New Daughters of Africa

by Margaret Busby

  “Are you okay?” he asked. His full lips and kind dark eyes overwhelmed with concern.

  “I’m fine, thanks. The guest house? Come with me, I’ll show you. It’s near the clinic where I’m going.”

  As Kelapile fell asleep on her back, Warona, with each step, fell in love with this stranger. It was reckless and without sense, but irresistible. It was a curious, spooky magic and, against character, she welcomed it.

  “I’m Silas,” he said.

  She smiled. “I’m Warona.”

  That was the beginning. The village looked on with jealous eyes as the pair flew high up to the clouds floating lazily in the silky blue sky, while the villagers stayed stuck to earth with their leaded minds and chained hearts. Resentment built against the couple and leaked out in words whispered in hidden corners and small actions made in public.

  “Nothing good can come of that,” Mma Boago cautioned, while the wisp of a wish hovered nearby.

  Johnny-Boy nodded in agreement.

  They knew only that love defined by the limits of a stingy life. Status-gaining love. Money-grubbing love. Security-seeking love. It had been so long since pure love had moved among them that all they could see was an outsider, an enemy. A threat.

  Days passed. Silas played music while Warona hung bits of forest-green glass in the sunny window to create emerald patches of light that flicked around the one-roomed house. Kelapile danced. It was like that every day as they tried to circumnavigate the tricky path they had set out on.

  Silas was happy where they were, but he spoke of other places where he had travelled, of the world out there where every step brought a new surprise and a new way to think about things. Aquamarine seas with white whip cream waves. Brown and gold beaches. Magenta mountains. Warona would lie in his arms and listen about those magical places and Silas would rub her head, opening her mind to make space for all of the pictures he created.

  But it wasn’t all smooth sailing. The fog of gossip filtered through their shell of private dreams and Warona was affected. She wondered if the rumours were true. When she slipped into the villagers’ way of thinking, she fought against Silas.

  “Stop it!” she’d shout. “What do you want from me? Go back where you came from, you know you will one day!” Tears flowed and she tried hard to make her heart a block of cold silver ice.

  Silas was not troubled by this. He knew words backed down when you faced up to them and told it like it was. He would slowly reel Warona back in, pour warm love over her ice heart, and set her back on the course they were travelling.

  Then one grey day, they disappeared. All three of them.

  Mma Boago was cutting off chicken heads when Johnny-Boy came rushing in. He ran this way and that, his eyes wild with excitement. “I saw it myself!”

  “Saw what?” Mma Boago said, as the cleaver came down with a thud, separating surprised body from instantly dead head.

  “They’re gone.”

  “Who’s gone?”

  “Warona, the baby, and that stranger. They walked down the road, back into the sun from where he came. Walked and then just . . . they were suddenly gone.”

  “Better. People were getting ideas. We don’t need that kind of thing around here.” Mma Boago raised the cleaver and slammed it down hard into the wood of the chopping-block.

  Johnny-Boy pulled out a beer from the under-counter fridge, took a big gulp and nodded his head. Like always, he thought, Mma Boago was probably right.

  Goretti Kyomuhendo

  A Ugandan novelist and short story writer, she attended university in South Africa, earning an MA in Creative Writing from the University of KwaZulu-Natal in Durban. Her published novels include The First Daughter (1996), Secret No More (1999), Sara and the Boy Soldier (2000), Whispers from Vera (2002) and Waiting: A Novel of Uganda’s Hidden War (2007). She has also written two children’s books, Justus Saves His Uncle (2008) and A Chance to Survive (2008), and is the author of The Essential Handbook for African Creative Writers (2013). She was a founding member and the first Programmes Coordinator for FEMRITE—Uganda Women Writers’ Association and is the founder and director of the African Writers Trust, which works to bridge the divide between African writers in the diaspora and on the continent, bringing them together to promote synergies and to foster knowledge and learning between the two groups. She currently lives in London.

  Lost and Found

  On Wednesday afternoon, when I arrive at Entebbe airport, I expect my whole family to be waiting to receive me; after all, I have spent seven years in America and I know they are as anxious to see me as I am to see them. But only Hajati, my big sister is waiting to welcome me.

