The Wave

by Virginia Moffatt

  Nikki touches my arm. ‘I’m sorry. If it’s any consolation, I always hated her music.’

  That makes me laugh. I think Nikki could be good for me. I sit up straight, wipe my eyes and say in a more normal voice, ‘Me neither. What I can’t forgive myself for is that I let myself be her doormat for so long, let her departure wreck me for weeks, and even when I started putting my life back together it was always at the back of my mind that she might come back. So tonight, when I received her text, just as I was getting her out of my head, there she was, right back at the forefront. But you know what?’ I feel in my pocket for my phone, ‘That’s it. It ends here.’ I pull up Lisa’s message and send a text, Thanks, I’m fine. I’ve met someone. I’m doing OK. No need to text again. Appreciate your thoughts. I press send. ‘There. That’s over with, I’m all yours if you’ll have me.’

  Nikki’s smiles. ‘That’s an offer worth considering.’ To my disappointment, she says nothing more. I’m not quite sure what I expected from my revelations – a declaration of love, perhaps – but it wasn’t this quiet withdrawal. I take comfort from the fact that though she is silent, she snuggles back against me; perhaps she needs some time think. The waves crash and recede below us, and soon I am mesmerized by the ebb and flow, the patterns they create in the water, the foam-flecked shore they leave behind as they recede. Margaret and Poppy return to their tents. It is very late. Perhaps we should call it a night too. I am about to suggest it when Nikki sighs.

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘Just thinking about my family. That I won’t see them ever again. Or Lagos. I’d have liked to go back to Lagos.’

  ‘Tell me about it.’

  ‘It’s a beautiful country. Mind you, I didn’t think that the first time I went. I was a total brat. My parents were always telling me how wonderful England was, how glad they’d escaped Nigeria during the war. All I knew of Nigeria was that it was violent, full of poverty and very different from my world. So when they said we had to visit Grandma who was sick, I refused to go. Of course, there was nothing I could do about it, but I was furious we were leaving before the end of term. I was going to be the first black Mary in the nativity play. I was furious that I was going to miss it

  ‘I was grumpy and bad-tempered as only an eight-year-old can be, and when we arrived and we drove to my grandparents’ house and they didn’t have a telly and their house was so small, I was rude and obnoxious and told everyone the place was horrible. Ifechie was three, and cute, so everyone fussed over him, while they expected me to be grown up. I hated it. Nothing smelt right, and it was hot all the time ]. I just wanted to go home …’

  I love this: the sound of her voice, her head resting on my chest, listening to her story as I stroke her hair. ‘Go on,’ I say.

  ‘So we’d been there a few days during which time we were either visiting grandma or I was being sent to my room constantly for my bad behaviour. My parents told me afterwards that they were totally mortified by me and at their wits’ end at how to proceed. Then, one day my grandfather took me aside, and said, “I hear that you do not like our country, little Nkiruka.”

  ‘ “My name is Nikki,” I said and scowled at him.

  ‘ “I am so sad, that you feel like that, Nikki, Nkiruka is such a beautiful name. You know what it means, don’t you?”

  ‘ “No.” Despite myself, I was interested. No one had ever talked to me about my name before.

  ‘ “It means ‘The best is yet to come’. You see, my little Nikki, you were born after our family had many struggles and much heartache. Your grandmother and I, we had to leave Lagos, our home city, and fly to England, where you now live. I remember feeling like you do now. It was cold in London, the streets were crowded, and the people unfriendly. It didn’t smell right. It wasn’t my home.”

  ‘ “Lagos isn’t my home.”

  ‘ “But it could be … and you see, my darling girl, you are lucky. Because although at first London made me very unhappy, and I worried for my mother, who we had had to leave behind (her name was Nkiruka too), and I worried for your grandmother because it was hard for me to find work, and though I had money in this country the government froze my assets and I couldn’t get at it. So I was forced to take what jobs I could, portering and cleaning, doing anything to keep a roof over our heads, put food on the table, help your grandma, and your mother and her sisters. But I found, after a while, these English, these people I thought as cold as the weather, were kind when you got to know them. We made friends at our church who helped look after our children so Grandma could get some work. And when someone found out that I had once been a lecturer, they told me a job was going at the university. And so, after a while, this place that had once been cold and grey became something of warmth and light and colour. I missed my homeland, I missed the rainy season, and the sun and the beach, but I learnt to love my new city and have my heart in two places too. So when the war was ended, and it was safe to go home it was a wrench for me, a heartbreaking wrench. Your mother and her sisters were fully grown by then, confident young women making their way. But Grandma and I wanted to come back here to the life we left behind, and we needed to take care of my mother who was near the end of her life. We returned to our city by the ocean, to the sunsets and rainy seasons. But we never forgot the place that had adopted us. We loved to visit your mother and father once they were first married, and it has only been Gran’s health that has stopped us returning, to meet our little Nkiruka and Ifechie. So let me show you some places in my second home because you are old enough and he is not. Then you can tell me if you like them and, if you do, why then you will have two cities, two homes, just like us.”

