Soul Sisters

by Lesley Lokko

  ‘Who is Uncle Robert?’ she’d asked her grandmother. All she knew about him was that he had a daughter the same age as Kemi. Her name was Catriona Jennifer McFadden. Apparently, she couldn’t wait to meet Kemi. Kemi wasn’t so sure. If it were her, she reasoned, she wouldn’t be thrilled at the prospect of sharing her room with a complete stranger, especially not a stranger from halfway across the world.

  Her grandmother was oddly silent. She shrugged. ‘He’s . . . he’s your grandfather’s friend,’ was all she would say. Kemi understood it to mean her grandfather Godspeed, her mother’s father; not her father’s father, Dumisani Mashabane. Her mother’s father was only known by his first name.

  Someone was weeping as she came out of the house, banging the screen door loudly behind her. Kemi watched with detached curiosity as she patted her cheeks dry and blew her nose – loudly – before coming over to where Kemi sat and placing the palm of her hand on Kemi’s head. ‘Poor little thing,’ she said in Shona. ‘So young. All that way. And when will she come back?’

  Her grandmother made a strange, half-strangled sound that sat somewhere between a sob and a groan. She brought her own hands up to her eyes, pressing against her lids, but when her fingers fell away, Kemi was relieved to see her eyes were dry. She wasn’t sure she could have borne seeing her grandmother cry. ‘Come,’ her grandmother said, getting to her feet. She wrapped her colourful kanga around her, tucking it firmly around her waist. It was a present from Kemi’s mother, brought back from a trip to Tanzania in the days when Florence Mashabane was still able to leave the country. A bright turquoise background, a red flowered border, and the words Sisi sote abiria dereva ni Mungu printed several times in circular, flowing script across it. ‘It means, “We are all passengers, God is the driver”,’ Florence told her delighted mother. Now, as a banned person, arrested for inciting resistance to white minority rule under Ian Smith’s government, Florence Mashabane was not allowed to leave her front door, except to drive to the police station every day between midday and two o’clock, to report and record her presence.

  ‘Come,’ her grandmother repeated. ‘Let’s go inside and see your mother.’ It was a subtle reminder that her mother wasn’t allowed past the swinging screen door. Across the road, just hidden from view by the hedge, was the unmarked police car that drove slowly up and down the street at any and every hour, now parked under the shade of an acacia tree. Kemi caught the glint of binoculars as one of the policemen trained his gaze on the house. She opened the door and followed her grandmother in. Just before it slammed shut, she turned and stuck out her tongue at him, a childish act of defiance that would have earned her a slap from her grandmother, had she seen it. It made her feel better, just the same.

  Inside the living room, her mother sat like a queen on her throne whilst various friends and family members fussed around her. To everyone else, the occasion would be tragic. Her only child, being sent away. A husband in jail down south, her daughter sent overseas to be raised by others, she herself under house arrest. How could she bear it? Florence’s answer was produced under a smile so serene and beatific it seemed to come from a religious rather than political source. We must all make sacrifices. I cannot exempt myself. Her grandmother’s hand on her shoulder guided Kemi forwards to the upright chair in which Florence sat, her elaborate hairdo, magenta-painted nails and elegant clothing a proud assertion of her identity as a beautiful, powerful woman and her refusal to be bowed. Kemi kneeled down dutifully at her mother’s feet. The smiles that followed were an acknowledgement that she, too, could be counted on in this family, utterly united in their dedication to the struggle to overthrow white rule.

  The house and its occupants (save one) were in a fever of anticipation and excitement. Their African guest would be coming directly from Waverley to 17 Jordan Lane, Morningside, any minute now. Breakfast had been prepared and was being laid out on the dining room table. Claw-footed tureens of creamy porridge stood alongside silver jugs of not one, but three – three? – types of maple syrup; there were bowls of thick clotted cream; silver racks waited impatiently for slices of hot toast. From the kitchen came the scent of frying bacon and the cook’s own homemade sausages. Mrs Logan stood at the Aga, a huge bowl of beaten eggs in her floury arms, just waiting for the signal. All this for a ‘puir wee African lass’? Jen was in a fever of mutinous jealousy. No one had ever – ever – made such a fuss over her.

  She wandered upstairs and into her mother’s bedroom. Her parents slept in separate rooms, an arrangement she thought everyone shared. It was only when she was invited to stay the night with Lizzie Macintosh that she noticed her parents didn’t sleep separately. ‘Where’s your mum’s room?’ she’d asked Lizzie, as they crept into the bedroom to look for her mother’s jewellery box.