  “Where’s everybody?” I ask Hajati.

  Hajati says nothing and I repeat the question, trying to keep my calm, and wondering what could have happened to my mother, six siblings, their spouses, children and other extended family.

  Hajati doubles her step instead, aiming for the vending machine to pay for the parking ticket. I am right behind her, and before she can insert the ticket into the machine, I grab her shoulder, forcing her to stop and look at me.

  “They will see you next week,” she answers, “I gave them the wrong date for your arrival.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Hajati waits for the machine to discharge the ticket before answering. “I’ll explain in a minute. Here, let me help you with the luggage, my car is over there.”

  As she pushes the trolley with my two suitcases: a medium sized one and my hand luggage, Hajati struggles to keep pace. I don’t feel I’m walking as fast as I normally do but Hajati complains that my speed is too fast for her, and asks if I think this is America.

  “Why did you give them the wrong date?” I press on, as I wait for Hajati to open the car. It is black and shaped like a coffin. I have not seen this type before. A Toyata NOAH, I read from the inscription on its rear.

  “Is this all the luggage you travelled with?” Hajati asks me as I help her place the bags on the back seat. The NOAH has no boot.

  “Yes,” I nod my head, looking directly into her face. Her eyes, I notice, seem to be the only feature that hasn’t changed about my sister since I left—and since she became a Muslim after marrying a Muslim man and started wearing the hijab. And we started calling her Hajati. Her eyes reveal the sister I knew then: collected, sensible, and forthright. It wasn’t like her not to tell the truth.

  “Why did you lie to them?” I’m still on Hajati’s case, and I refuse to take any further step until I get to the bottom of this. Hajati is forced to tell me there and then, as we stand head to head on the hot, car park tarmac.

  “It’s that picture you sent me last month. I mean, what would people say? That you live in America or South Sudan? You will stay with me for a while. I have arranged for the salon woman to come over tomorrow to fix your hair, and nails, and face. They will see you next week. As for your weight loss . . .”

  “I’m on a diet.”

  I’ve been struggling to lose weight for almost a year now and I’m finally happy with the results. And I want to protest about Hajati’s plan of hiding me and the proposed makeover. But I don’t. It’s the way she talks—the way she carries herself; and perhaps it’s the hijab, which I’m seeing her wearing for the first time. The hijab has created a barrier to our communication—and an uncertainty about how I deal with her. It’s like I don’t know who my real sister is any more.

  People are like water. When did this city become so crowded? The cars stretch as far as the eye can see. The boda-bodas zoom past at unbelievable speed. And the potholes, eeiii! They are like fishponds.

  “Yarabi Mungu!” Hajati swears as a she dodges a huge pothole that has dug a crater in the middle of the road. She swerves to avoid a boda-boda who nearly yanks off her driving mirror. Pedestrians pour onto the street as if they are fleeing the war.

  “Wallahi, I’m going to crush someone,” Hajati hisses. She drives on neither the left nor the right, but where there are fewest obst
acles.

  I hold on to the dashboard, grateful for the strength of the seatbelt.

  They will see you next week, Hajati had said, when I arrived that Wednesday afternoon, and not: You will see them next week. I see what she meant now. After the salon woman is finished with me after two days of hard work, I feel like a trophy—ready to be presented.

  On the first day, she worked on my face: shaving my eyebrows to a fine line with a new razor, which she opened in my presence to prove it was being used for the first time, and hence no possibility of spreading HIV. For the nails, I resisted the artificial ones, insisting on painting both my finger and toe nails with henna, which looked more natural against my black skin.

  On the second day, she focused on my hair: soaking the dreadlocks in water first, then getting rid of the lumps and bends that had accumulated over time. Afterwards, she tightened and smeared the locks with natural almond oil, before crocheting them into a beautiful, tall pile.