  ‘So he took me through his city, showing me its secret places, telling me of the war and it’s after-effects, of the impact of colonialism, of the story of his childhood; and I realized then that he was right. I did have two cities and Lagos was mine. Ever since then, I’ve been conscious of my dual nature, dual nationality. As my parents embraced England and left their past behind, I have taken the reverse journey. I have been to Nigeria as often as I could, because in some ways I have never entirely fitted in either country, but I know that I am deeply connected to both. And now I can never go back.’ She begins to cry, soft tears, that run down her cheek, and onto my shirt.

  ‘Sorry,’ she says, wiping her tears away with her arm.

  ‘Don’t be.’

  ‘It’s just …’

  ‘Shhh.’ I kiss the top of her head. ‘You know, it’s funny, but I think I get a little bit of what you mean. I don’t mean the racism. I’ll never know what that is like. n It’s just that growing up in Zambia, going to school in England, neither place was ever quite home, but both absolutely are.’

  ‘I never thought I’d hear a white boy say that.’ Nikki is recovering herself.

  ‘I’m not your average white boy.’ I kiss her. ‘The best is yet to come. I like that.’

  ‘If only it were true.’

  There are only a few hours left, but somehow, in this moment, I feel, perhaps, it is.

  Nikki

  I’m not sure how long we have been sitting here, watching the white foam as the waves crash on the shore. The wind has picked up, ruffling the surface of the water so it constantly moves and changes. The tents are still flapping in the wind. I hope now Poppy and Margaret are back, they will be able to sleep. I am getting tired myself yet I cannot bring myself to go to bed. I need to ask James something and I am screwing up the courage. If this is to work, even for a few hours, I need to know that he is as he says, not the usual kind of white boy.

  ‘Tell me about Zambia,’ I say; I need to work up to this conversation.

  ‘My parents met in a village outside Luangwa whilst working for a charity. He was a conservationist, she was a teacher. They were supposed to be there for a couple of years, but when they came back to the UK, they found they couldn’t settle. So the minute they had me, they returned. They’ve made their home in Luangwa. She still teaches and h
e works for the safari park. So that’s where I grew up, went to the local school, where Mum taught, the only white boy in the class. Not something I noticed till I came over here for school. My parents thought it best, but like you, I wasn’t so convinced. The racism horrified me, still does.’

  ‘Glad to hear that.’ I swig the last of the wine for Dutch courage. ‘We need to talk about this.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Race.’

  ‘We do?’

  ‘We do.’

  ‘I was kind of hoping it wouldn’t be an issue. Given the situation …’

  ‘It’s always an issue.’ Now I feel anger rising. Does he not get it?

  ‘I just meant: here we are. The end of the world. Two people falling in love. Can’t we ignore it?’ I stop myself from thrilling at the suggestion he might be falling in love. I cannot allow myself to admit this, until I am sure of him.

  ‘We can never ignore it. I need to know …’

  ‘What?’

  ‘That I can trust you to understand that, even if we’re here isolated from the world, we can’t ignore it. That if we posted on Facebook, someone somewhere would comment. That we’d have to respond. I need to know that you get that.’

  James turns towards me, ‘I get that. But …’

  ‘What.’

  ‘Who cares about comments? I’d block anyone who was shitty.’

  ‘It’s easy for you to say that. Easy to block out what you’ve never had to deal with.’

  James bristles at this. ‘I hope you’re not saying what I think you are saying.’

  ‘No, of course not. But, if we’re going to be together, for however short a time, I need you to understand this.’ He thinks about it for a moment.

  ‘All right. Let’s do it.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Post our pictures on Facebook. See what happens.’

  ‘Even if it means unfriending someone you really like?’

  ‘Especially if.’

  We pose for selfies, James with his arm round me, me kissing him, him kissing me, both of us pulling faces. As if this is an ordinary night, as if we haven’t a care in the world. James posts it on Facebook with the message. Strange old night. Best thing to happen today. Best thing to happen for ages is meeting Nikki Anekwe. Wish it was in better circumstances but wish us luck.

  He sits back. I look at him, as if seeing him for the first time. I want to think he’ll go through with it, be as true as he says he will be. Before I go to sleep with this man, this stranger, this white, beautiful man. I need to know that I can trust him.

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Of course, there might not be many people up at this time,’ he says, and then his phone pings, and pings again. ‘Two likes already. There, you see?’

  ‘Wait.’

  ‘I don’t want to sit around here, waiting for my phone to prove you right. Let’s go for a walk,’ he says.

  ‘OK.’ We rise, climb up the beach, past the car park, and take the cliff path. The moon is high above us. It lights up the grass, the shrubs, and shimmers in the dark black sea below. Despite the wind, the night is peaceful, tranquil. His hand feels comfortable in mine. I can almost believe in happy ever after up here. No former girlfriends, no race issues, no wave to come between us. We walk on in companionable silence; I have never felt this easy with anyone before, black or white. I want to believe it can last. We find a bench and sit down.

  His phone pings, again and again. ‘Better switch that off,’ he says, sitting down on the bench. ‘Ten likes, five shares and …’ He scrolls down. ‘Eight comments. Who’d have thought so many people were still up?’

