Soul Sisters

by Lesley Lokko

  There it was. In the shared bedroom, a kind of comfort neither had known before was about to be built. Both girls recognized it without it having to be said.

  PART THREE

  1987

  Nine years later

  • • •

  What I cannot love, I overlook. Is that real friendship?

  ANAÏS NIN

  8

  ‘You go.’ Jen eyed the closed door of the study nervously.

  ‘No, you go.’ Kemi shook her head. ‘You go first.’

  ‘No, you go first.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I’m too scared to tell him.’

  Kemi rolled her eyes. ‘You? Excuse me, you’re the one who threatened to break Claire MacGregor’s nose, d’you remember?’

  Jen grinned. ‘That was different.’

  Kemi shook her head. She’d never forgotten her first day at Fettes, nearly nine years earlier. She’d walked into the classroom with Jen, her heart thumping with fear. There was no mistaking the look everyone gave her. ‘Who – or what – the hell is that?’ She slid into the seat next to Jen and waited for the murmuring to stop. Suddenly she heard the scrape of a chair next to her. She stole a look sideways. Jen was standing over a blonde girl sitting in the next row. ‘You say that ever again, Claire MacGregor, and I’ll break your fucking nose.’ There was a sudden gasp and the class fell silent. Jen wouldn’t tell her what Claire MacGregor had said. In the nine years since then, she’d asked her many, many times. Jen simply shook her head, stubbornly mute. But Claire MacGregor never said it – whatever it was – again. She felt a sudden rush of affection for her soul sister. It was Jen who’d come up with the term. ‘We’re more than real sisters. We’re soul sisters.’ It was true. She was closer to Jen than anyone in the world.

  ‘All right, I’ll go. But don’t let him talk you out of it, d’you hear me?’

  Jen nodded. ‘I won’t.’ But her voice wasn’t quite as convincing as it should have been. ‘I won’t,’ she repeated. ‘I promise.’

  Kemi gave her a rueful smile. She secured her ponytail, making sure there were no loose, unruly curls, and knocked on the door.

  ‘Come in.’ Uncle Robert’s deep voice came from within. She pushed open the door, letting it shut quietly behind her. She stood in the doorway, waiting for him to look up.

  ‘Have a seat, Kemisa. I’ll be with you in just a moment.’

  Uncle Robert was Scottish – as Scottish as the Jacobites, as he often said – but his accent remained stubbornly Etonian.

  ‘So, what can I do for you, Kemisa?’ Uncle Robert looked up from the sheaf of papers he’d been studying. She would always be Kemisa to him, never Kemi. Theirs was an oddly formal relationship, given that she’d lived with the McFaddens for half her life. She’d seen more of Alice and Robert McFadden than she had her own parents. She spoke to her mother whenever the circumstances permitted – once or twice a year, if they were lucky. Their conversations were short and to the point. Are you being a good girl? Are you studying hard? Do you have everything you need? Kemi knew the calls were monitored. What could she tell her? Yes, she had everything she needed. When she and Jen turned twelve, it was Cook who explained to the girls what menstruation was, not Alice. As for her father, it had been so long since anyone had heard Tole Mashabane’s voice that even his daughter wouldn’t be able to place it.

  ‘Uncle, do you have a moment?’ That was the correct way to address him. Jen’s approach was always combative, as though she expected to fight. It wasn’t the way to approach one’s elders.

  ‘Indeed, I do.’ He was sitting at his desk, its surface a field of dark green leather and almost-erased gold, a stack of legal papers spread out in front of him. He turned in his seat and indicated the chair opposite. She sat down, folding her hands in her lap. He looked at her, a finger resting in the soft folds of his bearded cheek, waiting for her to divulge whatever it was she’d come to see him about.

  ‘It’s about university, Uncle. I’ve made up my mind,’ Kemi began hesitantly. He nodded encouragingly.

  ‘Go on, Kemisa.’

