Black Sheep

by Na'ima B. Robert

  Lately, Jukkie had been acting proper off-key about Misha and I didn’t get it. He’d never had anything to say about my girlfriends before. I mean, what did it have to do with him, right?

  Just the other day at the gym, he’d started on it again. “You know what, blud? Since you’ve been seeing that posh girl, you’ve changed. You ain’t the same as you used to be.”

  “What do you mean, man?” I tried to ignore him and concentrate on the bench press that was just about ready to mash me up.

  “Where was you last Friday night? Out with Posh Spice while the mans were at a rave in Camberwell. You didn’t even bring her down! That’s lame, man.”

  “She ain’t into that scene, Jukkie, you know that. Why am I gonna bring someone to a rave who doesn’t wanna be there?”

  “So who’s the man then, you or her? If I tell my girl to reach , she better reach, y’get me? She’s got to know how it goes: it’s bros before hos, y’undertand?”

  I ground my teeth and didn’t say anything. What was the point? Jukkie would never understand. To him, girls were there to be used and abused. As long as he gave them stuff, he expected them to put up and shut up. And most girls did. It was a status thing to be known as Jukkie’s girl, even if it was only for a few weeks.

  Boy, it used to be like that for me too, until Misha came along. Back in the day, I could have had my pick of any girl on the estate, young ones, older ones, they were hungry for me. But I wasn’t on that now. I didn’t need all those girls chasing me. I had Misha. And I wanted it to stay that way, which is why I wanted to keep her as far away from my estate and the RDS boys as possible.

  I only relaxed when I remembered that there was a dog fight happening that day – for sure Jukkie, Trigger and the others would be there. The estate was safe – for now.

  Once I had chilled out, I could enjoy showing Misha around. Mr Davis on the ground floor had set up a barbecue in his front garden and was blasting old school reggae tunes through a set of mash-up speakers. The music echoed through the courtyard, reminding me of the old days when we used to ride through the estate on our bikes. Some little girls were skipping, singing the lyrics of Beyonce’s latest hit; baby mothers were out with their Nike and D&G babies, blowing bubbles while they pushed them on the swings.

  ‘Nuff people called out to me as I walked past with Misha, asking after my mum and Jay.

  “That your new girlfriend, Dwayne?” asked Auntie Biba, who was sitting on a folding chair outside her front door, squeezed into a vest top and jogging bottoms. “Watch him, love,” she chuckled, shaking her head, “he’s a heartbreaker!” When she grinned, her gold teeth caught the sun.

  Misha smiled over at her, all shy. “Does everyone know you around here?” she asked, as if it was something strange.

  “This is home, innit,” I shrugged, stopping to wave to Old Man Des, who was sitting stooped over a battered old guitar, strumming the strings with his long, bony fingers, crooning to himself. “That’s Des. He tried to teach me how to play the guitar when I was a little kid.”

  “What happened?” asked Misha, smiling over at the old man. When he grinned back, his lips stretched to show all the teeth he was missing.

  “I guess I was more interested in hanging out with my boys – never went back after a couple of months. I could have taken it further...” Misha looked up at me, like she was surprised by the way I said it. But true say, I missed those days with Des, jamming on that beat-up old guitar.

  When we reached the main road, we saw a small, battered minivan driving into the estate. It was full of boys, most of them Jay’s age, some a bit older, laughing, singing and banging on the windows.

  “OK, brothers, that’s enough, quiet down!” It was Damon, the local youth worker, his voice all hoarse. Obviously they had given him a hard time, wherever they’d been. He jumped down from the front seat of the minivan and banged on the door. “Keep it down now, or you’ll shatter every window on the estate with your terrible singing!”

  The boys all creased up and then started singing again, properly this time, a little kid with braces taking the main part.

  “Oh my God,” breathed Misha, “he can really sing!”

  “Yeah, that’s Brother Damon from the local youth group. Yo, Damon! Wha’ gwan, blud?”

  Damon looked harassed as he glanced over at us, squinting. When he recognised me, he smiled and waved. “How’s it going, man?”

