My mother’s upbringing had been a typical Muslim one in West Africa, where religion was important to the infrastructure of the family, but hers was not as strict as it could have been. She was from a mixed Temne, Mende group of people in Sierra Leone. Both her parents raised her as such in the 1940s, when the colonisers were impacting on traditional life in a way that would make it appear beneficial for the locals, with their education system, Christian prayers and interference in local government. Her travelling trader father was broadminded enough to ponder the future of his daughter and decided to send his eldest child to a boarding-school run by American missionaries. My mother speaks about those days with brightness and fervour, although she has never talked to us much about her childhood before school. She has never mentioned Bundu, the women’s secret society that “cut” girls in their puberty. I assume that she too was “cut” but there are certain things that correctly raised African children will never ask.
So, for the formative years of my life I had a “Mum and Dad” as well as a “Real Mum and Dad”. People would look at me strangely or with pity when I described my black and white families; I was not to know until I was in my thirties that there were West African children who were privately fostered and abandoned by their parents—and here I was, boasting two complete sets! I didn’t know or understand that foster care in England might have a negative connotation, signalling an assumption that we had been taken away from negligent parents to be cared for in the state system.
To ease the shock of leaving Kent, Real Mum would cook English roast dinners the way she had been taught at boarding-school, so that her children would not feel totally torn from what they had been fed since birth—we swore that her roast potatoes could not match Mum’s—and she “seasoned” the roast chicken! No crispy skin, soaked in brown gravy, instead, she used the natural chicken juice to make a colourless thin gravy with herbs! Mum would try often to make jollof rice the way Real Mum showed her—but for English people to cook rice as well as they cook potatoes is challenge enough; to master the intricate ritual of cooking jollof rice—without scales—steaming till it peaked, adding onions, tomatoes, spices, herbs and various meats at the right time without a stop-watch—was just not going to happen.
I’m guessing that both mothers used their culinary expertise to woo and claim these three Krio Marabout Cockney children as theirs. Mum lost, and she and Dad moved out of the house on the corner, where we had zoomed down the hill in our home-made go-kart, a year after Real Mum and Dad moved us to a busy yet alien place called London, where Mum and Dad couldn’t find us and take us back home.
Dorothea Smartt
London-born of Barbadian heritage, she is an internationally respected poet/live artist whose books are Connecting Medium (2001), Ship Shape (2008) and Reader, I Married Him & Other Queer Goings-On (2014). She was formerly an Attached Live Artist at London’s ICA, and has held residencies in the USA (Texas), Scotland and Barbados. Her poetry collection, Ship Shape, is an A-Level English Literature title. In recognition of her contribution to British cultural life, she was nominated for a Barbados 2016 Golden Jubilee Award.
Poem Beginning With A Line From Claudia Rankine
(after Lisa Jarnot’s “Poem Beginning with a Line by Frank Lima”)
Your historical selves, her White self and your Black self
are in high relief, inescapable except maybe in those private times
you’re both laughing at the tumbled laundry, the moody rain
your Black self skidding in the mud same way as her
White self drenched from the sweaty humidity broken by a
shower. You are both grabbing at clothes on the line with giggles
and soft slaps from flapping sheets her children attempt to rescue
a few. Her White self ankle deep as your Black self, hands
reaching out to steady you and the bundle as thunder
rumbles reminders of history unheeded in this moment your
Black hands holding her White hands tight. Her White self
breathing hard as your Black self, make it to the back porch
collapsing in embrace, children piling on top of wet kissed lips
in that private minute there’s a shared look above their small
heads, up on your feet now, clothes discarded laundry abandoned
to the squeals of your boys and girl, purveyors of innocence lost
when her White self offers and your Black self accepts inside
the spring months the constant rain and futile laundry days
that have made you cry wipe tears of frustration from your Black
self held in the arms of her White self saying don’t worry we’ll
wash it all again together and you say, Yes. Thank you, Ma’am.
