From Pasta to Pigfoot

by Frances Mensah Williams

  Quailing in the face of this unexpected cultural onslaught, Faye found herself nodding meekly.

  ‘Fine. Philomena, I’ll just have the rum please,’ she said. Taking a generously filled florescent-pink glass from her hostess, she touched the dark liquid inside to her lips and smiled brightly at the row of faces still staring at her, forcing herself not to grimace at the taste of the strong liquor. Thankfully, Wesley put on another CD and the men turned their attention back to the tray, filling their own glasses with generous measures of rum. Left to her own devices, Faye sipped the fiery drink slowly, letting her eyes wander over the stunning décor. The end of the next track was followed by silence as Luther ejected the disc and rummaged through a huge stack to find its case.

  Once again, it was Jiggy who broke the silence.

  ‘So, Faye, where you come from, then?’ he asked, thawing slightly as he saw her take another sip of her drink.

  With her mind still on the clever contrast of colour combinations used for the floor cushions, Faye replied distractedly. ‘North London’.

  The choreographed head spinning routine went through a second rendition.

  This time, however, it was Michael who led the charge. ‘Faye, nobody of your colour comes from North London! I thought you’d learned by now not to buy into that ethnic re-colonialism crap.’ Not bothering to disguise his irritation, he turned his back and sucked his teeth loudly while he flipped through the stack of CDs, his body language screaming rejection at her.

  Oh God, Faye thought wretchedly, I’m embarrassing him in front of his friends. I cannot believe this is happening!

  From the questioning look on his face, she realised that Jiggy was still waiting for an answer to his question and she replied quietly.

  ‘Well, my family is from Ghana.’

  The music had started playing again, almost drowning out her soft voice.

  ‘What’s that you say – Guyana?’ Jiggy asked, cocking his head towards her as though it would improve his hearing. Tutting at Wesley who had been responsible for turning the music up this time, he marched over to the stereo and turned the volume down to its lowest level since she had arrived, before turning back to her expectantly.

  ‘No, Ghana,’ she repeated, adding quickly, ’You know – in West Africa?’

  She took another sip of the heavy rum and felt the liquid burn its way down her constricted throat. It had been several hours since she had eaten and she was beginning to feel distinctly light-headed from the homeland nectar.

  Philomena had flopped down onto a cushion next to Faye and was comfortably settled into its generous depths. The outline of her caftan blended into the fabric, giving her a slightly disembodied appearance. She was slowly sipping her rum and gave a start of recognition as Faye spoke. Her midnight blue features were sharply defined against the scarlet background of her cushion as she turned towards her husband.

  ‘Luther!’ she exclaimed.

  ‘What?’ He looked up from the CD that he had been studying.

  ‘You remember that woman Tony used to live with?’ Philomena asked excitedly, her broad forehead creasing into rippling dark furrows as she frowned in an effort to remember. ‘What’s her name, now – was it Abena? Wasn’t she from Ghana too?’

  Shaking her head impatiently at Luther’s blank expression, she turned back to Faye.

  ‘You know Abena, Faye? She lives in Tulse Hill.’

  ‘No, I’m afraid I don’t,’ Faye said, looking apologetic. Anxious now to restore her rapidly depleting stock of cultural credibility, she quickly added, ‘Actually, Abena is the name given in Ghana to a girl born on a Tuesday.’

  Looking up from the colourful Burning Spear album he had been examining, Wesley spoke for the first time, his pale blue eyes staring at her dispassionately.

  ‘Is that so? That’s interesting. It’s Faye, is that right?’ He paused for a moment, continuing after she nodded in confirmation. ‘What about yourself – you were born on which day?’

  To Faye’s surprise his accent was, if possible, even more pronounced than Jiggy’s. She collected her thoughts as best as she could through the rum-induced fog that was fast enveloping her.

  ‘Thursday. My ‘home’ name is Akua. It’s spelt A-k-u-a but you pronounce it like “a queer”.’ She started giggling as the powerful rum hit her. She didn’t notice Michael’s frown as she took another sip of the rum and carried on, now determined to reclaim her cultural credentials.

