I do.
Mum gets out a photograph from a large envelope marked “taxes” in the bedside drawer.
The Amazing Nigerian has a round, smiling face and smooth, dark skin. (Much darker than Linford and my grandparents.) He is wearing a square cap and a gown. Mum says it is his graduation outfit. Says he is the smartest man she knows.
The One, she says, looking off into the distance. God, and you look just like him, you know?
I don’t.
He’s a grown-up. He’s a stranger.
He’s some man in a cap and gown.
contradictions and info
Some “facts” are lies; that’s the truth of it.
I still have to call Linford “Dad,”
but my real dad is a university lecturer in Nigeria, who reads lots of books. Mum says that I am an African, which sounds pretty good. But Granddad says Africans are wicked
and sold us into slavery.
Samson is gone. Gone fighting, but for a good reason. Soldiers die sometimes
but it won’t happen to Samson, because we say our prayers at bedtime.
There might be an issue with Linford, Mum says.
What is an issue?
An issue is a thing. It’s not that he’s not Good;
it’s just that he has no patience. It’s just that he growls a lot.
The lion is quite lonely;
the cat, he just feels bad.
He needs love and is frightened, and we must understand.
Love is a string: Mum loves me and Little Roo. Marcia loves Linford. I don’t know who Linford loves. Marcia says she has a lovely little girl, with a smile and eyes that are going to break the men apart. Marcia thinks her child will be a beautiful thing. Just like your dad, she says.
I loved him.
But he has a wife
and responsibilities.
Mum tells me my African name.
Dankyes,
she says
Dankyes Mikuk.
Dankyes means,
“At last! An end to terrible things.”
The blue nightdress is coming apart. I wear the orange robe as I’ve been instructed, but one day, Mum says that I am moving out. She and Little Roo are staying at Linford’s
but I have to go. I have to Be Somewhere Else for a While. It’s better that way. I am going to live miles away at Grandma and Granddad’s, where I will have to eat a lot of rice and peas and go to bed early and go to church all the time, and everyone else will get to stay in Warrington, eating KFC and having fun. It’s only four years, she says. Till Big School. And four years travels fast.
Marcia says,
“I need to work nights and I need not to worry.”
Mum says it’ll just be a matter of four small years
over at Grandma’s. Marcia says,
“It’ll be over before you know it, little one.”
There is something starting to go wrong. I don’t know what it is. Only that, according to Marcia, my nightdress is a wrong thing. Dark blue satin. A long, wrong thing. And the red house is dangerous
or
I am dangerous
or we are dangerous at the same time,
we are dangerous to each other.
My body is too big to stay home.
Body as trap,
body as trapdoor to a haunted unreal place.
Linford as almost-bad-thing
but not quite. Linford is a Halfling sometimes frightening sometimes fun sometimes he takes us for ice cream sometimes he roars when we don’t eat all of our mountains of rice and chicken/ fish/ dead animal and moats and rivers of gravy and stew—dinner can be an entire kingdom. Sometimes he shouts, I will smack you people, eat de food NOW or yuh gonna know about it! And he leaves us in the kitchen with the horrible red floor with the scratches and countrysides of potato and yam. Sometimes he gives us fifty-pence pieces that shine and sometimes he buys us cream soda for the ice cream and we make floats;
sometimes he does this,
sometimes he does that.
the grand chapter / the seventh day / the meaning of life
Grandma and Granddad are devout Seventh-Day Adventists. They love Jesus and God, who are actually nearly the same person and all-seeing and powerful and form a trinity with the Holy Spirit.
Nothing is more important than Jesus and God and the Holy Spirit. Anyone who does not know that will be destroyed,
thus sayeth the Bible. Anyone who does not know that
will go straight to hell, where there will be wailing and pain and disaster.
In this house, we serve God, Jesus and the Holy Spirit.
We do not eat shellfish and we do not eat swine, in any of its cunning disguises. (The pig is an unclean meat.) We do not drink Coca-Cola or tea or coffee (because of caffeine, which is DRUGS) or say “bless you” when someone sneezes, because that is blasphemous and exactly like taking the Lord’s name in vain.
There is no jewelry to be worn. We do not adorn ourselves. (Pride.)
If you are black,
i.e., not blessed with Good Long Hair, you can get a wig or a perm—they’re necessary, thus allowed. (Acceptable Pride.)
We know all of the Bible, from Genesis to Revelation,
and we go to church all day every single Saturday, from sunup till sunset. Saturday is the seventh day but the people in this country who are definitely not Christians lie and make us think it’s Sunday. We are the only true keepers of the Sabbath and everyone else going to church on Sunday is committing a sin and is more than likely going to hell. (Jewish people go to church on Saturdays too but they are sinners in lots of other ways and also they killed Jesus.)
