Hold

by Michael Donkor

  Amma knocked on Belinda’s door, her fist beginning with fast bangs but soon losing its certainty. With no response, she turned the knob, its metal cold against her palm. In the stark, ostentatiously tidy room, Amma had expected to find her friend as a small and shivering thing, pulling itself apart, shrieking itself into hoarseness. Instead, Belinda was standing directly beneath the bulb, light gilding her thoughtful profile. With her beautiful head angled up, it seemed to Amma like Belinda was searching for something in the cornicing.

  ‘Hi. I came to see if … I wanted to see how you were and if you needed. Anything.’

  Belinda turned, the rotation slow and deliberate, before pulling the scrappy hoodie hanging over her shoulders, drawing the stretched arms across her body. Then she seemed to notice Amma’s headwrap. And Amma watched Belinda fight to smile: jerking her pinched mouth, working her cheeks. Belinda worked hard, harder until she showed all of her teeth and then eventually froze like that. The sight of such struggling, with all of its stupid, fierce dignity, made Amma’s hot tears run and run and run.

  31

  Ghana – December

  The taxi smelled of Akpeteshie and bubble-gum. Belinda shifted beneath the car’s low, bashed ceiling. The spongy seats squeaked. Then the engine burped. Belinda flinched and the driver found it funny. Of course everyone would laugh at her: in the small mirror ahead she was a stiff brown puppet, done up in shiny black. A silly, frilly black collar at the neck. Black studs at the ears. Two black hairclips keeping picky braids in place. In the months over in London, had her face changed? That’s how Aunty and Uncle might begin. Aba! So different! We can’t even recognise you! Who is this one?!

  The driver tapped his chewing stick on the dashboard. Taillights twinkled. In between the lanes of traffic, hawkers shouted in three languages; children and women in oburoni wawu balanced cellophaned bundles of Swan’s matches, Imperial Leather, Wilkinson’s razors on their heads. A boy in a large hessian sack with slits for arms and legs marched in front of ten men. In their dirty blue overalls, they chatted cheerily, carrying a huge log past honking tro tros. A scratching girl followed them. Umbrellas sprouted from every part of her: golf umbrellas, polka-dotted umbrellas, some black, some covered with bug-eyed Disney princesses, some with Chelsea FC logos, some longer than the girl’s body itself.

  Accra. Acc-ra. Before, simply hearing the city’s pretty name used to do so much to Belinda’s stomach. Aunty and Uncle returned to Daban from weekends away in the capital – she there on pleasure, he on business, they always said – with their receipts and tickets. If Mary wasn’t distracted – by turning rice jars into musical instruments or straw brushes into a rowing husband and wife – she and Belinda arranged the different stubs of crinkled paper into categories, passing their fingers over the names of Accra’s exotic districts and weird dialling codes. Belinda gulped three times but her throat still throbbed. The taxi made its way towards McCarthy Hills and its flashy malls catching the last of the fiery sunset. Flyovers looped and sleek guard dogs leapt. A strange kind of planet.

  Mary had always been tiny, weighed little. So when the truck hit her, when she had run into the road and a truck hit her, she had floated high, trying to see the clouds better. In the sky, Mary had become an angel. God would cherish her. That is what Belinda heard Doctor explain as she held Nana’s mobile close to her ear that Friday morning in the Fiat. But Doctor had not been there to see the accident for himself. And the sharp dreams Belinda had had every night for the two weeks since the news meant Doctor’s nice words were difficult to believe. Belinda was sensible. Mary had come down, bounced off the bonnet and opened on the tarmac. Mary. Mary had been broken into tiny pieces. The tiny pieces could not be a whole. Mary was dead.

  Mrs Al-Kawthari had been best with it and with her. The first time she returned to Abacus, a few days after finding out, Belinda had spent the whole lesson not focusing on Robert’s interesting comments about the Coca-Cola adverts they were annotating. Mahdokt whispered to ask Belinda if she was ‘all right’ each time Mrs Al-Kawthari turned to write ‘persuasive’, ‘bold’ or ‘colour’ on the board. Are you all right? Are you all right? All because of the bags beneath and glassiness of her eyes. Are you all right? Are you all right? So desperate for a simple yes and light ‘thank you for asking’. At some point, Belinda had become aware of the class leaving and of Mahdokt directing Mrs Al-Kawthari to her desk. To begin, Miss hadn’t asked anything, only stared with a troubled expression and Belinda wondered how it cleverly managed to match her own insides. Then Miss had reached out for Belinda’s wrists and held them through Belinda’s slow explanation. The simple, steady tightness helped the words to feel more real. Miss had nodded, said sorry, sorry, sorry. Everyone was so sorry.