  ‘There are names for boys too. Like Kofi Annan? You know, he used to be the Secretary-General of the United Nations. Well, he’s from Ghana and Kofi is the name for a boy born on a Friday.’

  Everyone in the room had now stopped to listen to her. The only sound to be heard in the room was the wail of Maxi Priest begging someone to ‘Make My Day’.

  ‘Well, fancy that now,’ Philomena said, clearly impressed with her guest’s knowledge of her cultural heritage. Heaving herself off her cushion with surprising agility, she swayed over to drinks tray and, without stopping to ask, generously topped up Faye’s pink glass, now almost empty.

  ‘Go on, Faye, share some more of your culture with us,’ she said as she settled herself back into the immense scarlet cushion. ‘If I come across Abena, I’ll be able to tell her I know something about her homeland,’ she added, chuckling comfortably.

  Faye shifted her almost numb, but at least ethnically correct, backside against the cushion that was now a far cry from its initial apparent softness. She still held the floor and as even Michael was now looking at her with newly appreciative eyes, she hardly needed Philomena’s encouragement to keep on going. She took another sip of the rum, her voice getting louder as her confidence grew.

  ‘There are also special names given to children, depending on the order they were born in. For instance, if you are an Ashanti, the third boy in a row in your family is quite likely to be named Mensah. In our family, my dad’s younger brother is called Mensah Bonsu because he was born after my father who was the second son.’

  Luther nodded. His eyes were bright with interest as he listened to the impromptu lecture. ‘It sounds like you know quite a bit about your culture,’ he said soberly, respect clearly visible in his pale eyes.

  Wesley’s intent stare wasn’t quite so friendly, although his tone was neutral. ‘So what kind of music are you into, Faye?’

  She stared back, her thoughts immediately flying to the Coldplay CD hidden away in her glove compartment. She glanced at Michael and bit her lip at the look of naked pleading on his face.

  ‘I’m pretty open – I like a lot of different kinds,’ she said casually. ‘Michael introduced me to Bob Marley’s music – actually I was playing one of his albums earlier this evening.’

  Her boyfriend visibly relaxed and carried on chatting to Luther. But it was soon apparent that Wesley hadn’t finished with his line of questioning.

  ‘So what kind of music is popular in Ghana, then?’ His eyes stabbed at her, belying the casual tone of his voice.

  Faye gulped at her rum in an effort to buy time and was saved by Philomena marching back into the room clutching two large bowls of snacks.

  ‘Sorry, people, I didn’t get time to cook today – my women’s group meeting went on longer than usual. Faye,’ she turned to her guest with a smile. ‘I’ve got some plantain chips here for you.’

  Faye took the bowl on offer and crammed a couple of the chips into her mouth. She savoured the sweet crispiness of the snack and ate a few more in quick succession, hoping to soak up the powerful rum. Too little, too late, she thought, as the room swayed gently before her eyes in a kaleidoscope of colour.

  Desperate to fend off Wesley’s questioning, she turned to Philomena. ‘These chips are really tasty – where did you buy them?’

  ‘All the shops around here sell them.’ Philomena sounded puzzled by the question, but her smile was friendly as she settled back into her cushion. ‘You don’t have them where you live?’

  Faye shrugged, not about to admi
t that plantain chips were not the usual snack of choice in Hampstead shops or that, thanks to Lottie, she rarely did the grocery shopping.

  Wesley leaned back in his cushion. His eyes almost matched the light sea-blue tones of the fabric, and his voice sounded lazy and relaxed.

  ‘So, you and Michael…’

  ‘Ye-es?’

  ‘You’ve been seeing each other long?’

  ‘Almost two years,’ Faye said slowly. She took another sip of her rum, wondering what was coming next.

  ‘So, then, is it serious?’ His tone hadn’t changed and he sounded like someone discussing the weather and not delving into personal territory with a virtual stranger.

  Philomena chuckled and waved a lazy hand in Faye’s direction. ‘Girl, just ignore him! You don’t have to be telling any of us your business.’

  Wesley shrugged and grinned, although the humour stopped short of reaching his eyes. ‘Hey, just curious, you know.’

  Without warning, he switched topics. ‘I hear there are good things happening in Africa these days – how’s Ghana’s economy doing?