Adeola Solanke
She is an award-winning playwright, screenwriter, and founder of Spora Stories. She was a Fulbright Scholar at the University of Southern California where she earned an MFA in film and was an Academy Nicholls Fellowship semi-finalist. Her award-winning plays include the acclaimed Pandora’s Box, which won a Best New Play nomination in the Off-West End Theatre Awards in 2012 and was shortlisted for the $100,000 Nigeria Prize for Literature, Africa’s biggest literary award. Her play The Court Must Have a Queen, produced by Historic Royal Palaces, was performed at Hampton Court Palace in 2018 and featured John Blanke, an African Musician in the court of Henry VIII. Another period drama, Phillis in London, about Phillis Wheatley, the enslaved prodigy who published the first collection of poetry by an African, has been performed in Gambia, Barbados and England. She’s also developing scripts about artists in seventies Notting Hill, where she grew up, and nineties LA. She lectures in Creative Writing at the University of Greenwich.
From Pandora’s Box
Characters:
TOYIN: A London mother (late-thirties)
SIS RONKE: Her elder sister, a Lagos entrepreneur and socialite (forties)
MAMA-RONKE/ PANDORA: Their mother, a retired nurse (sixties)
BEV: Toyin’s best friend (late-thirties)
BABA: Toyin’s Uncle, Mama’s brother (sixties)
TIMI: Toyin’s teenage son (fifteen)
TOPE: Timi’s cousin (fifteen)
PRINCIPAL OSUN: Principal of Tope’s school (fifties)
This is a one-act play. The action takes place over one evening in late August, in Lagos, Nigeria. NB: Dialogue is often in Nigerian-English.
FROM SCENE 2
TOYIN: (excited) Gosh I don’t believe it’s actually opened.
SIS RONKE: What’s the big deal? It’s just a trunk. Everyone who comes back from London has one?
TOYIN and SIS RONKE crowd round as MAMA-RONKE dips in.
TOYIN: But I’ve never seen what’s inside. It was like forbidden fruit. “Never go near my trunk. Don’t let me see you tampering with my trunk . . .” Blimey I thought there were dead bodies in it.
MAMA fishes around and pulls out a dress. She unfolds it and holds it up.
SIS RONKE: I hope that’s not for me.
MAMA-RONKE: What do you mean? It’s a very popular style.
TOYIN: It was. A long time ago.
SIS RONKE: Ma’mi, we don’t wear that sort of thing anymore.
MAMA-RONKE: (indignant) Oh, so this is not good enough for you? I bought this in C&A of Oxford Street.
TOYIN: C&A closed down years ago, Mum. It’s a Primark now.
MAMA-RONKE: Na you sabi. It’s your loss. (folding it) I’ll send it to my people in Ibadan. They’ll appreciate it.
RONKE fishes around inside the trunk. She takes out a doll. She jumps as TOYIN screams.
TOYIN: That’s mine!
SIS RONKE: What?
TOYIN: (pouncing and grabbing) It’s her. It’s mine. She’s mine. That’s the doll I asked for when I was eight.
MAMA-RONKE: I bought it for you.
TOYIN: Then you said you hadn’t bought it, but I knew. I knew I’d seen it in a bag and I thought you’d given it to som
eone else.
MAMA-RONKE: I bought it for you.
TOYIN: So why didn’t you give it to me, Mum?
MAMA-RONKE looks tearful. She shakes her head. RONKE dips in again and takes out a dress. It’s ghastly—lemon yellow taffeta with a petticoat.
TOYIN: And that dress . . . that’s the . . . yes . . . that’s the dress from Marks and Spencer. I begged you for it on my tenth birthday.
MAMA-RONKE is nodding again.
SIS RONKE: It’s ugly, anyway.
TOYIN: No it’s not. Everyone else in my class had one, except me. All the things I wanted. You bought them, and then locked them away! Why?
MAMA-RONKE: I don’t know.
TOYIN: It doesn’t make sense.