  ‘This is my mum’s room,’ Lizzie answered, puzzled. ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘Well, where does your dad sleep?’

  Lizzie pointed to the double bed. ‘Right there. Where else is he supposed to sleep?’

  Jen fell suddenly quiet. It was the first inkling she had that things in her own home might be the exception and not the rule.

  ‘Why do we have to have her?’ she asked her mother for the hundredth time.

  Alice was in front of her dressing table, carefully combing and arranging her hair. She put down the silver-backed hairbrush and turned to face Jen. ‘Listen, I know it’s hard for you to understand, but poor Kemisa hasn’t got anyone. Her dad’s in jail and her mother’s been arrested. Just think what it’d be like if Daddy and I weren’t here. Who would take you to school? Who would cook your tea?’

  ‘Mrs Logan would,’ Jen muttered sullenly, picking at an invisible thread on her skirt. ‘And Jock would drive me to school.’

  Her mother was silent for a few minutes. ‘Well, it’ll be nice for you to have a sister,’ she said finally. ‘You’re always saying you want a little brother or a sister.’

  ‘Yes, but she’s not my sister!’ Jen burst out. ‘She’s African! How can she possibly be my sister? She’s black! Everyone’ll know it’s a lie!’ Jen’s voice rose to a shout.

  ‘Catriona McFadden! Just you stop that nonsense right now! How in God’s name did we bring up such a selfish little girl? What does Christ teach us to be? Kind, compassionate, caring, that’s what. Not selfish and mean-spirited. Now, go and brush your own hair and make sure you’ve a clean skirt on. And put a smile on your face. The wind’ll change any minute and you’ll be stuck with that scowl.’ Her mother turned back to her own image. ‘Go on,’ she mouthed at her in the mirror. ‘Go!’

  Jen fled. She burst into her room and slammed the door shut behind her. She dropped to her knees beside the bed and folded her hands in prayer. ‘Dear God,’ she began hesitantly. She paused for a moment, summoning up the courage to voice her innermost fears. ‘Dear God, please make everyone hate her. Please make her mean and ugly and horrid. And please, God, please make sure Mummy and Daddy don’t like her better than me.’

  A single colour. All of England appeared as a single dull greyness that overwhelmed everything, especially the senses. Kemi sat in the back of the fancy car that bore them away from the airport and gazed out upon a landscape without any recognizable landmarks, no sense of scale or the passing of time. Fields, stone walls; more fields, more walls; steel electricity pylons running off to the horizon; the grey tongue of the motorway stretching in front of them; then, as they drew nearer to the city, small, neat bungalow houses, all painted the same colour. Presently they came upon taller houses, with square, boxy windows that looked out onto grey streets. Grey. It was a colour she couldn’t ever recall seeing. Now she was to be smothered in it. She pressed her hands and legs tightly together and tried not to look at the man sitting next to her who had introduced himself as ‘Uncle Robert’. She had no problem addressing him as ‘Uncle’ but adding ‘Robert’ seemed sacrilegious. At home, all adults were either ‘Auntie’ or ‘Uncle’, never ‘Auntie Jane’ or ‘Uncle John’.

  She
turned away from the back of chauffeur’s peaked cap and Uncle Robert’s stern, bearded profile and looked out of the window instead. The streets of London that they passed through were filled with a strange electricity, a kind of suppressed liveliness that was very different from the bustle and chaos of home. In Mbare, every square inch was taken up with human activity – hawking, trading, gossiping, making and mending. There was an orange seller under every shady tree, a shoeshine boy at every kerb. When you pulled up at a traffic light, someone immediately appeared selling Lotto tickets and chewing gum. The air was full – shouts of welcome and goodbye, the cries of the iced-water sellers, the women selling peanuts and boiled maize ears – ‘two shillings a piece!’ But in London there was no such noise, no such signs of life. Instead, all of life’s activity seemed to be tightly contained behind steamed-up glass windows – cafes, hairdressers, clothes shops, shoe shops, chemists . . . all hidden behind the same screen through which people peered, as though trying to work out what might be beyond. At a traffic light, when the car slowed to a halt she saw two children, separated by the foggy glass of a restaurant window. One was inside the restaurant and the other outside, waiting with his mother. She watched as they both slowly traced out a circle on the glass through which they could see each other. She stared at them. It seemed ineffably sad, almost as sad as the feeling pressing down on her whenever she thought of her mother’s face as she said goodbye, not even able to come to the airport in Salisbury. Her aunts and uncles were the ones appointed to take her. ‘Be a good girl, Kemisa. Study hard. Listen to Uncle Robert. Remember who you are, always. No matter what happens, hmm? I will come for you soon.’