  Now a motorcycle tore alongside the taxi. Its shirtless rider grinned as he rose up and moved his weight all the way forward, pushing out his elbows like a bird spreading its wings. He pressed the handlebars and then more roars and smoke came until fumes blackened everything. Belinda listened to the driver swear and complain until the darkness started to lift and the motorcyclist whizzed off, weaving between cars. Soon he became only a quiet rumble, a sound beneath the trembling within her. Belinda clenched.

  She hated the trembling. It came whenever it liked, in little fits. Sometimes for minutes, often for longer. Even though her body was obviously weird and often wrong, it had never done anything quite like this before. The trembles had arrived about three days after she had first heard. When they started, and Nana and Amma had fussed and wrapped Belinda in all of the special Heals’ throws and bought Peppermint Tea and spoke softly, the trembles still went on until the end of Buffy. They were like a shiver from the inside trying to get out. Or a dizziness with complete control of her. A bit like what happened when she thought she caught the scent of Mother’s talc on the breeze; similar to when she hadn’t eaten for a while or if she got out of the bath too quickly and needed to sit on the tub’s edge for a minute, until her heart calmed. Belinda made her right hand into a fist and rolled it into her cupped left as the driver took the next turn.

  When Belinda felt the quivering grow, as she did when the taxi swerved again so the little pot of coins on the dashboard spilled pesewas, she prayed. Behind pursed lips, she begged for the thing that in the past had helped her to burn ties, to dance freak-ons, to stand up to crazy Jamaicans on the 133. She twisted the fist in her palm. Because that thing – blessing or luck – had clearly forgotten her. She had no idea where it had come from in the first place, where it had gone to, how to get it back. She had no idea about anything. Traffic lights sent their loud green across her knees.

  ‘Shall I play some of our local songs so you can remember our heritage and culture? Eh? Eh?’ the driver offered. Belinda did not respond.

  Bats carved overhead as she waited in the hotel courtyard, standing under a yellow moon and opposite five evenly spaced teak doors, each one lit with a single bulb and crowned with a striped awning. She remembered how fast night swept in here; how thickly dark nights could be. Pale stars pulsed. Something growled and wind passed through the orange trees’ leaves, making a sound like light rain. Wood smoke from a nearby coal pot drifted around.

  Eight hours to rest, then up early for the coach to Kumasi. A week until the funeral. A bitterness sharpened at the back of Belinda’s mouth.

  The porter arrived, bowing his square head. His name was Ade. Ade wore a very smart, white batakari and a sad face. When Ade bent towards her luggage, Belinda bent too.

  ‘Stop that – it’s OK – please. Is too much for Madam, at this time, and in the way that you are … and you must be bringing gift gifts gifts, from the UK for your poor relatives here – I come correct?’

  ‘But –’

  ‘Exact, then is too much, please.’

  ‘I can manage, seriously, is fine – but thank you.’ She scooped up handles, threw a strap over her shoulder. ‘I can manage.’ Weighed down, her walking across the gravel was lopsided.

 
‘I pass through … here? Ade? Or here? How do you not, like, get lost all the time?!’

  Over her soft panting she heard his sigh as he directed her through the foyer. Following a narrow corridor lined with more teak doors, her shoulders started to sting. Ade kept time with her and stopped himself from helping even when the holdall knocked against her side and something pointy in the bag jabbed her. Walking, still walking, she gasped and struggled and grunted.

  Ade flashed a card, a box on the wall beeped and revealed a massive family room at least twice the size of Amma’s. In it, everything was different shades of cream: the frothy carpet, the silky curtains flirting with the louvres, the trumpeting flowers in the vase. All for her? The Otuos had been too generous.

  Ade did his best smile and spoke in the direction of the Samsonites. ‘You strong like a female ox. Really. I think you must be one.’ Belinda plucked off her earrings. Ade’s gaze scanned the bed and the suitcases again and then Belinda remembered herself: where she was, what she was here, now. She presented him with a £10 note. He pretended surprise, took the tip and quickly left.

