The Black Flamingo
Page 7
But “almost” makes it all untrue.
The following day, when we do
the performance and finally kiss,
I’m thinking of what Daisy said—
“It’s just acting”—and I don’t even
remember the touch of his lips on mine.
After the performance,
I notice Kieran is in the audience.
Did he come to see me?
No. He goes over to hug Faith
and Destiny. Who I have forgiven
already, regardless of what grade
we get.
Daisy comes over to me: “Well done!
You were amazing!” she says loudly,
and then she whispers, “So, how did it feel
to kiss Rowan?”
“It’s weird but I, like, didn’t feel anything,”
I say, looking over at Kieran, who is laughing,
with his arm around Destiny’s shoulder.
“Daisy, will you come to a gay club with me
sometime?”
“Of course. I thought you’d never ask.”
She laughs, puts her arm around my waist.
“Once exams are over, obviously.”
I call Granny B
to tell her about my A grade for drama.
She screams, “Well don, darling!
Yuh muss tell yuh fada. I’m guh fi guh get him.”
She shouts his name three times.
A pause and then faintly, “What is it?”
“It’s Mikey pon de phone.”
A pause and fainter still, “Tell him I’m busy.”
ROWAN: How did you do?
MICHAEL: I got an A for drama
ROWAN: That’s great!
Everyone in our group got an A
We should all celebrate
MICHAEL: Sounds good.
Message in the group chat?
Rowan changes the name of the group chat
from “Beautiful Thing” to “The A Team”
and changes the image
from the Beautiful Thing movie poster
to a picture of a black man
with a Mohawk and lots of gold jewelry.
FAITH: Who’s that man?
ROWAN: Mr. T
FAITH: ??
ROWAN: From The A Team
DESTINY: I thought we were the A Team
MICHAEL: Yh
Because we all got A for drama?
FAITH: I’m so confused
BEN: I just looked up The A Team on YouTube
ROWAN:
DESTINY:
ROWAN: Nando’s this Sunday?
DESTINY: I’m vegan
BEN: Since when?
DESTINY: It’s been two weeks. I want to go to university as a better person
BEN: You should go to uni as Mr. T
ROWAN:
DESTINY: How about the fair on the common?
MICHAEL: Yes!!!
ROWAN: Sounds good to me.
Only if we can get churros
FAITH:
ROWAN: 6pm?
DESTINY:
MICHAEL:
ROWAN: Ben?
BEN: Cool
MICHAEL: I’m bringing Daisy. She’s staying at mine this weekend
BEN: “I pity the fool!”
ROWAN:
FAITH:
Sunday evening,
Outside the House of Mirrors,
Ben holds Faith by the waist.
They are kissing.
Destiny is showing Rowan something
on her phone.
“What’s that?” I ask Destiny.
“The video that turned me
and my brother vegan,” she says,
pretending to throw up.
“Where’s Daisy?” Rowan asks. I shrug.
“I don’t know. We’re not talking.”
Rowan steps closer and puts his arm
around me. “I’m sorry to hear that, man.
What happened?”
I take Rowan by the hand. “Let’s go
on some rides. In here!”
I pull him into
the House of Mirrors.
“Don’t you wanna talk about Daisy?” he asks.
“Nah, I really don’t,” I say, in front of a mirror
that makes my legs look really long
but my torso tiny.
“Okay, tell me something else, then,”
says Rowan. His mirror makes his head
look massive. “Do you still fancy me?”
He joins me at my mirror, which becomes
our mirror.
If I turned to him would he kiss me?
“I fancy that guy more.” I laugh, poke him
in the ribs, and point to his reflection. I can’t
make out his expression in the topsy-turvy
mirror.
THE PREVIOUS NIGHT
Saturday night, Daisy and I
go to our first club: G-A-Y.
I’ve been eighteen for nine months
but I didn’t want to go without
my best friend. Daisy only
turned eighteen last week.
Daisy’s wearing the red dress
that she didn’t get to wear
to the school dance.
We’re waiting in line and she says,
“You have to protect me,
if any girls try to chat me up.
Tell them that we’re together.”
“Daisy, the point of us being here
is for me to meet a guy.
How will that happen if we
pretend to be a couple?”
“I just don’t want anyone thinking
I’m a lesbian,” she replies.