  What the hell is this? Who Wants to Be a Millionaire time? Faye gritted her teeth, wishing she could phone a friend or, preferably, a hit man who could remove this intensely annoying man.

  She tried to shrug off the numbing effects of the rum and opened her mouth to speak. Her tongue suddenly felt heavy and wayward, as if it had a mind of its own and was ready to do its own thing. She focused hard on her words and forced them out carefully. ‘Well, from what my dad says, the economy is going through some challenges at the moment. But the country has a lot of natural resources, so things should pick up over time.’

  Michael and Luther had also been listening and to her relief, Luther smiled and nodded. Michael, on the other hand, was eyeing the half-empty glass in her hand with alarm.

  But Wesley wasn’t finished. ‘Do you get to go back home often?’

  Stopped in her tracks, she stared back at him and groaned in silent agony.

  Okay, Faye, you big mouth, kiss goodbye to all the brownie points you just scored!

  As her now captive audience was still waiting for her response, she tried one or two sentences out in her head before answering. Then she took a deep breath.

  ‘Well’, she started, sounded awkward, and stopped. She squirmed uncomfortably on her cushion. Taking a swift gulp from her glass, she tried again, trying hard not to sound apologetic.

  ‘Well, my father, my brother and I came to live in England when I was five after my mother died. My father travels a lot for his work and, well, we’ve never really had the chance to go back since…’

  Her voice trailed off as she took in the expression of barely disguised scorn on Wesley’s face. Desperate to avoid his eyes, she took another sip of her drink and stared fixedly down into her glass.

  The taste of the rum was now beginning to make her feel very sick. It was patently clear to everyone that Faye’s moment in the spotlight was over and Jiggy and Michael quickly turned back to the music selection spread out in front of them. Before long they were in the middle of a loud and obviously familiar row over the lyrics of the Steel Pulse track that was now playing. Wesley, on the other hand, continued to stare at Faye while she studiously gazed into her glass and wished herself a thousand miles away from her present situation.

  ‘You know,’ he said thoughtfully, as though in answer to a question she had asked him. ‘One thing you must understand is that it’s crucial for us black people to know our motherland. Back in the colonial days, all the white people went out chasing after other people’s lands. They bought our brothers in Africa – but, you know something?’

  Faye didn’t and, at this point, the throbbing in her head induced by the drink was leaving her with very little desire to find out. Her bottom was now almost completely numb and, although desperate for the toilet, she had to fight her increasing need to ask Philomena for directions to the bathroom, miserably aware that she might not be able to stand up.

  Wesley’s brooding blue eyes were still fixed on her. Completely oblivious to her dilemma, he continued his lecture.

  ‘Even when they set up their colonies, the white people I mean, they always remembered where they came from. They never said “We are Indians” or “We are Africans”. Oh, no!’

  His voice was getting progressively louder as he spoke, either not noticing or not caring about Faye‘s growing discomfort and her surreptitious attempts to pinch some feeling back into her now nerveless backside. With scarcely a pause for breath, Wesley continued his lecture on the history of the slave trade and the dispersion of the ‘proud black peoples of Africa’ around the world. While the others carried on with their conversation, Philomena listened enraptured to her friend’s rich, lilting and – to Faye – almost incomprehensible accent, her head rising and falling in time with the music. While Wesley’s voice went on relentlessly, Faye was feeling dizzier by the minute.

  Struggling to concentrate through the hazy alcoholic stupor that was threatening to engulf her, she realised that Wesley had finished with history and was now talking about the present day mental colonisation of black people by whites. The insinuation was crystal clear as he stared fixedly at her, his face flushed with passion.

  ‘So, today, if we black people don’t know our homelands, we have allowed ourselves to become cultural slaves.’ The accusation in his voice was unmistakable. His reproachful expression suddenly reminded Faye of the look on her physics teacher’s face on the day she had unwittingly set off a minor explosion in the school lab.

  ‘It is our responsibility to stay close to home as much as possible. That’s the only way we can keep our souls connected to our roots. You don’t do that, then you’re just a slave to the white man!’ Wesley ended suddenly and loudly, the unexpected volume of his voice instantly recapturing her flagging attention.

