Underground Rivers

by Mike French

  In contrast with the morning, there was more activity on the roadside. The traffic was heavy with workers and children from school. The buses were packed with some of the passengers hanging at the doors. On the roadside, were vendors selling all manner of wares including sweets, cigarettes, fruits, vegetables, and peanuts. Some sold cloths.

  Joseph looked at a pair of second hand trousers held up by one of the hawkers. He put them against his waist; they looked like they would fit him perfectly. The temptation was high, but he had better get his essentials first and send money to his wife.

  He got to the entrance of the slum and his concentration went automatically to where his feet were stepping. There was more activity around now. There were hawkers and vendors everywhere. Some were selling cooked dishes, fish, doughnuts, chapattis, roasted maize...Small duka’s enclosed within the structures were doing booming business from the throng of people passing by. The smells of the cooking roadside delicacies mingled with that of sweat, smoke and sewage.

  The noises were also different. There were calls from children playing near the garbage heaps, occasional raised voices of people arguing over one thing or the other, dogs barking and music booming from shops selling illegally made music.

  He was used to the smells and sounds. This was his home ground. What he could not get used to was the excrement everywhere. He passed the duka near his house and was about to go in when he remembered that he needed kerosene. He decided to get his jerry can, first then buy his other provisions. He would buy chapattis from the mama next door which he would have for supper as a treat.

  He got to the door and opened it. Everything was intact. That was a miracle in itself as theft was common place.

  Joseph picked up his jerry can and set off to the duka. The shop was busy and he waited his turn. He did a mental sum of what he was buying. He would purchase batteries, bread, matches and kerosene. He will buy water over the weekend. Just as he got to the shop window, two rough looking men brushed past him asking for cigarettes almost knocking him down. How mannerless, he thought. He had been waiting patiently, and here they come pushing him aside He could see from their eyes that they were on some drug or other. He daren’t challenge them. He regained his balance and after they at last left got to the window. He ordered three litres of kerosene, half a loaf of bread, batteries for his radio and matches. He handed over his jerry can.

  As he reached for his money in his left pocket, he felt his heart miss a beat. He patted his pocket in disbelief. No there must be some mistake. He checked the other pocket ... nothing. He had been robbed. Was it the two men?

  “My money has gone!” he cried out.

  Those around him looked at him blankly. This was a common occurrence and they had become immune.

  “You should keep your money safely,” said the shopkeeper.

  “What do I do?”

  “I’ll put your name in the book but make sure you pay me before the end of the week.”

  Joseph took his items and left the shop. How cruel could people be. Fortunately he had kept some of his money in his shoes. Next time he will be more careful.

  He got to his room and heated some water up in a saucepan for his bath. As he sat on his stool waiting for the water to warm up, head in his hands, he reflected on what had transpired. His emotions had been on a rollercoaster, from apprehension, happiness, shock and sadness.

  As he watched the blue flames of his stove lapping up the bottom of his pot he resolved that tomorrow he will wake up early and make sure he gets work. His family relied on him. He will be more careful with his money. He will not give up. There was always another day.

  Little Ms Cynical

  by Tahieuba Latif Chaudhry

  “WHAT! These look like the drawings of an eight-year-old. My niece can do better than THAT and you call yourself a designer,” stormed Sylvia Coal at her personal designer. She dug her fingers into the paper causing her veins on the back of her hands to pop up bright red. She threw Eliot’s work onto the floor, creased and crinkled. “Do these AGAIN and get out of my office before I throw you out!”

  Well it was another bad day for Ms Coal. It was not Eliot’s fault, she knew this deep down, but there was another reason. Her younger sister Cynthia (happily married with two children) bugged Sylvia to join a dating club where she would sit down with a total stranger for five minutes. Based on those crucial five minutes she would judge if he was a possible Mr Right (or eligible to even go on a date) and that, my friend, in the English slang is called Speed Dating.