  Belinda eased the zip at her back until the two panels of waxcloth peeled themselves away. Freed, she fell backwards onto the bed and bounced. Remembering again the noise she made in the Fiat after Doctor had had to say his news three times, she seized the bedsheets. It had been a big, pure shout. Loud enough to make her ears and hearing feel funny for a while. Nana had immediately copied her yell; her eyes wide, her mouth a perfect ‘o’, her tears fat and fast. And the two of them went on like that for a time, as if taking it in turns: one yelling and then the other, until Nana grasped Belinda’s shoulders and Belinda wished the pressure would go on so she could sink, sink, sink. Minutes later, as Nana reversed the car, Belinda counted the days since she had last spoken to Mary. By the time they drove past the messy Hootenanny’s pub, she had worked out that it had been five weeks. Five whole weeks. Belinda sensed she would always think about the silence of those five whole weeks; might spend a lifetime trying to find forgiveness for it.

  Belinda pulled the sheets again, breathed then let them go. She gathered up the black dress around her. Its embrace crunched.

  32

  ‘Agoo? Madam, me se agoo?’

  Belinda yawned and kissed her teeth, long and slow like Mother might have. She needed a second or two to work it out: the heat, the bedclothes smelling like no fabric conditioner she ever used, the murmured Ga on the other side of the louvres. Understanding and remembering more, Belinda loosened her nightscarf and looked up. She was disappointed by the blankness above. Outside, the Ga got angrier and water slapped against asphalt. Ade’s knocking continued.

  ‘Me se agoo? Is a morning call, from your London? You wouldn’t like to take it?’

  ‘Amee. Me pa wo kyew.’ Belinda drew the covers around herself and Ade passed a cordless phone on a silver tray through the opened door. She reached over wearily.

  ‘Be?’

  ‘Amma.’

  ‘Yeah. Hi. I. Wanted to check you’d arrived safely. Did you? You did. Obviously. Because I’m talking to you now. So.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘That’s excellent.’

  ‘OK.’ The silence crackled. Belinda kicked up the sheets, then exposed and wriggled her toes.

  ‘Is this, like, too early? I wanted to get in there quickly.’

  ‘Get in where?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘Good flight?’

  ‘Was so so.’

  ‘Manage to, manage to start that book I lent you? The Mansfield? They’re brilliant little things, you know. And easy to whizz through. Not that you can’t read longer things.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘Just promise me you’ll give them a go. Soon. Yeah?’

  ‘Soon. Yeah. Soon.’ Belinda passed her tongue over fuzzy teeth and slippery gums. Would continuing to repeat Amma’s words pass for conversation? Belinda could just about do that. Sensing she wouldn’t be offered such a gift, she sighed and nestled into the pillow behind her back.

  ‘I’m … getting on with things. Over here in rainy Blighty. I got my final uni offer yesterday?’

  ‘I suppose it’s congratulations then. So congratulation.’

  ‘I’m going for St Andrews. Probably.’

  ‘The Scotland one, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yep. One of the northernmost unis in the fucking country. Somewhere far, far away where I can –’

  ‘Can what?’

  Belinda heard Amma doing something to the receiver – perhaps moving it awkwardly.

  ‘And how about you?’ Amma used a different tone now, ‘Is being back … weird?’

  ‘Is fine.’

  ‘Not finding our groove today, are we? Our … flow.’

  ‘No. No flow.’

  Amma tutted. ‘Be, look. This has all thrown me. If I’m honest. Sorry. I still can’t. I seriously can’t imagine your … grief?’

  ‘Grief? Is that what you call it?’

  Amma clucked. ‘Look, shit probably seems so dark now because it is, but, I promise, the world turns.’

  ‘Does it?’

  ‘I think so. I’m certain, in fact.’

  ‘OK then.’

  Another long pause opened up and widened between them. Then Amma coughed. ‘I’m, erm, seeing Kweku Yeboah tonight. For a drink? We’ve been texting? Quite a lot, actually. He’s got wittier via SMS. And apparently he’s on course for a First at Imperial. So.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Fair enough, I suppose that’s a fair question: he was one of the dudes at Ghanafoɔ. With the jheri curl, remember? We’re going to the Prince Regent.’ Belinda could not think of a time when Amma had ever been this shy. ‘Mum is pissing herself with excitement.’

