Uzo had always known he was coming. He wondered if she could smell he was a runner? Not good at sticking to things in the moment. Not when they came head-on.
After the food, John sat down and explained a few ins and outs about Karl’s father’s work. It made Karl’s head dizzy. It was all hot and bothered, humidity like there was no bloody tomorrow, coming through the open window, full-on assault. Not one bit of draft. With a full stomach Karl could feel how tiring the last days had been. The flat had a keeping-the-outside-out-ness about it. Proper relaxing. There had been a lot of info lately. Too much push and pull, everything different and new. And those endless questions. Had this been the right thing? To come here?
The words John used didn’t seem familiar. Maybe he was speaking his own language? Had forgotten that this was Karl, yes, new mate and all, but London through and through. Or maybe, again, it was just how he pronounced them. He interrupted him every other sentence.
‘Pardon me. I’m really sorry, I didn’t quite understand.’
Didn’t take long before his mind drifted completely and he just installed the listening intently, yes very much so look. Was so much easier when you just let your face do the job, your mind resting, total peace.
‘Mmm, I understand,’ Karl nodded. To not leave those eyelids lying on top of each other too long. That was the trick. But of course they did their own thing, as if they were freelancing, and not part of the whole team. When he opened his eyes again he heard John and Uzo talking in low voices. She was sitting on the armrest, Rose held close. Both looked up as Karl stirred.
‘I’m sorry. Not sure what happened.’
Karl looked around. Uzo was smiling.
‘Ah, please Karl. Be at home here. We have a small room at the back, you can use it if you are still tired.’ She winked at John, who seemed to gel with the whole thing. What was it with the guy? Karl liked him too but it had been like, two minutes. You couldn’t really call that deep connecting. John showed him the small room. Looked like it was used to store all the stuff that had nowhere else to be. Proper full up and cluttered. But there was a single mattress leaning against the wall.
‘It’s not much. But if you like to rest properly, you can sleep here.’
Karl had to laugh. Not like loud – that would have been rude – just it was too much I’ve been before in a whole different setting. The single mattress thing on the floor seemed to be the new global language of friendship. You just crash here. Any time. Maybe it was a shortcut to making ties.
‘This reminds me of home. I sleep in my friend’s place on a mattress like this.’
John nodded. It seemed to make him happy.
bond /bɒnd/
verb
To fix/bind/connect or be joined, quite firmly (as in securely) to something else, especially by means of something (glue, heat, pressure or similar. Could just be circumstance.)
Become connected to, link up with someone. Could be described as teaming up if you wanted to.
Instead of more sleep, Karl asked if they could go out. The taxi was hired for the day; might as well get the most out of it, right? Like throw yourself into the mix, check out the scene Port Harcourt-style. He was thinking about Mena, the cook. She might be out again and throw him some attention.
John did not telepathically get the thoughts in Karl’s head one single bit. He was all business now, excited about showing him the Garden City, the one that was known all over Nigeria for its beauty. He rushed Karl past the yard; Mena was waving from her little eatery but John, not wanting to stop at all, just threw back one sentence, totally lost on Karl again.
He entered the waiting taxi. John was into sharing mode, info sharing, big time. Karl had already missed that bonding session earlier when he had snoozed off. Now John was all about trying to make some context, for the missing father, the oil, the city, the Nigeria. How the beautiful city had lost its beauty. How oil money was not invested properly. How developments were not for the general population. How the city was bursting. How this and that wasn’t and hadn’t and wouldn’t be done. The foundations for a monorail, an electric inner city train, had begun. It was supposed to ease the congestion problem. But it was going slow, very slow. Like so many other things that were supposed to happen. How it was off, really off. How the father was working for an oil company, meaning not part of any developments, not good ones in John’s eyes, either. Not for the people. But how he was making good money, and that was something. And because the father was making money John was making money by working for the father. Karl just wanted to drive around.
When they pulled back up at the flat, Mena was serving a late lunch. A young girl in an old white dress was cleaning the used plastic tables, making space for the next customer. Mena waved again.
‘Karl. Come and eat,’ she demanded.
‘Hi.’ He was pleased. She remembered his name. That’s what you get when you got it, you g
et me?
‘You look busy. Should I come back later? Make it easier?’
She nodded.
‘Easier for what?’ John mocked but she had already turned away, her hands dishing up the latest order. Karl followed John into the dark hallway, then up the stairs.
It was late afternoon when he bounced back down the uneven cement steps in the stairwell that divided the building in half. The girl in the white dress was sitting in front of the buka on a small stool. She was soaping plates in a large plastic bowl between her outstretched legs. Inside the small hut-like shop, Mena was packing away large pots.
‘Hi. Hello.’
She turned around. ‘You’re back.’ She seemed pleased. ‘Karl. Come and talk to me. Sit.’
Karl’s throat felt scratchy. The blood had vanished from his face and upper body and was now pooling in his feet. It was difficult to make the few steps. This wasn’t a girl from college down the street. His ‘wow’ eyelashes might do nothing at all here. He managed to make it to the bench she pointed at without knocking down the whole stall. It was low, wooden; he sat down carefully. Mena came closer and put her hand on his arm. She looked at him for a while, nodding but without movement, internal, if you know what I mean. As if she recognised him from somewhere. A tiny bit of a twinkle in her eyes, narrowing them the slightest bit. Karl could feel her thoughts on his skin, whatever they were. One thing was clear: she was defo not teasing him schoolgirl-crush-like. Not one bit. She was probably Godfrey’s age. Like Godfrey, she was black-don’t-crack all the way. She could have fooled you, looking like a teen.
‘How do you like dis our Port Harcourt?’
Her hand was still on Karl’s arm but she was watching the girl outside.
‘A lot. Very interesting.’ Karl was all what now? No game, no plan, nothing.
‘John don show you de city?’ She lifted her hand, turning.
‘A little.’ Karl didn’t know where to look.
When We Speak of Nothing Page 10