  “It’s all good, Damon. What you doing with this lot?”

  “We just came back from camp, actually. Took the boys out on an excursion to Devon. Why didn’t your little brother come? He’d have enjoyed it.”

  I thought of Jay’s little screw-face, saying, “I ain’t goin’ to no camp. That stuff’s for losers, man!” I could have convinced him if I had tried harder. Seeing the boys all excited, grabbing their bags, joking around with Damon, I felt bad. This would be good for him, show him that there’s more to life than skipping school and hustling.

  “Next time, man,” I said, putting my arm around Misha. “Next time, yeah?”

  Misha was quiet all the way to the end of the road. Then she turned to me and her face was all serious.

  “Dee,” she said, “what do you want to be when you grow up?”

  I laughed, surprised by how serious she sounded. “What d’you mean, girl? Why you getting all serious on me all of a sudden?”

  She bit her lip and looked away. Normally, I loved it when she did that – bit her lip – but I tried to stay focused. “It’s just that...” She shook her fringe out of her eyes and, for the first time since I had known her, I really thought she didn’t know how to say what she wanted to say. I began to get nervous.

  “Look,” she tried again. “We’re cool, right, you and I? You’re into me, I’m into you, but I can’t help feeling that we’re on different paths, that we’re going in different directions. I felt it when you came to my house, but then I thought it was just my family being difficult. But being here, seeing you in your community, listening to you talk about Islam and Malcolm X, I can’t help thinking we come from totally different worlds. And that maybe those worlds will never fit, never make sense together. Do you understand where I’m coming from?”

  I could feel my insides going cold. What was she saying? Was she for real? Or was she playing a game with me? Was she trying to break up with me? But I couldn’t let her see how the thought of losing her made me feel.

  I stepped back from her and turned away. “So what, you came all the way over here to tell me you want to end it?”

  “No, Dwayne, of course not! I’m just telling you what I see...” She put her hand on my arm but I shrugged it off and put my hand up to her.

  “Yeah, well, it sounds like you want to break up. That’s what it sounds like. And if that’s what you want, just go ahead and say it.” It cut me to say those words to her but I had to. I wasn’t about to let myself get played, by Misha or by anyone else. Free that!

  But then she started crying! Oh my days, I hadn’t expected her to do that!

  “Misha, stop, what you crying for?” I couldn’t believe that I had made her cry proper tears – how could I do that to her when all I ever wanted to do was put a smile on her face? I reached out and tried to wipe away her tears but she brushed my hand to the side.

  “How can you say that?” she sniffed. “I was just being honest with you and you go all cold and start talking about breaking up! I need you to reassure me, Dee, not push me away. Sometimes, I just feel that I don’t know you at all...” And she blew her nose with a tissue she had found in her bag.

  ‘What did you have to go and do that for, man?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You made her cry, eediat!’

  ‘I know, man, I know! But I didn’t mean to! It just came out...’

  ‘You switched on her, that’s what you did. What’s wrong with you anyway, why can’t you just have an honest conversation with her?’

  LOL.

  ‘What you laughing
for?’

  ‘There is no way I can be honest with her, blud. No way. There’s too much about me she doesn’t know. Too much I don’t want her to know.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Coz I know that, if she knew, she wouldn’t be able to handle it. And then I’d lose her for real.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘And that would be like losing the one part of me that’s good, that’s worth something.’

  ‘Well, you’d better make it up to her then, innit.’

  I took her by the shoulders and turned her round to face me. “Misha, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to go all cold. I just thought you were saying...”

  “You didn’t even listen to me! You just jumped to your own conclusions and then became someone else, something else. Not the Dwayne I know at all.”

  “The Dwayne you know is the real Dwayne, Misha. I promise you that. Don’t watch what anyone else says. You and me, we’re the ones that matter, y’get me.” Then I looked into her eyes. I wanted her to see how dead serious I was. Whatever other lies I was telling, whatever other secrets I had, this was the truth. “Misha, I don’t want to waste my life, y’know. That ain’t what I got planned. I’m gonna make you proud of me, you’ll see.” Then I took her hand and put it on my chest so she could feel my heart beating. “With you by my side, Misha, I feel I can do anything, achieve anything I want to, y’get me. The sky’s the limit. Just stand by me, yeah, believe in me and I promise you I won’t let you down. OK?”