  She’d nodded, afraid to speak. Her fear was so tightly wound inside her tummy that any show of emotion would burst it. Her mother’s last words, shouted to her from behind the screen door, made everyone in the car laugh. ‘Don’t make friends with every African you meet!’ There was little chance of that, she thought to herself glumly. She hadn’t seen a single African. She was the only one. In time, would she too take on the cold grey pallor of those around her?

  ‘They’re here,’ Alice said, and slipped off the window seat that overlooked the driveway. Jen looked up. Her mother smoothed down her skirt. It was an automatic gesture, applicable in all circumstances, all weathers, all moods. Jen had long since made up her mind never to smooth down her skirt or smooth back her hair, another of her mother’s nervous tics. ‘Come on, Jen. Let’s go down and meet them.’

  ‘You go,’ Jen muttered sulkily.

  ‘Come on. Don’t be like that,’ her mother said, holding out a hand. It was the hand that did it. Jen couldn’t remember the last time she’d held her mother’s hand. She slipped her own in it now, savouring the way her mother’s soft, smooth palm fitted over her own, nice and tight. Her mother gave her a reassuring squeeze and for a moment, Jen’s heart lifted. Things might be all right after all. ‘Ready?’ her mother asked, looking down at her. Jen couldn’t help it; she too tucked her hair behind her ears, just like her mother, and together they walked down the stairs.

  She could see the two shapes behind the frosted glass of the front door. Her father, tall and upright, and a smaller figure beside him. She swallowed nervously as the handle turned downwards and the door opened.

  ‘Come in, Kemisa, come in. Mrs McClenaghan, will you take the young lady’s coat?’ he said to the housekeeper hovering behind Jen and her mother.

  Kemisa Mashabane stood in the doorway. The midday light spilled around her. All Jen could see was masses of curly, dark brown hair; a small, heart-shaped face the colour of a Dairy Milk chocolate bar; enormous, jet-black eyes that slanted upwards and a full, soft mouth. She was wearing a tartan skirt, white shirt and blazer, as though dressed for school. A pair of knee-high dark blue socks and sensible black shoes . . . everything about her was neat and tidy, perfect in the way Jen would never, ever be. Kemisa Mashabane was beautiful.

  Jen: She’s the most perfect girl I’ve ever seen.

  Kemi: She hates me already.

  Jen: She thinks I’m ugly.

  Kemi: She’s afraid I’ll stay forever.

  ‘Jen, come and meet Kemisa. Don’t be shy.’ Her father’s voice was full of an emotion Jen couldn’t place. It was almost tender. ‘This is an important day for our families. An important day.’

  7

  ‘Which side would you like?’ Jen hung about in the doorway, suddenly shy. Her bedroom, which had held a single bed and a dressing table all her life, now held two beds, side by side, and a larger dresser, which the chauffeur had brought in the night before. Jen had carefully placed her own hairbrush and trinkets to one side, leaving exactly half its surface clear for Kemisa’s possessions.

  ‘I don’t mind,’ Kemisa said politely. Her voice, like everything about her, was soft and calm.

  ‘Well, I don’t mind either,’ Jen said, unsure how to resolve the question of who slept where. ‘I mean, they’re both by the window and—’

  ‘I think you should choose. It’s your room,’ Kemisa said politely.

  Jen hesitated. ‘OK, well, I’ll sleep here,’ she said, pointing to the bed next to her. Her mother had bought two new counterpanes and on the bedside table, in between the two beds, was a single rose in a small glass vase and a dish of wrapped boiled sweets. Her bedroom now resembled the spare room. It had been her mother’s idea to make them share a room.

  Kemisa picked up her overnight bag and put it on the bed that was now hers. ‘I hope you don’t mind having to share with me,’ she said, releasing the double locks, accurately reading Jen’s mind.

  ‘Oh, no,’ Jen said hurriedly, guiltily. ‘Would you like one of these?’ she held out a sweet, suddenly unsure of herself.

  Kemisa shook her head. ‘No, thank you. My mother doesn’t allow it.’

  Jen’s eyes flickered upwards. ‘But she’s not here. How will she even know?’

  ‘I can’t do that. I would never disobey my mother.’