MAMA-RONKE: I know, but I didn’t know what else to do. I wanted to be fair . . . to the two of you . . . but you were on two different continents.
TOYIN and RONKE look at each other.
TOYIN: Look at all the things I missed out on.
SIS RONKE: I’m the one who missed out.
TOYIN: Oh, please!
MAMA-RONKE: I don’t know why . . . I thought I was being fair . . . Instead, maybe I failed both of you.
SIS RONKE: Yes, you did.
MAMA is stung and goes to leave.
TOYIN: No, she didn’t. Mum, you didn’t. Don’t listen to her. (to Ronke) What’s wrong with you?
SIS RONKE: She wanted to talk, didn’t she? So let’s talk.
TOYIN: Give her a break.
SIS RONKE: She’s finally realising the damage she did. Good.
MAMA leaves, upset. SIS RONKE goes to follow. TOYIN grabs her.
TOYIN: She’s been trying to talk to you since we got here. Now a few hours before we leave . . .
SIS RONKE: (pulling away) Oto oro o kan. (Home truths are bitter.) Some home truths are way overdue.
TOYIN: She did her best.
SIS RONKE: Ra, ra o! (I disagree!) It wasn’t good enough. (fighting free) We’re going to talk.
She exits. TOYIN is flummoxed, paces. We hear doors slamming. TOYIN charges after them, but before she can exit, MAMA-RONKE re-enters, RONKE hot on her heels.
MAMA-RONKE: From Taofiki to your sister. From your sister to me. Whoever you can vent your frustrations on. Well, I’m not your houseboy, nor am I your junior sister. You’re quick to condemn Timi for lack of respect to his elders. What of you? Is this respect? I’m your . . .
SIS RONKE: Iya mi. My mother, abi?
MAMA-RONKE: (deep breath) You can refuse me as your mother, but don’t forget this—I’m not your age mate. I won’t tolerate your rudeness anymore! Don’t let me say something I’ll regret. I’m warning you. If I open my mouth, it will stick.
SIS RONKE: Do your worst. E se epe funmi te ba se! E so nkon ta ba fe so! (Curse me if you like! Say what you want. Am I bothered?)
MAMA-RONKE: (superhuman control) Ronke, let me pack my loads and go. I’m sorry I bothered you by coming here. I won’t do so again. It’s nearly eight. In no time I’ll be leaving your house.
SIS RONKE: Yes, you’re leaving. Leaving again. Well, the first time you left I was too young to speak up. But I can speak now.
MAMA-RONKE: And you’ve spoken. Very clearly. I failed. That’s what you said. I’m a bad mother.
SIS RONKE: I’ve got some other things to say . . .
MAMA-RONKE: I don’t have to explain myself to you or to anyone else. I am your mother. I did what I thought was best.
SIS RONKE: For you!
MAMA-RONKE: No, for you!
SIS RONKE: E duro na! (Hold up! Wait a minute!) That was best . . . leaving me behind? E fi mi fe le! (You left me!)
MAMA-RONKE: Yes, I left you behind. At the time, that’s what I thought was best . . .
SIS RONKE: I want you to apologise.
MAMA-RONKE: For what?
TOYIN: Leave her alone, Ronke. She did her best
SIS RONKE: I want you to admit that you abandoned me. I want you to say you’re sorry . . .
TOYIN: Leave my mum alone!
MAMA-RONKE: I’ve said it, haven’t I?
SIS RONKE: No, you always say, “maybe I made a mistake” or “perhaps I was wrong”. But it’s not maybe, it’s not perhaps. Both you and my dad left me and didn’t come back.
MAMA-RONKE: We went to study. We didn’t mean to stay.
SIS RONKE: Say sorry.
MAMA-RONKE: What was I supposed to do? I couldn’t come, once I had Toyin and the others in London.
SIS RONKE: Say you’re sorry.
TOYIN: Leave her alone. Mum, let’s just go.
MAMA-RONKE: I couldn’t be in two places at once. And I thought you were better off here.