  ‘Let me see.’

  Alex Harvey Look at my man! Picked himself up a honey.

  Sue Edwards Gorgeous. Happy for you.

  Robert Smith Wow. Exotic babe.

  Andrew Stanton Lovely. Good luck to you.

  Sandra Smith Didn’t know you were into ethnics.

  Paul Earley You like it hot, hot, hot

  Lisa Lusk: Wow. Didn’t expect that. Good Luck.

  Tony Edwards A dusky beauty indeed. How lucky are you?

  I give it back to him, ‘Unfriend, keep, unfriend, keep, unfriend, unfriend, unfriend, unfriend.’ He views the comments, clicking on each one. ‘Yep, yep, yep, yep, yep, yep.’ And pauses. ‘You want me to unfriend Lisa?’

  ‘You said she was in the past.’

  ‘She is, honestly, we haven’t spoken on Facebook in months. But this is nice, don’t you think?’ I’m not so sure. I saw how distracted Lisa’s text made him earlier. I want him to focus on me alone tonight. He frowns as he looks at the last name. ‘I can’t unfriend Tony.’

  ‘You said …’ First his ex, now this; suddenly I am furious with him. ‘You’re just like all the rest.’

  ‘Hold on a minute,’ he protests, ‘I meant I’d unfriend Facebook friends – I can’t unfriend Tony. We’ve been mates for years. We used to house-share at Uni. I’m not unfriending him on the last night of my life.’

  ‘That’s even worse. Tolerating the racists in your actual real life.’

  ‘I’m not! I’m just saying I can’t unfriend him just like that.’

  ‘Fuck you.’ I push him away, and march off shaking with rage, disappointment, heartache.

  ‘Nikki!’ He starts to follow me.

  ‘Leave me alone, I mean it,’ I am shouting now, ‘Leave me alone.’ He takes me at my word, sits back down on the bench allowing me to walk along the cliff till I reach a path down to a little cove. All that hope I had wrapped up in him, all a delusion, a fake happy ending. I will die tomorrow, alone as I have always been. The shingly path descends steeply. My pastor has always said that life is full of ups and downs, stiff climbs, painful descents into the abyss, but that God is always with us. I’ve believed him up till now but standing here alone on this rocky seashore I’m filled with fury. Fuck you, God, fuck you! You take away my life before I’ve even begun to live it. You give me false hope in the form of a man who is like the rest. You abandon me to my fate. Call yourself a loving God? Why the fuck have I wasted my life following you? I scream at the sky until my throat is sore and my anger is spent. I find a damp rock, shivering as the water moves backwards and forwards up the beach, coming closer with each wave. What’s the point of staying alive now? For a few hours more? I might as well just enter the sea now. Lose myself beneath the waves. Let myself go. It’s going to happen anyway. Why wait any longer? Without stopping to think, I stand up and move along the beach, placing pebbles in my pocket. I reach the water’s edge. I am about to step into the sea when I think of my parents. How will they feel in the morning if I don’t ring them? How will Ginika and Ifechie feel? It’s bad enough me dying, but leaving them without a word. That’s too cruel of me. And then James’s face comes to me. Not just now when he disappointed me, but yesterday when we met, and earlier this evening when he was playing to me, and in the cave when we kissed. It occurs to me that I’m expecting a lot from him. And, of course I should, but I ought to give him another chance. I am emptying my pockets of the stones when I hear him on the cliff path.

  ‘What the fuck?’

  ‘I was going to walk in the sea.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I was upset, because I didn’t see the point …’

  ‘I’m sorry, I messed it up, but I couldn’t bear it if you did that.’

  ‘You’re part of the reason I didn’t. You and my family. It would have been too cruel.’

  ‘’Thank God. Listen, about Tony. You’re right. What he said was racist, and I won’t defend it. But before ending a decade long friendship, I’ve got to give him the chance to put it right. He shows me his phone. He has sent Tony a message:

  Dear Tony, thanks for your congratulations, but what you said was racist and upsetting to me and to Nikki. Please delete the comment and think before you write next time. James.

  Tony has replied. Dear James, God. I’m sorry. I didn’t even think how that would come across. I feel s
o mortified. She’s gorgeous and I’m very happy for you. I’ve taken it down, please apologise to her for me. Tony..’

  Tony has taken the comment down, and he has been forced to think. That might be enough for now. I lean up and kiss him.

  ‘Am I forgiven?’

  ‘You are. Come on. Time for bed.’ I collect my head scarf and oils from Poppy’s tent, quietly so as not to disturb her. Though she is fast asleep, she is still holding onto her phone. I follow James to a corner of the cliff, where the rocks have formed an almost complete circle, providing a private space just for us. I massage my hair with oil as he sorts out the sleeping bags.

  ‘Seems like an effort.’

  ‘With this salt air, sleeping on sand? It’ll be so dry in the morning.’ I don’t add that the ritual itself is comforting. A pretence at normality to end the day. I wrap the scarf round my head and lie down beside him. It is when he kisses me good night, I realize something has changed. I have never shared my hair routine with anyone.