  ‘I’m going to go for medicine. I spoke to the careers advisor yesterday. He thinks I’ve got a good chance of getting into UCL.’

  Uncle Robert was quiet for a moment. He nodded slowly. Then he got up from his chair. He walked over to the armoire beside the window and unlocked one of the drawers. He took something out, weighing it in his hand for a moment, then turned and walked back. He sat down and cleared his throat. Kemi looked at him expectantly, her heart beginning to beat faster.

  ‘I’ve thought about giving this to you many times over the past nine years since you came to us,’ he began carefully. ‘Tole asked me to give it to you when I felt the time was right. It was the last conversation we had.’ There was silence between them. He held out the little black box to her.

  Kemi took it from him, blinking quickly and very hard. For a moment the room swelled and lurched alarmingly. ‘Th-thank you, Uncle.’

  ‘Go on, open it.’

  Kemi prised the lid open carefully. Inside, nestled on a bed of simple white tissue, was a solid silver pocket watch. She took it out with shaking fingers, holding it up by the little chain hoop. Parkin & Son. Doncaster. She turned it over. There were the three embossed silver hallmarks and a date, 1887. She stared at it. It was solid and heavy in her palm. Her fingers curled protectively around it. ‘Thank you, Uncle,’ she said again. For a moment they stood looking at the antique pocket watch together. Neither was the type to let much show. In those first few weeks and months he’d had the habit of shifting his feet about uncomfortably whenever he came upon her in the hallway or in the kitchen, unused to her, uncertain about where it might lead. ‘Thank you, Uncle,’ Kemi said again softly, slipping the watch back into the box. Where had it come from? Why had her father asked Uncle Robert to give it to her? She sensed it was not the right time to ask. ‘Shall I send Jen in?’

  He nodded slowly. An expression crossed his face, so fast she wondered if she’d imagined it, a kind of inward-looking weariness, almost of defeat. ‘Yes. Send her in.’

  The word in her father’s mouth might have been a swear word, a dirty word, a blasphemous word. He said it just the once – ‘artist?’ – with the question mark still trapped within, and turned away, patting his pockets for his pipe. Minutes ticked by, filled only with the worrying of a match into flame as he lit his pipe, the sound of rain hitting the windowpanes and the slow, curling hiss of smoke. Jen stood where she was in front of his desk, arms folded tightly across her chest whilst he smoked with his back to her, looking out across the garden to the misty view of Arthurs Seat just visible through the apple trees.

  Finally, he cleared his throat and turned around again. Taking a seat, he laid the pipe carefully on its stand and brought his hands together, elbows resting against the desk’s worn leather surface.

  ‘So,’ he said carefully, all the weight of the world – his expectations, her grandfather’s dying wishes, the wealth of the McFadden family and her grandmother’s steely contempt – contained in the careful manner in which he spoke. ‘You’ve decided on it, have you?’

  Jen swallowed. She nodded, not trusting herself to speak. Not just yet.

  ‘And you’re asking me to support you in this decision?’

  ‘I . . . I’m going to do it anyway.’ She was proud that her voice shook only a little. Bravado aside, it was about the most frightening thing she’d ever done.

  ‘I see.’

  ‘It’s what I want to do, Father. It’s all I’ve ever wanted to do.’

  ‘Well, Jennifer, life isn’t just about what one wants to do. It’s also about what one must do. The right thing. The right choice. Even if it’s a sacrifice.’

  ‘What’s wrong with art, Father? I’m good at it.’

  ‘The wealth of this family wasn’t built on anything quite so frivolous, Jennifer. You’d do well to remember that.’

  ‘But I don’t care about money!’<
br />
  ‘You’ll care about it soon enough. It’s impossible to make a living out of art, Jennifer. Impossible.’ It was a death sentence. ‘Just like your mother. All talk. Nothing but talk. Well, I’ll not stop you, Jennifer. And I’ll not stoop so low as to fail to support you. But nothing will come of it, you mark my words. Yes, indeed. Just like your mother.’