  Jen carefully unwrapped a purple sweet and popped it in her mouth. ‘Well, I never obey my mum,’ she said cheerfully, her right cheek bulging pleasurably with the sticky sweetness. ‘There’s no point. She can never remember whether she’s told me to do something or not to do it. She lives in her own head, that’s what Cook says.’

  Kemi looked startled for a moment, as if Jen had let a swear word slip. ‘But she’s your mother,’ she said.

  ‘So? Anyhow, I actually think she’s not my mother.’

  Kemi’s eyes widened. She looked at Jen curiously. ‘What do you mean?’

  Jen shrugged. ‘I don’t think I belong here. On earth, I mean. I think I came from somewhere else, maybe another galaxy or something.’ She sucked on her sweet. ‘I mean, we don’t even look alike. I don’t look like either of them.’

  Kemi said nothing. She busied herself carefully unpacking the few possessions she’d brought with her. Two pairs of everything – sweaters, socks, underwear . . . black and grey, nothing colourful, nothing fancy, nothing memorable. It was ironic. Kemi Mashabane was memorable regardless, and not just on account of her skin colour. ‘So, you’re an only child too?’ Kemi asked finally, after the last piece of clothing had been tidily put away.

  Jen nodded. ‘That’s what everyone says. But I don’t believe anything anyone tells me,’ she added quickly. ‘I’m sure I’ve got brothers and sisters somewhere. Is that really all you’ve brought with you?’ she said, changing the subject.

  ‘What else should I have brought?’

  ‘Well, what if you have to go to a party?’

  ‘A party?’ Kemi sounded doubtful. ‘What sort of party?’

  ‘Any party.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Kemi said carefully. ‘I’ve never been to a party.’

  Jen stared at her. ‘Never? Never, ever?’

  ‘Never.’

  ‘Why? Don’t you have parties in . . . where you come from?’ She struggled to remember the name.

  Kemi shrugged. ‘Some girls do. But we’re
under house arrest.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘It means I can’t leave the house except to go to school. The police watch us all the time. They sit opposite our house all day. I even know their names. Sometimes my grandmother makes me take them water. My mum can’t. She can’t even go into the front yard.’

  Jen was stunned. ‘Why?’

  Kemi looked at her. Her gaze was steady. ‘Because we’re going to overthrow the government,’ she said simply.

  Jen was lost for words. The sweet in her mouth had turned into a hard, sharp sliver. She bit it slowly, letting the sweetness dissolve on her tongue. Kemi was unlike anyone she’d ever met. She had only the vaguest sense of what was happening ‘down there’ where she came from. A world of politics and police meant absolutely nothing to her. She tried to imagine life without the occasional excitement of a party, or being confined to her own house, but couldn’t. There was a gulf between them that had nothing to do with the fact that she was white and Kemi was black, or the fact that Jen’s hair was straight and Kemi’s was curly. Those were just the most obvious signs. Beneath that, a whole world separated them which she was drawn to, yet instinctively feared. What did it mean to overthrow a government? Why did it mean something to the stranger, who was now about to share her room, and not to her? Something was being offered, she understood, that was tantalizingly, frustratingly out of her reach.

  She was innocent, Kemi saw, in the way that only children often were, too preoccupied with their own lives to notice what happened to others. She had a strong sense of fantasy, too, inadvertently revealed in the silly idea of unknown brothers and sisters, and in her observation – which Kemi already knew was Jen’s, not Cook’s – that her mother ‘lived inside her own head’. So did Jen. That much was clear. But there was also an affectionate eagerness about her that Kemi found touching. Jen wished to be seen. Despite their differences, Kemi understood the desire to be properly seen and heard only too well. Kemi couldn’t remember her father. The man whose face stared back at her from the photographs she was shown was a stranger. Sometimes, when her mother’s attention was elsewhere, she would pick up the framed photograph that lived on the side table in the living room and tilt it this way and that, searching for a hint of familiarity in the solemn, composed gaze. She knew she was like him; everyone commented on it – ‘just like her father, ay?’ – but it seemed a matter of composure, of manner, not looks. Jen looked nothing like her parents, either . . . another unexpected bond. She slid a quick, careful look at the girl sitting on the bed, twisting one end of a long auburn plait between her fingers. She had never been this close to a white girl of her own age before. Jen looked up suddenly. A tremor of recognition passed between them. Her eyes were neither blue nor green, Kemi noticed, an in-between colour, made more difficult to place by the fringe of light brown eyelashes and the red-blonde arch of her brow. They eyed each other warily. Then Kemi reached out her hand, palm turned upwards. ‘You know,’ she said shyly, ‘I think I’ll have a sweet after all.’