Grandma and Granddad have been in the country for years, retaining their Jamaican customs, ideals and accents. They call each other Mummy and Daddy. Their house is organized and floral with decorative upholstery,
lace tablecloths
net curtains
plastic-coated pictures of Jesus
glass spheres with marble-like patterns in them
plaques inscribed with Bible verses
decorative plates
artificial flowers
and china figurines of beautiful white ladies in gowns with cups of tea
all of which are displayed in glass cases,
a freestanding one in the dining room and a smaller one in the “front room,” which is off-limits, for the “front room” is where the pastor might sit, or salespeople, or the insurance man. Important people.
There you might find the bookcase, the expensive floral sofa, the illustrated children’s Bible, the gramophone (although it hasn’t worked for years), framed photographs of my aunties/ uncles/cousins when they were young, the Good Plates and Good Glasses (painted with brightly colored birds and flowers. Reserved for Christmas Day, or for Church People who come to dinner).
The back room is our living room, where we eat, sit and watch television. We eat out of yellow bowls and off blue-and-white willow-patterned crockery. Above our dinner table is a large painted impression of Christ and the Last Supper, next to a tall golden clock. God is always watching. Always.
He is “the silent listener to every conversation,” says Grandma,
which is why we have a calendar telling us the exact time of sunset each Friday, when the Sabbath begins, and why we are always on our knees, praying. We don’t want to burn in hell on Judgment Day with the pagans, nonbelieving fools and other evildoers.
Grandma likes to Look Good Always. She says, “There’s no excuse for going out ’pon road any old way,” and, “Don’t look like nobody don’t own you.” (Good and Decent Pride.)
She has beautiful dresses and suits and lots of them are shiny. She wears perfume from Avon and high-heeled court shoes to match all of her church hats and handbags; she has lots of handbags. She
is short and round, always cleaning the house to perfection. Grandma is the best cook that everyone knows; her rice and peas, chicken, macaroni and cheese and roast potatoes keep everyone coming to her house with Tupperware. She bakes and decorates beautiful tiered fruitcakes for all the family and church weddings and christenings and she can make flowers out of icing sugar. Any time of day, Grandma carries extra-strong mints around. Sometimes she reads romance novels. I know because I’ve seen them. She is always on a healthy, healthy diet and eats tiny amounts of things out of the smallest bowls, while everyone else is eating dinner.
Grandma shows me how to do a “hospital corner” when making the bed and I just can’t get the hang of it. She gets angry. Tells me I’m trying her patience. She says, “Child, child. Get it into your skull. Try not to be useless.”
Granddad is ever so particular. He is slim and sprightly, salt and pepper haired. Each time he learns a new word, he cross-references it in the Oxford English Dictionary and records it in his jotter, trying to use it in a sentence. He writes everything in capital lettering of equal size. He washes the dishes three times a day without fail, promptly after mealtimes. Every morning, he will have me quote English verses that he learned as a schoolboy in Jamaica.
“The heights by great men reached and kept
Were not attained by sudden flight,
But they, while their companions slept,
Were toiling upward in the night.”
“Don’t lean on others! Be a man!
Stand on a sure foot of your own!
Be independent if you can,
And cultivate a sound backbone.”
“Are these verses only for boys, Granddad?”
“No, child. It’s just that man was made first.”
“Is that why you call me ‘he’ sometimes?”
“Yes, child. Something we do from back home a’ Jamaica.
Man was made first, you see.”
“Does God think men are more important?”
“God doesn’t think. God only knows.”
“So men are better than women?”
Granddad says he doesn’t really want to put it like that, but woman was made from the rib of man,
so,
you know.
He takes to the bathroom, where he spends an hour deliberately washing his face and trimming his beard each night after dinner. His copper shaving kit is gleaming, his routine precious. Cleanliness is next to godliness, says he. I want to be just like him. He has a place for everything and many wonderful, shiny cases . . . though not trinkets. Trinkets are terrible and decorative. Granddad’s cases are definitely not decorative. They are definitely only containers.
Granddad has a few stock biblical answers for any question in the world,
including
“There’s a time and a place for everything under the sun,”
“Children, obey your parents in the Lord,”
and
“Such is the way of this wicked world.”
I am not allowed to venture farther than the garden gate, unless to school or on church missions. Sleepovers are unnecessary and the cinema is terribly sinful.
“Halloween is nutt’n but Pagan Nonsense,” Granddad will spit, vexed to heaven. Then he will throw up his hands and say he doesn’t know what this wicked world is coming to.
Other things that you definitely do not mention around him are:
– Prehistoric beasts or dinosaurs (which the Bible makes no mention of, and probably never existed).
– Anybody anywhere who ever says a swear word.
– Bacon.
– Films that are not about God.