  She later decided that it was the shock of the loud voice as well as the patronising tone that did it. As it was, the combination of the rum and, in Faye’s opinion at least, the undeserved glare of accusation levelled at her from Wesley’s piercing blue eyes wreaked devastating results. Crushed by the weight of her defensiveness at this unwarranted attack, her usual tact and diplomacy vanished. Once again the music conspired against her and there was absolute silence as, in complete exasperation and bewilderment, she blurted out indignantly.

  ‘But you’re white yourself, how can you say that!’

  Philomena’s broad smile vanished. Luther, who was about to start playing a new CD, froze. Jiggy and Michael’s conversation stopped abruptly, Michael staring at her in mortified disbelief while Jiggy slowly shook his head from side to side. Only Wesley looked unperturbed.

  Now feeling very sick, Faye looked blindly at the blurred faces staring at her and tried to stand up before she passed out. The others seemed frozen and, as no one came to her assistance, she gritted her teeth and willed her bottom to cooperate, finally managing to struggle to her feet unaided. She did not remain standing long.

  After taking a couple of steps, the last thing she heard before her legs gave way and she collapsed gracelessly into an amethyst yellow cushion was Wesley’s strong lilt proclaiming disdainfully,

  ‘Girl, let me tell you something: black is not a colour; it’s a state of mind!’

  2

  Cultural Dilemmas

  ‘Wake up, child!’ The loud voice reverberated through Faye’s head without mercy. The dark room suddenly flooded with light as the heavy raw silk curtains were pulled back.

  Faye groaned and tried to raise her head. But her head might as well have been made of iron and the pillow a magnet because after a couple of feeble attempts, she gave up and sank back under the duvet.

  ‘What on earth were you up to last night, young lady?’ Lottie said in the rich Scottish accent that sounded as though she had left Glasgow for London the previous week, instead of more than twenty years earlier.

  Faye’s only response was a weak groan. Unmoved, Lottie pull
ed the heavy duvet back a few inches and tried not to laugh as Faye clawed frantically at the covers, trying to crawl back into her warm cocoon.

  She took one look at Faye cowering miserably under the duvet and she shook her head without sympathy.

  ‘Look at the state of you,’ she said sternly. ‘Come on, up with you – you’ll feel better after a nice shower!’

  Finally realising that Lottie had no intention of leaving until she had been obeyed, Faye crawled out of the comfort of her bed and staggered into the adjoining bathroom. Her head was throbbing and her hand shook as she brushed her teeth before returning to her room where Lottie was bent over picking up the clothes strewn across the floor.

  ‘Oh God’, she wailed, sitting on the corner of her bed. ‘I’m dying!’

  Dressed in one of William’s old T-shirts that barely reached her knees and with her hair sticking out in all directions, she looked like a long-legged street urchin. Lottie’s expression remained unmoved and Faye knew better than to argue, even if she had had the strength to try.

  Tall and angular, with greying brown hair cut into a severe bob, Lottie had been part of the Bonsu family since Faye was six years old.

  Born Charlotte Cameron, Lottie was the fourth of seven children and had grown up in a small and very crowded terraced house in Glasgow. Unlike her brothers and sisters, who had left school at the first opportunity, Charlotte, who dreamed of becoming a teacher, had stayed on, eventually winning a scholarship to study at the leading teacher training college in the city. While her mother openly grumbled about where all this education would lead, Charlotte’s success was warmly welcomed by her proudly working class father who basked in the heightened status his daughter’s achievement brought him. Barely literate himself and having left school at fourteen, Jim Cameron was from a long line of dock workers, as were most of his friends. When she finally qualified, ‘our Charlotte, the teacher’ gave him something to boast about to anyone at his local pub who would listen. Excited at the whole new world now open to her, and having read about the shortage of good teachers in the English capital, Charlotte decided to move south to London where she soon found a teaching job. However, after three years of fruitlessly trying to force English and history down the bored and uncooperative throats of the inmates of an East London comprehensive school, Charlotte came to the sad conclusion that teaching was not after all the vocation for her and gave in her notice. Her father did not hide his disappointment when she decided instead to train as a nurse and managed to secure a trainee position at a teaching hospital in Tooting.