  Yeah, what a stupid idea, thought Sylvia as she grabbed her black Louis Vuitton handbag and umbrella to call it a day. She glanced at the copy of Jude the Obscure on her table: a melancholy tale which she adored with all her heart. The date JULY 01 reminded her she had to return it to the library today before she received a fine from that one annoying, moody librarian. She decided Lucy, her personal secretary, should return the book on her behalf. So as she telephoned Lucy and realised she was on hold after five rings, she slammed the receiver. She absolutely hated to be left on hold for no more than three rings.

  Sylvia brashly opened her office door and was greeted by her work colleagues who all eagerly avoided her glare. Unfortunately her snake like eyes rested on a young and frail woman, vigorously typing in numbers on a keyboard.

  Sylvia swung the door behind and marched towards the soon-to-be unlucky woman.

  “You - new girl. Where the hell is Lucy?” she demanded.

  The new girl, Debbie, gulped, “Lucy - ma’am?”

  Sylvia mimicked like a child, “My pet chiwawa. Gosh woman use your brain! My secretary.” She leaned closer to her face, “Where the hell is my secretary?”

  The office was silent and no one dared to breathe let alone staple papers or scrape their chairs. Her colleagues stopped and stared at the new victim on the boss’s plate.

  Debbie stammered as she pleaded with the others for a rescue, “I - I think she’s gone to the toilet.”

  Sylvia huffed, and spoke in a patronising voice, “If Lucy doesn’t show up at her desk in less than a minute, so help me God, I will fire her. Do you understand, Deb - bie?”

  Debbie nodded her head and blinked several times. Sylvia turned to see her workers. They appeared like statues in a museum. She rested her hands on her hips and moved suavely to the centre of the room, soaking the power with their undivided attention.

  “Let this be a lesson for you all. I want discipline in my office. Discipline!” she sneered. “Don’t make me repeat myself from last week’s disaster and don’t just stand there like idiots. Get on with your work!”

  This pretty much summed up the typical office day in Ms Coal’s life. She was unsatisfied with her employers’ ‘lack of discipline’ which translated to ‘you do not have a life outside of work when you are working in my company’ which also meant ‘you can’t daydream, leave work or pop to the loo whenever you feel like it’.

  Yes, she really did sound like the boss from hell but there must be a reason to her tyranny.

  Sylvia hated most people and the only person she could handle: herself. Me myself and I was the motto she recited ever since broke up with Russell Henderson seven years ago. She saw the two - sorry three timing scumbag - at it, when she returned home one unfortunate night. On the couch he was with ‘the other two women’ and had seen Sylvia from the corner of his eye. Poor Sylvia: her world had come crashing down on her head. She had given everything to Russell: her love, her trust, but the one thing missing from their relationship... time for each other. It could not satisfy -

  “Sylvia darling.”

  Oh great! Sorry for the interruption but an introduction is in order. Here we have Scarlet Brown, Sylvia’s aunt and part CEO of Sylvia Coal Architects. Along with many sceptical, narcissistic and materialistic attributes, Scarlet was known for her prim and proper image all because
she went to finishing school. She is splashed with ‘SJP Darling’ perfume, a chocolate fur coat is draped elegantly over her square shoulders and she is splodged with makeup a monkey might have done in animal slavery.

  Scarlet Brown sauntered gracefully towards Sylvia, arms outreached with red lips pouted to give the French greeting kiss on the cheek.

  Sylvia turned to see her aunt just a footstep away. Oh man, she thought and gave a big sigh of pretence relief.

  “Aunt Scarlet!” she exclaimed embracing her aunt and holding her fake smile. Sylvia held her breath so she did not suffocate from the overloaded perfume. “It’s so good to see you.” She rolled her eyes at this point because it was an absolute lie.

  Scarlet Brown gave her niece a kiss on each cheek in mid-air. Turning, she examined her, “My dear look at what you have done to yourself.” She placed her hand on Sylvia’s arms. “You’re as thin as a twig. What do you get to eat around here?”