  Jen felt the blood rush to her cheeks. Her father seldom spoke of her mother, let alone to her, but it was an open secret in the house that he had little regard for her. It wasn’t just the matter of separate rooms and separate lives – Alice McFadden didn’t actually have much of a life. Her world revolved around the domestic spheres of the McFaddens’ two homes – the house in Morningside and the large, empty country house just outside Peebles. There was no question of selling it, so Alice made the weekly trip down from Edinburgh to oversee the few staff who remained, making sure everything inside was in pristine working condition, held in trust for the generations who might one day follow. She opened her mouth to say something, anything, but found that words failed her. They stared at each other for a wordless moment.

  ‘You’ll thank me right enough one day, Jennifer,’ her father said finally. He picked up his pipe. The conversation, such as it was, was over. She swallowed hard and left the room.

  ‘So, what did he say?’ Kemi’s face appeared between the bannisters. She was sitting on the third step from the top, hugging her legs to her chest. She’d pulled her curls free of her ponytail. The stained-glass window on the first landing streamed with multicoloured light. Kemi’s halo of curls appeared to be on fire. An angel. A beautiful black angel.

  ‘He hates the idea, of course, but he won’t stop me.’ Jen tried to shrug it off.

  Kemi looked at her searchingly. She wasn’t fooled. ‘Are you OK?’

  ‘Yeah, course I am.’

  ‘Sure?’

  Jen’s eyes filled with sudden tears. It was impossible to cry in front of him, but she’d never been able to keep her feelings hidden from Kemi. ‘He won’t stop me. Th-that’s the main thing,’ she sniffed.

  ‘Not stopping you isn’t the same as actually supporting you,’ Kemi said, ever practical. ‘He’s not going to cut you off, is he?’

  Jen shook her head. ‘No. He didn’t threaten that.’

  ‘What’s the worst that can happen? The very, very worst?’

  Jen looked up at her, blinking back tears. ‘Wh-what d’you mean?’

  ‘Exactly what I said. Look, if you’re not going to be penniless, what’s the worst that can happen?’

  Jen’s shoulders went up and down. ‘I . . . I don’t know. I might fail. I might not be any good.’

  ‘Yes, but equally, you might succeed. Now, dry your eyes, stand up straight and start thinking about where you’re going to go next.’

  Jen looked up at her. The hallway began to swim again. ‘I . . . I don’t know if I can,’ she began, worried that she would burst into tears. ‘I’m not like you, Kemi . . . I . . . I think I’d better do something else.’

  Kemi was quiet. Jen looked at her nervously. She didn’t like it when Kemi was quiet. They looked at each other without saying anything. ‘It’s your life, Jen. Don’t let anyone else tell you what to do with your life.’

  ‘It’s not that simple,’ Jen said shakily.

  ‘That’s where you’re wrong,’ Kemi said slowly. ‘It is that simple. It’s your life. Not his, not mine. Yours.’ She slid her long legs down the stairs and got up. ‘Yours,’ she repeated. And then she was gone.

  Jen remained where she was, crouching on the bottom stair, afraid to move. Not for the first time she had the distinct sense of the two of them having come to a line together, only to watch Kemi cross it, leaving her behind.

  PART FOUR

  1997

  Ten years later

  • • •

  Ambition is not a vice of little people.

  MICHEL DE MONTAIGNE

  9

  ‘And for you, Mamá?’ The waiter turned to his mother. Solam Rhoyi read the man’s mind as if he’d spoken aloud. He noted the way the waiter’s eyes quickly assessed his mother’s expensive suit, colourful scarf and a watch that probably cost a year’s wages, likely more. He threw Solam a quick glance, wondering if he was a TV star, a footballer? No, no . . . ah, yes, he had it! His eyes widened slightly as recognition dawned. Solam Rhoyi. Is he a politician? I’ve seen his face on TV. His manner softened. In someone like Solam Rhoyi there was the promise of better to come.