  The next day is Saturday and it’s also Hajati’s eldest son’s birthday. He’s turning fifteen. His mother had promised to take him and his siblings and classmates out to his restaurant of choice. But now the plans have changed because we can’t risk going out in case someone spots me. Instead, Hajati has invited his friends to the house, and we’re going to order a take away.

  “KFC!” the birthday boy shouts.

  “McDonald’s!” the two younger siblings chorus together.

  “Pizza Hut!”

  “Chicken Tonight!”

  “Café Javas!”

  “Fang Fang!”

  “What do you prefer?” Hajati asks me. “Don’t listen to these children, you are the visitor and we’ll go by what you choose.”

  “Gosh! I didn’t even know there was a McDonald’s in this country. I wouldn’t want to put you to any trouble, and besides, the birthday boy should . . .”

  “No trouble at all, we’ll order online and JumiaFood will deliver whatever you want from any of these restaurants.”

  “I would like to eat something different . . .”

  “This is different. We’ve been eating matooke since you arrived.”

  “I meant different to what I normally eat in . . .”

  “Then try Café Javas. They have the best chips and . . .”

  Chips! I should object. I’m on a diet.

  In the morning, we shower like birds. There’s only one bathroom in Hajati’s house and we are rushing to beat the traffic so as to arrive at my mother’s in time for lunch. This is the day that Hajati gave the family as my arrival date, and she told them she would be driving me from the airport straight to my mum’s house, and we would all converge there for lunch. Hajati’s children have been sworn to secrecy. This is how I remember my mother—when I was a nine-, ten-, eleven-year-old—accompanying her to visit my paternal aunt who lived not too far from our house. My mother, as I remember her then, talked with her hands, but mostly with her feet or face. My aunt always offered us food when we visited her, and my mother would pinch me on the leg with her big toe under the table, and the message could be interpreted to mean a host of things:

  “Don’t touch that food because it might be laced with poison. I know this auntie of yours very well. She smiles only on the surface but beneath, she’s boiling with jealousy. Besides, everyone at church knows her as a witch.”

  OR

  “Why are you not paying attention when your auntie speaks to you? She might think you despise her cooking.”

  OR

  “Don’t put too much food on your plate. It’s bad manners to eat too much when invited to the table. Just put a little bit, and in any case, we’re not going to stay long.”

  Over time, I had learnt to make the correct interpretation of the message my mother wanted to convey. On occasion, she would point to my aunt with her mouth, or kill one eye, and I would still have to decipher the meaning. I don’t remember her taking any of my siblings to visit. It seemed it was always me who accompanied her. And it made me feel special. It made our bond stronger, especially because of our coded communication. I wonder if my mother still talks like that.

  We arrive before everyone else and I go straight into the house to look for my mother. The large family room hasn’t changed much and exudes the familiar, musky scent. The family portrait still hangs on the wall with all seven of us staring intently into the lens; a crooked smile here, a missing tooth there, a grin, a sombre face.

  There by the mango tree, which still nestles between the back garden and the main house, I find my mother. She’s sipping from a plastic cup and does not look up when I approach her. Hajati is hurrying to catch up with me. I’m standing right in front of my mother when she looks up and ululates.

  “Yiii Yiiii Yiiii! Eyes cannot sleep hungry. Saiso?” She calls me by my childhood nickname, which I had almost forgotten. My heart swells with warmth, and the memory of my childhood, and of our time together. It’s like I never left. As I make to go down on my knees so I can greet her properly, she takes another sip and swishes the water around her mouth before spitting it out. The water lands on my face.

  “Mother!” I turn to look at Hajati, who is just standing there, watching us quietly.

  “Her sight is gone,” Hajati says.

  “She’s blind?”

  Hajati answers “yes” with the nod of her head.

  “But why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t anyone tell me!”

  “Tell you?”

  “Yesssssss.” I am yelling. “I have only been away and not dead. She’s my mother, too. I could have done something. When did all this happen?”

  Hajati shrugs.

  “Saiso?” My mother calls again, flailing her arms, looking for me.