“What would be so wrong with that?” I ask.
“It makes me feel sick,
the idea of two women sleeping together.
Two men doesn’t bother me
but two women, I don’t get it.”
“What about it makes you feel sick?”
I ask through gritted teeth.
“I don’t want to talk about it.
Will you just protect me from
any lesbians that try anything?”
“They need protecting from you.
You’re a homophobe, Daisy.”
“Michael, you can’t force me
to be comfortable with all this.
I’m not homophobic, I’m your best friend.
Nothing changed between us
when you came out in B24.”
“Well, school’s over and B24
doesn’t mean anything now.
I don’t need an ignorant best friend.
Why don’t you just go home.”
“My stuff is at your house; I was meant to be
staying the night, remember?”
“Fine, let’s go back to mine.”
When we get home my mum is watching
Game of Thrones. “You two are back early.”
I say the line I have been rehearsing
in my head as we traveled home in silence.
“Daisy’s not feeling well; she’s just gonna
get her stuff and call her dad to pick her up.”
I can see from the way Mum squints
at me and smiles with a closed mouth at Daisy,
she knows something isn’t right, but she
simply says, “Okay. I hope you feel better,
Daisy,” as she unpauses her program.
Keeping out of our real drama and going
back to a world of fantasy.
House of Mirrors
Your best friend is a mirror.
Other friends ask after you
when you are standing right there.
“Where are you?” they ask.
“Why are you without your other self?”
You two are the ingredients
to make something brand-new.
You cannot unbake a cake.
You can onl
y slice. A knife is a mirror.
A best friend can be a knife.
A best friend can be a knife.
You can only slice. A knife is a mirror.
You cannot unbake a cake
to make something brand-new.
You two are the ingredients.
“Why are you without your other self?”
“Where are you?” they ask,
when you are standing right there.
Other friends ask after you.
Your best friend is a mirror.
University
Uncle B drives me
and my stuff to university.
He tells me how proud he is,
asks what I’m excited about
and what I’m nervous about.
I don’t tell him I’m excited
and nervous about meeting guys,
having sex, maybe a relationship.
I tell him I’m excited to have
my freedom.
We’re five minutes from
our destination
according to his GPS,
and we hear sirens
and see flashing lights.
It’s the police behind us.
My uncle pulls over,
I think, at first, to let them pass,
but I soon realize that
they are pulling us over.
They ask my uncle
if this is his car, to see his license,
where are we going.
They tell him it’s a very nice car,
ask him what he does for a living.
My usually polite uncle
is abrupt with the police,
asks them what business
they have stopping him.
Was he speeding?
Was there a problem
with one of his lights?
Did he fit the description
of a suspect they’re looking for?
The police
say we can be on our way
and to have a nice day.
They get back in their car
and drive away.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
Uncle B begins:
“There’s always something.
No matter how hard you work.
No matter how well you do.
How successful or respectable.
There’s always something
that will remind you
you shouldn’t get too comfortable.
I always thought education
and money was going
to earn me respect,
but a successful black man
is a threat. Pulling me over
for driving a nice car.
This isn’t what I wanted
for your moving day
but this is what it’s like
to be black in this country
or anywhere in the world.
They interrupt our joy.
Our history. Our progress.
They know they can’t
stop us unless they kill us
but they can’t kill us all,
so you’re living your life
and suddenly interrupted
by white fear or suspicion.
They fear sharing anything.
Our success is a threat.”
I’ve never heard my uncle
speak in these terms, of them
and us. I’ve never thought
in these terms. Until today.
Everything is here on campus,
everything I could need,
all of my lessons, the library,
shops, cafés, four bars,
and my room, which isn’t cheap:
I chose a room with an en-suite bathroom
in the newest accommodation.
I figure if I’m taking out a loan
anyway, why not live it up?
Once we’re all moved in,
I don’t see much of my flatmates,
since we all have our own
bathrooms and no one has
any food in the kitchen but me.
There are four of them:
Kerry, Kevin, Luke, and Sam,
who introduces herself as
Samantha and then says,
“But you can call me Sam.”
I introduce myself as Mike.
Mike feels right for this new chapter.
Michael is what Mum calls me.
Mikey is for Granny and Uncle B.
Mike is the man I am at university.
This will be my first
meal without Mum supervising.