  Solam darted a quick look at his mother. He noticed the frown. She hated being called Mamá, especially with that long, drawn-out ‘a’ at the end. Mamá. A sign of respect she could have done without, thank you very much.

  Iketleng held the menu away from her as if offended by it. ‘Fish? Do you have fish?’

  The waiter nodded patiently. ‘Yes, Mamá. There is a fish dish. No, I don’t know the name. But it is tasty, yes, yes . . . very tasty.’ Solam could read her impatience like an open book. She’d only been back from New York a few months and was determined to find fault with just about everything in South Africa – and everyone.

  ‘I’m sure it’ll be fine,’ Solam said briskly, closing his own menu with a snap. ‘Two of the fish, whatever it is. Grilled, not fried. Shall we have a glass of wine?’

  His mother nodded. He chose a Sauvignon Blanc, a Tokara, not too heavy. When it arrived, he quickly took charge, relieving the poor waiter of any more of Iketleng’s wrath. He poured them both a glass. ‘Cheers.’

  ‘Cheers,’ she murmured, only partially mollified.

  Solam took a sip, eyeing her warily. He never knew how to read his mother’s moods. Not that it was surprising. They’d spent most of their lives apart. Even his parents had barely spent time with one another. His father was a recently qualified lawyer and trade union organizer with a young wife and a six-year-old son when he was arrested and held for six months at the notorious John Vorster Square prison in Johannesburg. When he came out, he was sent to the north of the country to start a union for mineworkers. Within a year, he was rearrested, this time for life. Solam remembered the day of his father’s sentencing. It was at the High Court in Pretoria. He was passed from shoulder to shoulder, at the back of the courtroom where the blacks were squashed. The mood was jubilant, defiant. He remembered too the gasp that tore through the court when they were sentenced and the loud outburst from the hundreds who’d come to hear it pronounced. Amandla! Awethu! Amandla! The crowd’s blessings fell like laurels upon his father and the six other young men who were being led back down to the cells. His father turned and raised a shackled fist, not at his wife and child but at the crowd. And then it was over. He was led through a door at the back of the courtroom and they were gone. Solam rode home sandwiched between adults who never stopped talking, staring at his mother’s braided, elegant head. Within a year, his mother too was picked up and sentenced to ten years for ‘conspiring to overthrow the state’. His aunt, his mother’s youngest sister, stepped in to take care of him. He moved out of the modest house in Protea Glen, where he had his own room, and into his aunt’s much more modest and crowded house in Jabulani, opposite the police station and next to the hospital. All night long the ambulances drove up and down Bolani Road, wailing into the darkness. At first, he lay stiffly in the bed he shared with his cousin, Moketsi, afraid to close his eyes in case he found himself dreaming of his mother and woke up crying. At the new school just up the road on Nkonyane Street, he kept himself to himself, trailing miserably behind his cousins in the dusty playground, longing for his old school, his old teachers, his friends . . . his life.

  Then, one afternoon a little over a month later, he was summoned into the living room by his aunt. The smell of cooking wafted over the assembled gathering from the kitchen behind the beaded screen. There were perhaps a dozen men, none of whom he’d seen before, sitting smoking, drinking a little . . . there was an air of camaraderie and warmth, of the kind he understood now that he’d missed. His aunt was
nothing like his mother. She was a nurse at the district hospital. She worked long hours and did not complain. There was no man in the house. No one spoke of an uncle or a father – his cousins didn’t seem to feel or see the lack. She went to church three times a week but didn’t press him to accompany her, for which he was grateful. She presented him to the men, both hands on his thin shoulders, pressing him forward. The conversation ebbed and flowed around him, snatches of the kind of language spoken in his old home, when his parents were around.

  I never trusted him. They infiltrated everyone, everything . . . I tell you.

  Any news from Sweden? I thought they said there’d be money.