  Patrice Lawrence

  Born in Brighton and brought up in an Italian-Trinidadian family in mid-Sussex, she now lives in East London and is an award-winning writer, who has published fiction for both adults and children. Her debut Young Adult novel, Orangeboy (2016), won The Bookseller YA Prize and the Waterstones Prize for Older Children’s Fiction, and was shortlisted for the Costa Children’s Book Award and many regional awards. Indigo Donut (2017), her second book, was shortlisted for The Bookseller YA Prize, was Book of the Week in The Times, the Sunday Times and The Observer, and was one of The Times’ top children’s books in 2017. Both books have been nominated for the Carnegie Award.

  Sin

  Jacob turned into Five Aces community centre car park, locked the car and went in. He was still struck by the smell: damp clothes, powdered soup, hot metal and steam. He stopped by the notice board. Bric-a-brac wanted. One o’clock club with benefits advice and a Turkish interpreter organised in advance if required. The disabled riding school needed trustees. The Scouts were cycling to Berlin to raise money for a children’s cancer charity.

  The memorial service for Travis Norman was next Wednesday afternoon. The man had been only two years older than Jacob.

  He found Miss Lynn in the kitchen arranging muffins on a tray. Her thick grey hair was twisted into Chinese bumps. He moved closer and kissed the back of her neck. She smelt of coconut oil.

  “Jacob!”

  “What’s the problem? There’s no one about.”

  She let him nestle, but when she pulled away to finish her cake arrangement, he felt stupidly resentful. He picked up the empty muffin box.

  “No ginger cake? No coconut loaf?”

  “Take up baking, Jacob. Then you can have a good supply.”

  “It’s not the same.”

  She showed him her hands. The finger joints were swollen and painful. He reached to stroke her thumb but she shook her head.

  He said, “You should use that mixing machine your daughter sent you from Canada.”

  She scowled at him. “I don’t know why she sent me that thing when I can get the same from Argos. And she knows I prefer a good wooden spoon.”

  “That true, Lynette?”

  She smiled. “I have to go. People coming soon.”

  The
y emerged into the sunshine two hours later. It was slow progress towards Leyton as the road people must have known Jacob’s route and planted temporary traffic lights every few feet.

  “Turn now!” Miss Lynn prodded his arm. “Now!”

  Jacob swerved in front of a road sweeper into her parking area. He opened the passenger door for her.

  “I’ll only be a moment,” she said.

  “Why can’t I come in?”

  “It’s my castle, Jacob. I’m the queen and I decide who can enter. And whatever you believe, my darling, you are not my knight in shining armour.”

  “Are you keeping a secret man in there?”

  “Yes. He’s tied to a table leg and I feed him home-made ginger cake.”

  She bent forwards, pushed against the car seat and eased herself up.

  He sat with the car door open letting the sun warm his thoughts. Someone in the flats was cooking; he smelt garlic and coriander. A couple of planes were leaving long condensation trails in the sky like scars. The sun passed behind a cloud as big as a cruise liner.

  His phone rang. “Jacob, come and help me with the food.”

  Miss Lynn was standing by the doorway, carrying two large straw shopping baskets and a heavy, alien walking-stick. She had changed into roomy dark trousers, but underneath he imagined thick, obstinate joints refusing to connect her to movement. He fumbled with the baskets. Her stick clopped on the concrete as they slowly made their way to the car. He loaded the baskets in slow motion to give her time to settle.

  “Direct me, Miss Lynn.”

  “With pleasure, Mr Jacob.”

  They headed north. Again, she prodded. Again, he turned. He stopped and she gave him the key to open the padlock on the gate. It was hard enough for him. How did she manage the fiddlesome lock and the rusted bolt by herself? He returned to the car, drove them through and locked up again.

  He looked around, savouring the rare warmth and stillness. Beyond the allotment, where he stood, lay the canal, sluggish and green with algae. He followed Miss Lynn, edging slowly between the plots. Vines thick with tiny purple grapes clung to makeshift supports. The sunflowers had dropped, but late-planted peas and clusters of stock belied the closeness of winter. A few steps ahead of him, Miss Lynn brushed away brambles, collapsing bean stalks and branches of shrinking damsons.