  She smiled and nodded. “OK, Dee.”

  “So we’re cool, yeah?”

  “Yeah, we’re cool.”

  “Right, you better get to your dad’s before your mum starts to wonder what’s happened to you.”

  She began to walk off down the street, looking back at me over her shoulder. I ached to run after her, to take her back to my place, to have some time with her before my mum came home. But I knew she couldn’t risk it. She had to go.

  “Dream of me, yeah?” I called after her.

  “Always, Dee, always.” I loved it when she said that.

  Daddy’s Little Girl

  MISHA

  I couldn’t wait to get to my dad’s house. The whole experience in Saints Hill had left me drained and shaky.

  Although Dwayne and I had parted on good terms, I was still shocked by the way he had turned on me. I felt like I was losing my grip on the situation and, not for the first time, it occurred to me that there was so much I still didn’t know about Dwayne. Was he being deliberately evasive or was this just a normal part of a relationship, finding out about each other bit by bit? I didn’t know for sure – but I knew that I wanted to be back on solid ground. I wanted to be with my dad.

  Dad’s flat always smelled of cooking and incense. Today was no different. Fading posters of reggae artists and dusty African art adorned the walls, books and records stacked against them. As soon as I stepped on to the landing, my gorgeous stepbrothers and sister ran to meet me, their gold-flecked dreadlocks bouncing, their faces bright with smiles. I had missed them so much!

  “Misha!” cried Imani, jumping into my arms. “We thought you weren’t coming!”

  “Yeah,” said Mark, the eldest, “you’re well late, man.” And he and I exchanged our special handshake: over, under, pull, click finger, pow-pow.

  Little Joshua lifted up his arms and I scooped him up, unable to resist. “Did you bring me chocolates, Mishie?” he lisped.

  I opened my mouth to speak, but then my stepmother Leona came out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on her purple kaftan, her cheeks pink.

  “Misha, baby!” She smiled warmly when she saw me, like she always did, and came and hugged me.

  “Now, now, Joshie,” she said, poking his belly, “what did Mummy say about too many chocolates, eh? They’re not good for you. They’ll rot your teeth.”

  “Awww!” cried Josh. “But we haven’t had chocolates forever!”

  “Then another day won’t kill you,” retorted Leona. “Now let your sister come inside properly.”

  “Where’s Dad?” I asked, kicking off my shoes.

  “Oh, he’s in the living room, listening to some old records. Go tell him that lunch is on the table. Kids, go and wash your hands, OK?”

  I walked down the narrow corridor to the living room and pushed aside the beaded curtain. The afternoon sunlight shone through the bay windows, filling the room with golden light. I loved this room, especially at this time of day. Dad was lying on the faded green sofa, against the cushions he had brought back with him from Ethiopia a few years before. His eyes were closed and he sang along to the sounds of Peter Tosh.

  I crept towards him on tiptoe and knelt down beside him, holding my breath. I had always done this since I was little, to test if he really could see with his eyes closed, as he always told me he could.

  “You took your time,” he growled, a smile curving his mouth. Then he opened one eye.

  I smiled. He always knew when I was in the room, even when he seemed to be fast asleep. “Better late than never, eh?”

  Dad sat up and patted the sofa next to him. I sat down beside him and he put his arm around me and hugged me. He smelled like he always did: smoky, spicy and familiar.

  “How’s my girl then?”

  “I’m good, Dad, I’m good.”

  “Good.”

  That was Dad: a man of few words. I felt so comfortable, there in the crook of my dad’s arm, that I could have stayed there all afternoon, even fallen asleep. But then we heard Leona’s voice calling us to eat and I realised that I was starving. I hadn’t eaten all day.