  Sylvia giggled nervously as her aunt dragged her towards the lifts. “Well you know how work is, Aunt. I’m all busy to my elbows getting the new shopping mall designed for next year comer-”

  Scarlet shook her head and her index finger in mid-air, suggesting Sylvia shut up. “Darling, that is no excuse. What do I always say, hea-”

  “Health comes before work,” chanted Sylvia as they stood in the lift. “But, Aunt-”

  “Oh, darling, you do not start a sentence with BUT because it sounds rude. Say ‘however’ or ‘nonetheless’... never BUT.” She linked arms with her niece, in prospect to change the subject. “Come, darling. We’re going to eat at La Petite Maison. It’s about time I gave you a treat, because let’s face it, darling, you’re a bag of bones. No man will fall at your feet with skin as dead as a corpse.”

  Sylvia pursed her lips to her aunt’s appalling remark and examined her reflection in the grand mirror. It showed her true form: a person who had loved and lost her heart, filled with resentment. She hid her anguished electric blue eyes behind her Karen Miller framed glasses. She belonged on the front cover of Vogue; her coal black hair swept in a high pony stretching her tough yet bony pale face. She glanced at her starved figure hugging her chic Alexander McQueen black suit complemented by thin heeled Yves Saint Laurent shoes.

  Sylvia tried to remember the last time she was happy. The lift opened and she grudgingly walked beside her aunt.

  She moaned, shaking her head. “Oh man! Why do I-”

  “Do I look like a man to you?” Scarlet took a step back in a melodramatic fashion. “I do not wear cosmetics just to make people think I am a woman. I look beautiful for my age. Eight hours of yoga and eight glasses of water is the neat trick to take ten years off.”

  “Not to mention Botox, skin peel, face lifts, anti-wrinkle creams,” Sylvia listed with her fingers and glanced at her Aunt. “Do I need to go on?”

  Scarlet huffed. “No, dear. Is it really that obvious?”

  They both left the building and Sylvia sniggered. “You might need to tone it down a little, nonetheless it is fine.”

  The aunt and niece took their place at the grandeur of the La Petite Maison restaurant on Brooks Mew. The French restaurant emulated the Nice city ambience; the white painted panel walls and the fresh breath of life seemed out of place in the busy city of London Mayfair. It felt as the sea Côte d’Azur was right outside the door; the customers with their flourishing tans, casual dress codes and conversations revolving around yachts, golf and parties. The zesty smell of ripe lemons and tomatoes welcomed Aunt Scarlet. This was her heaven, but for Sylvia, it was just another place in another time. She never made time to go out; our heroine did not make time for anyone at all. So sitting with her aunt was one of the rarest moments she would soon love to forget.

  “So how is the speed dating going?” Scarlet asked slyly.

  Sylvia glanced at the skeletal waitress in a monochrome striped apron, “One hot black coffee, no sugar and for starters the Poivrons Marinés à l’Huile d’Olive” (Sweet Peppers in Olive Oil). She faced her aunt, “Pretty pear shaped. Cee’s got this stupid idea in her head that I need to get hitched before ‘all the good blokes are gone’. I mean what does that mean anyway?”

  “Do you want me to have a word with Cynthia?”

  Sylvia rolled her eyes, “What good would that do anyway? She’ll totally ignore you and say ‘it’s none of your business, blab blah blah’ and ‘I’m looking out for my sister’ and ‘you have got no say in the matter’.”

  Scarlet pouted, “Sylvia darling, I get the picture. How are the young bachelors like?”

  Her nose twitched, “Washed up miscreants with one agenda; good shag with anything that has a pulse.”

  The unfortunate few near Sylvia were astounded at her blunt tone. Scarlet was of course embarrassed, even though she should be used to her niece’s harsh and vocal opinions.

  “Now, Sylvia - don’t be so rude. I’m sure most bachelors are not like that.”

  Her neat eyebrows rose in shock, “You want to bet? And on top of that they’ve all got their beady eyes on my fortune.” The waitress returned with the order and Sylvia thanked her. “I’m so rich and famous; it’s hard to believe I will find someone who would actually love me for who I am.” Her aunt gazed at her, “You know my inner self ... per-son-ality.”

  “Sylvia darling, no offence but your manners don’t come from a pleasant nature.”

  She placed her coffee mug on the table, “Well what does THAT mean?”