SIS RONKE: SAY IT.
MAMA looks from one to the other, trying to find the answer. She sinks down.
MAMA-RONKE: I didn’t succeed at all. I didn’t even finish my studies. What I went there for, I didn’t even achieve. I failed. And you paid the price. You’re right. I’m sorry. Yes, I’m sorry.
SIS RONKE turns away. The apology she wanted isn’t soothing.
MAMA-RONKE: (picking up the dress) Buying things and storing them up for years I don’t know why. Because I was too proud to come home without my qualifications I did it all wrong.
SIS RONKE: I don’t want your dolls, or dresses, or . . .
She starts tossing the dresses, dolls and other gifts back at the trunk, but they’re flying everywhere but into it. She slams it shut. Finished, she slumps onto the sofa, a spent force.
SIS RONKE: Take them back I don’t want them . . . I want . . .
She trails off. MAMA rises with whatever strength she can muster and stumbles out. TOYIN looks at Ronke, furiously.
TOYIN: You got your pound of flesh. Happy now?
SIS RONKE: I remember the day I met our dad. I was in form five. He came to my boarding house. I was called out of biology—it was near the end of the lesson—and when I got to the Principal’s office, she said “there’s someone special here to see you.” And there was a tall, slim man, He was standing by her desk, looking out of the window, dressed in a gray suit. Wearing a red bow tie. I knew who he was straight away. He was visiting from England. He stayed for about an hour, we went for a walk in the gardens and he gave me some money, and then he left. And I never saw him again. He sent presents through his mum. For a few years. (Pause) Neither of them came back for me.
TOYIN: But you had Africa, the motherland.
SIS RONKE: (crumbling) But you had a mother.
She exits as BEV and TIMI return.
BEV: He wasn’t in . . . I think he’s at the polo club . . . (taking in the chaos around her). Hey! What happened here?
END OF SCENE 2
Celia Sorhaindo
Born on the Caribbean island of Dominica, she lived in the UK for many years and returned home in 2005, when she returned to her homeland to organise the Nature Island Literary Festival. Her poems have been published in The Caribbean Writer, Moko Magazine, and Interviewing the Caribbean journal, and longlisted for the UK National Poetry Competition 2017/18. She is a fellow of the 2016 Cropper Foundation Creative Writers Workshop and 2017 Callaloo Creative Writing Workshop. She is currently working on her first poetry collection.
Creation
Sometimes the only babies
us women subconsciously choose
to birth are our words.
Always a late developer,
mine scratched
on pregnant pause:
And forced their
way out of
tight lips.
Wayward, untidy, they
crawled naked into
the world;
I tried to catch
and tie them in
pink bows
but they wriggled out
to play,
confident, carefree,
and I smiled when Kahlil
and others whispered
they did not belong to me.
At night they crept
in
to my bed
and covered
my nakedness
with their awkward
limbs.
In muted nightmares—
neglected, bullied—
they disappeared;
Today I wake
relieved
and know
even in silence
words will
always be
tightly wrapped
around me.
In The Air
After the hurricane,
my grandmother,
who in her basement storeroom,
had hunkered down
and knelt
her knees raw with prayer
the whole long long lashing tail of night,
ascended slippery stairs
hoping by holy intervention
her home had been saved.
She stared from ruined room to room,
swaying like a punched drunk spirit,
mouth and eyes wide black holes of disbelief,
words gone as wounds appeared.
She walked on water,
treading over eighty years of floating debris,
then could do no more than silently thank
her saviour over and over for sparing her life.
After the hurricane,
after Mass,
tales of rampant looting
circled among them like hungry dogs;
after the turned-inside-out but well
clothed congregation,
still silent, had shared signs of peace.
No one appeared to conjure and divide
loaves and fishes between some people;
divided by good and bad luck or circumstance;
divided by ability or will to pad and prepare,
concrete seal, pantry stock, insure against calamity.
But having enough or not enough saved,
surely meant little then,
after all none were saved
from that almighty
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