  ‘I thought.’ Belinda’s forehead hurt. ‘Kweku as in a man Kweku? What of all this because you won’t’ – now she handled her receiver roughly – ‘you don’t choose boys? Then now why is one taking you for a candlelight dinner?’

  ‘Aren’t you relieved? Pleased? I mean, Be, what the fuck?’

  ‘So this girls thing. Is coming like something you can turn it on and off like a switch? Now you want to turn it off? But this is not how you spoke of it before. You said –’

  Amma sniffed. ‘I have nobody. I’m just like, this fucking half-of-a-person skulking about with absolutely no one, no hint that it might, at some point, get a tiny bit better. I’m just me. I’m only me.’

  Belinda scratched her chest and dry white lines appeared. She wanted to offer something soothing because Amma’s voice stretched painfully.

  ‘Amma –’

  Belinda flicked the nightscarf against her forearm, a glossy black wave, rising and falling. She let it go, then watched it skid and ripple over her skin, dropping to the marble floor in a small heap. She frowned. The two of them – Amma, Mary – in their own, very different ways, in their different times and places, had made Belinda think and laugh so hard. And she knew helping Amma now with quick gentleness might be an easy show of thanks for that. She waited for the trembling to start.

  ‘Fuck, Be. Sorry.’

  ‘What for now?’

  ‘I wanted it to be about you. I’ve fucked it, como siempre.’

  ‘Is it Italian? I don’t speak any Italian.’

  ‘Tell me how you’re doing.’ Amma quietened. ‘Please.’

  ‘Amma.’

  ‘Please. It’s mental, Be. The whole thing. A child? A little child. It’s not fair.’

  ‘Maybe I was horrible,’ Belinda said, as brooms grazed the courtyard, running challewattes smacked, more water splashed. ‘All those months together – and nothing. I can’t even remember if I ever knew her birthdate. I should have done it better. Been better to her.’

  ‘For fuck’s sake. Be nice to yourself, Belinda. For once in your life.’

  Belinda pulled the sheets over her feet, pressed her ankles into each other.

  ‘What you’re going through, what God or Fa
te or chance or whatever has decided to put you through, is completely fucking horrendous. And what good comes of you, like, adding to the shittiness by beating yourself up and looking to make things even worse? Take the pressure off. Be? Fuck, I bet you’re not even listening. Hello?’

  ‘No, no I am. Is just. What you’re telling me to do. I don’t know where to start.’

  ‘Yes. Leopard. Spots. Plus ça change. Et cetera.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Nothing. I’m being a prat. I’m sure it’s difficult to break old habits, Be. I get that.’

  ‘And you?’ Belinda swallowed. ‘Will you take your own advice? Be nice to yourself also and really think about what is … what is going to be nice for you … in the long run. If you get what I mean. Because maybe a candlelight dinner with some boy is even going to mix you up even more. It might make you less on your own for one evening perhaps. But maybe it isn’t something you truly want. Maybe is something you don’t even need to do. Because maybe your own way is the best way. For you.’ Belinda tried to breathe as her heart pumped. ‘You just have to give your own self a time and space. I think. Wa te?’

  Belinda could hear Amma humming as she tested and decided against different responses in her head.

  ‘Shall we both promise give it a try? This whole being kinder shebang? See how we get on? Hey? We can but fucking try.’

  ‘Yes, Amma. Is true,’ Belinda said, heart still thudding away. ‘We can only fucking try.’

  33

  Shooting Star Express Number One Coach pulled into Koforidua. Noisy air conditioning quietened after a wheeze. As though in Nana’s car, Belinda reached for her seatbelt but found nothing to unclick. Far away at the front of the bus, the conductor fired out sentences and pointed with a forceful biro. He told passengers they had only fifteen minutes to refresh themselves at this rest stop. Then the vehicle would set off again to complete the final stage of the journey to Kumasi. He promised to leave behind anyone who decided to be too slow. He clapped twice to end his speech and the well-fed aunties, fragile elders, loud been-tos and important Chinese piled off, stepping on the backs of each other’s sandals.