  Scarlet darted her eyes around, clasping her hands under the table. She had to pick her words wisely, “Well you seem rather brash and insensitive to others people’s feelings.” Oh too late, she pressed Sylvia’s anger button. “This is all because of that bastard Russell Henderson. If I get my claws on-”

  “Scarlet, could you please try not to bring that sinner into this. He has nothing to do-”

  “My dear, he has everything to do with how you have come to be this ... thing. Oh, you used to be so happy with life and now you’re just so serious and scary all the time.”

  Sylvia’s eyes of stone sliced into her aunt. She gulped her black coffee down her throat and left a tip for the waitress. “Aunt, I don’t have time for your bloody lectures about how I have come to be this THING.” She stood, placing her black bag on her left shoulder. “I have a shopping mall to sort out and you’re not helping me at all.”

  Scarlet stood pleading, “Oh come now, darling. I didn’t-”

  “What - mean it?” She retorted. “Aunt you’re so bloody predictable. Just back off and let me do what I want to do.” She paused. “If a man can’t love me for who I am then he isn’t worth it at all because let’s face it - I’m as good as it gets and I will not change to fit somebody else’s idea of perfection. If he doesn’t like me then he knows where the door is.”

  Betty’s Story

  by Bernice Gayle

  She was in her element when standing in front of the piercing eagle eyed children as they visually followed her around the classroom. With beautiful dreadlocks, sharp, unwavering eye contact she posed in front of the class like a svelte Goddess. Betty was born in Jamaica and was fond of her grandmother who raised her to the age of eleven. She had to leave her grandmother to join her mum and step-father in England. Her biggest dream had been to become a primary school teacher.

  Betty was educated from a young age in a private school in Jamaica. She loved to use her imagination in a creative way and enjoyed displaying her knowledge and skills in front of others.

  Notwithstanding, it follows that, many teachers often asked her to model by showing them the best way for teaching a rap poem and other creative tasks. Two of Betty’s friends sat at the back of the class observing her to get some good tips to use in their class.

  Betty could hear a faint voice. Gingerly, she moved towards the windows and could smell the strong fragrance o
f perfume. It reminded her of the fresh herbs in her grandmother’s garden. It was at that moment the classroom door opened and BANG, BANG, BANG books from a green box scattered on the floor. Most of the children scampered to help retrieve them. There were library books scattered everywhere. “Wow! Wow! He is one of my favourite authors. Look Michael Morpurgo - Private Peaceful”, said Meghan.

  Meghan walked past the notice board, sat within the reading area with her reading group against the author’s wall used to post children’s writing. The reading area had three lower shelves on wheels and two taller shelves against the wall next to the bookshelf where she began humming as she gazed at the books: Oranges and lemons, say the bells of St. Clements, You owe me five farthings, say the bells of St. Martins. Suddenly, there was a hushed embarrassment that filled the classroom. The children looked at her as if captured by her melodic antics. Every so often Meghan would look at Betty with her inquisitive puppy dog eyes. Her beautiful chocolate colour shone brightly under the light as she chose her books.

  Shemi, Betty’s teaching assistant who was pushing her pierced tongue against her teeth, wore a short red top and on her right hand there was a tattoo showing two snakes. She sat next to Meghan’s group and was encouraging them to use more expression especially at the appropriate punctuation marks.

  Although Betty was trying to focus on her teaching, butterflies were playing somersaults in her stomach. She was getting nervous and was thinking about what the other teachers told her. They said the head teacher and his team were trying to get rid of people if their faces didn’t fit in their scheme of working.

  It so happened that one miserable cold morning, she had a routine observation. It was carried out by the deputy head teacher called Thur and the assistant head teacher, Tac. Towards the end of teaching her lively mixed ability class, Betty felt as though it was the worst lesson she had ever taught. She wanted to concentrate on her guided group, but forgot to do so. For anxiety took over. Her disappointed gaze caught the attention of the class assistant, but she too could not turn the clock back. Betty was upset with herself. Her tongue felt like lead and the tip was tingly, her lips were drying out as though she needed some artificial saliva to moisten them.