Examples of those who are not God, Jesus or the Holy Spirit but are Good are:
1, Ellen G. White (who we have to learn about at church because she prophesied things about the end of the world and had spiritual visions)
2, The people in the Bible, mostly
3, Nelson Mandela
4, Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.
5, This man called Terry Waite (who was imprisoned as a hostage in Beirut for so long he forgot how to speak)
6, The pastor (and family)
We have many, many rules. Washing out the bath attentively and with intention,
never forgetting to rinse. Wringing out the towels clockwise, anticlockwise, then clockwise again.
Helping Grandma hand wash the clothes in the bath on a Sunday.
Drinking bitters to purge the blood. Drinking bush tea to purge the blood. Drinking hot water to purge the blood. Attending prayer meetings to purge the soul.
We sing lots of hymns with words like,
“Wash me and I shall be whiter than snow.”
8.0
Gillibrand County Primary School was a sea of white, but for my black face. Despite that, I made friends. Mostly, if anyone tried to call me a name, at least two or three of them would rush to my defense. “Don’t be mean!” they’d shout. “It’s not her fault she’s colored! I’m telling on you.”
But at home, we were of the impression that the children at school were unruly and wild, and no example for good behavior because they didn’t respect anybody. And part of that,
it would be said,
is because white people put their babies on their fronts instead of their backs
(when everyone knows that a baby should be tied behind the mother so it can learn some respect).
According to Grandma, a lot of White People:
Did not wash cups and plates properly (put them on the
draining board full of soapsuds)
Did not teach their children to clean the house. Let their
children talk back at them.
Did not keep the Sabbath or care about God
Wore rips in their jeans and called it fashion
Couldn’t cook too well, unless they were chefs
Went to pubs (terrible)
and ate food on tables with no tablecloths.
This of course did not apply to the white Jamaican couple at church, or the white couple from Scotland at church,
or our nice next-door neighbor,
or the doctor, or the insurance man.
One day, when Little Roo was visiting Grandma’s for the summer holiday, there was a gentle knock at the door. Two earnest, wide-eyed Mormon boys had arrived, straining under their black suits in the sweltering July heat. One of them was blond and one mixed-race, and they spoke with American accents. They were both so pretty I was thinking they could have been on TV. I couldn’t stop staring at them. We had to move all of our books out of the way so that we could set up a Bible study circle in the hallway. Grandma let us serve them fruit juice and ginger biscuits. Granddad was keen to discuss everything biblical. The blond one smiled gently at me and asked me about school. When I get a husband, I thought, I want him to look like either one of these two. I didn’t mind which.
Things were going quite well, civil even, until there was a disagreement about the seventh day of the week, and the need to keep it holy.
Granddad was livid.
“The seventh day is the Sabbath of the Lord thy God! There it is! In black and white! Remember the seventh day to keep it holy! Six days shalt thou labor and do all thy work but the seventh day is the Sabbath of the Lord thy God!”
“Mr. Daley, we . . . ”
“Are you saying I don’t know my Bible?”
“No, not at all, Mr. Daley . . . I—”
“Dare you come into the house of a man of God and tell him that he doesn’t know his Bible!”
“No, Mr. Daley, that’s not what we . . . ”
Grandma was
almost nervous.
“Daddy, calm down . . . ”
“No, Mummy. These people are damn out of order.”
Little Roo and I looked at each other.
This was bad,
really bad. (Both boys were flushed and uneasy.) Granddad was shouting at them as though they were
us.
“Let’s just agree to disagree,” the brown one was saying, as they scrambled to their feet, in the direction of the front door. But there was no compromise to be met in a God-fearing house such as ours. They were thrown out
even before the biscuit crumbs settled on the carpet.
When Mum came home at the weekend to take Little Roo, she sighed and said it might be better for him to change nurseries. For him to stay awhile at Grandma’s,
her being so busy with work
and something called stress.
truth
Secret song for Linford James
aka Dad
by Little Roo and I.
“Dad is bad and we are mad
We are glad when Dad is sad
Dad is mad when we are glad
When we are sad, Dad is glad.”
Mum let us in on a new truth one evening. We were sitting in the back seat of her old white Sierra, waiting for the bingo hall to open so she could pick up her winnings. Once she had collected £157 from the payouts desk and sat back behind the wheel, she sighed and lingered, one hand on the hand brake, the other running through her head of curls.
“You know Sonny?” she said, eyeing me in the mirror.
I nodded.
She tossed her head back toward Little Roo.
“That’s his dad.”
Mum chewed and popped a stick of strawberry gum, staring into space. The car was filled with the smell of it.
A few years earlier, Sonny used to hang around our house from time to time, before disappearing into the ether. He was one of the DJs at the Caribbean Club, a gruff, stubbly “uncle.” He spoke with a raspy voice and swore a lot. One night back then, when Mum was working a hospital night shift, he took me to work and left me to play on the dance floor.
The Terrible Page 2