My flatmate Kevin hovers
around the kitchen.
I’m making ackee and saltfish,
rice and peas,
and baked plantain.
There’s space for Kevin
if he wants to cook, too.
Not that he has any food.
I’m only using two burners
and one shelf in the oven.
“Smells good, Mike.”
“It’s ackee and saltfish,”
I say, offering a wooden spoonful.
He takes a tiny taste.
“So what is ackee?”
“It’s a fruit,” I tell him.
“It comes in a tin.”
I fish the empty tin
out of our recycling bin.
I hand it to him and
take back the spoon.
“How fascinating,” he says,
examining it like an alien artifact.
I don’t last long at Freshman Fair
in Library Square. There are sports teams
in their full uniforms trying to sign people up.
The soccer, rugby, and basketball teams
all look terrifying to me.
There are other groups of people at tables
with banners and flags, giving out their flyers.
I see a rainbow flag but I’ve already checked
on the Students’ Union website to find out
when LGBT Society meets, so I don’t go over.
I already have a reminder in my phone for it,
along with African Caribbean Society and
open mic night.
Instead, I go to a less intimidating table
of posters: there’s one with a black cat
and French writing, another of clocks that look
like they’re melting; there’s one of a big blue
and white wave; there’s a Pulp Fiction movie
still of Samuel L. Jackson and John Travolta
pointing their guns; there’s the Trainspotting
“Choose Life” monologue. I decide to buy one
of Audrey Hepburn in Breakfast at Tiffany’s.
I haven’t seen the movie but I love her
long black gloves and her long black dress.
I put Audrey up on my new bedroom wall,
next to Beyoncé and Bob Marley from home.
Apart from these three posters there’s not
much to say about the person who lives here—a row of
footwear: dirty white Converse,
bright white Adidas, black Nikes.
My clothes in the drawers are navy and light
blue jeans, a gray tracksuit, black and white
tees, Calvin Klein boxers Mum bought from
TJ Maxx and socks Mum also bought, from
Primark.
My books: the reading for the first term
of my English degree, some favorites
from school, The Complete Works of
William Shakespeare, and some poetry
that Mum bought me: Maya Angelou,
Gil Scott-Heron, and Benjamin Zephaniah.
Orientation is two entire
weeks of, “What’s your name?”
“What do you study?”
“Where are you from?”
If you don’t find any common
ground in these three questions
>
people move on.
The big three:
I’m Mike. I’m doing English.
I’m from London.
Some, without any prompting,
start talking about their gap year;
how they went to Asia or Africa,
backpacking or volunteering.
I’ve come straight from school
and I’ve not been anywhere but Cyprus
to visit Mum’s family.
I go to the African Caribbean Society.
Most of them are Londoners like me,
but some are international students
from African and Caribbean countries,
some African American and Canadian,
but Londoners are the biggest group.
People talk about being from South
or East London, like that matters here.
“A room of black kids gathered together
and our only similarity is being black,”
I say to Nana, a British-Ghanian girl
from South I just met ten minutes ago.
“But you’re not black, you’re mixed,”
says Nana. “No offense, Mike, but
you said you’re Jamaican and Greek.”
“Greek Cypriot,” I calmly correct her.
“What I mean is: I heard there’s a Greek
Society here. You could go there, too.”
The Hellenic Society caters
to Greek and Greek Cypriot students.
I take a moment at the open door,
looking timidly around the room.
A guy approaches, greets me in
Greek: “Geia sou. Xereis na milas ellinika?”
“Hello. No, I don’t speak Greek.”
Responding to the question, which
I understand, but don’t feel confident
enough to reply to in my mother’s tongue.
Outside Mum’s family
I have never felt Cypriot enough.
I remember back to Cyprus and how I even
felt like an outsider within my own family.
“I’m Christos, it’s good to meet you,”
he says, reaching out an open hand.
He wears a plain white T-shirt and light
blue jeans.
“I’m Mike or Michalis,” I reply,
embarrassed by my lack of language
and how handsome he is.
His hair is almost black and so is his
thick beard; his eyebrows nearly meet.
His eyes are so dark I can see myself
in them. His firm grip and eye contact
remain. “Michalis,” he says, with a wink.
“A good Greek name.”
Someone calls him away: “Éla, Christo.”
He politely excuses himself, leaving me