  Leona had laid on a real feast. There was a spicy lentil and sweet potato stew, made with coconut milk, tofu stir-fry, rice’n’peas and a carrot salad that smelled of oranges and cinnamon. She’d even made my favourite: ‘ital stew’: a thick, thyme-scented broth, heaving with yams, sweet potatoes, carrots and okra, fiery with Scotch bonnet peppers. As Rastas, Dad and Leona ate a strictly vegan diet, but they sure knew how to spice it up!

  “Wow, Leona!” I grinned. “You’ve really outdone yourself!”

  Leona patted her headwrap and smiled proudly, then put a hand on my stepbrother Mark’s shoulder.

  “Well, I did get some help from little Masterchef himself.”

  My amazing twelve-year-old brother, Mark, he of the sun-bleached dreadlocks reaching halfway down his back, grinned.

  “I made the ital stew,” he said, and I noticed with a jolt that his voice had just started to break. “Mum wrote the recipe down and I followed it – but, of course, I had to add a bit of the Mark magic, y’ know what I’m saying!”

  “OK, everyone, enough talking!” said Leona, sitting down. “Let’s eat!”

  “You’ll see,” said Mark, while we were all tucking into his ital stew. “In a few years’ time, I’ll have my own line of sauces and seasonings in Tesco, like that guy off Dragons’ Den. Mark’s Vital Ital – I can see it now!”

  “Well,” I smiled at him, “I know many people would pay a lot of money to be able to take home stew like this!” We all agreed that this was the way we were finally going to get the Reynolds name into the papers. Trust my little brother Mark to have it all figured out.

  “Leona,” growled Dad, with a lopsided smile on his face, “this is food for the mind, body and the soul!”

  Leona smiled back at him and I noticed with a pang how Dad’s eyes went soft when he looked at my stepmother. They were just so compatible – it was clear that they were totally on the same wavelength. I found myself wondering whether he had ever looked at Mum like that but I pushed the thought away. It felt wrong to think like that, especially in Leona’s house. He was still my dad: nothing could change that.

  Imani was talking about her project for her weekend school for Afro-Caribbean kids and Joshua tried to sing us the song he had learned at nursery.

  “After lunch, Josh,” said Leona. “We’re eating now.”

  After lunch, the kids went out into the garden to play. I he
lped Leona clear the table, then went to sit down in the front room with my dad for some father-daughter time.

  “How’s your mother?” asked Dad. “She’s happy about the offer from the school?”

  “Of course she is, Dad, what do you think?”

  “She’s worked hard to get you where you are today,” he replied thoughtfully. “She expects a lot from you... sometimes too much, I think.”

  I frowned. I hated to hear either of my parents criticise the other.

  “Dad...” I began, but he held up his hand.

  “No, I’m not going to start, but I’m just saying: it can be dangerous to expect so much from your children. They are their own people and, one day, they may choose a different path, one you didn’t plan for them. And then what will you do?”

  I looked at Dad, his kind, intelligent green eyes behind his steel-rimmed glasses, his long face framed by a mane of silver-peppered dreadlocks, and wondered whether I should tell him about Dwayne. Would he approve? Would he be angry? He had never broached the subject of boys with me before, except to say that all boys were after one thing and none of them could be trusted.

  I decided to give it a try. “Dad, how do you know whether you can trust a guy or not? Like, how do you know if they’re being straight with you?”

  He raised an eyebrow at me and said gruffly, “Hmm, you’re sixteen now. I guess it’s time to start asking those questions, eh?” He folded his arms, jutted out his chin and growled, “You are a queen, Misha. That is what I have always taught you. And you must insist that anyone who wants to be with you treats you like a queen, respects you, honours you. Without respect, no relationship can work. But I have to tell you, there’s not many lickle boys nowadays that know how to treat a queen. So my advice to you is to leave all that foolishness and concentrate on your schooling. There’ll be plenty of time for all that drama later, trust me.”

  “But what if you think you’ve found someone... and you like them but you’re not sure whether he’s the right one, or whether you have a future together. Look at you and Mum: you were both so different...”