Open Water

by Caleb Azumah Nelson

  ‘So now I have a ­place –­’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘When can you come visit?’

  ‘How soon is too soon?’

  The next week, you’re standing at her counter in Dublin cooking breakfast. The slithers of bacon sputter in the pan, while she taps on her laptop, planning things you can do together in the city.

  ‘We should definitely go to the Guinness Storehouse while you’re here,’ she says. ‘There’s something visually pleasing about watching it being made.’

  ‘Let’s do it. Guinness is Ghana’s second national drink.’

  ‘Really?’ she says, raising an eyebrow.

  ‘Yeah, it’s like you go to a bar and instead of a pint of lager, you ask for a Guinness.’

  ‘You’re not just saying that to please me?’

  ‘Promise.’

  ‘OK, perfect.’ She returns her gaze to her laptop. ‘I mean, it’s such a coupley thing to do, but whatever,’ she says, unable to hide the glee this idea gives her. ‘We’ll do that tomorrow. I got a bunch of work to do today. And then ­tonight – we’re going out.’

  That first night: rum, cider, cider, interrupted by three stoners cleansing you both with sage, and a wonderful ensemble of improvised music. She asks you to describe her scent, and you are embarrassed, because you’ve thought about it before, and had an answer which slipped from your mouth: sweet, like flowers in fresh bloom. Not sickly but sweet enough to bring a smile to your face. That night you both get drunk and steal glasses from the bar. You tell her she deserves to be loved in the way you love her, and she starts to cry, quiet as rain.

  The next morning, you gaze in the mirror with bloodshot eyes and ask if she has any paracetamol.

  ‘I thought you didn’t get hangovers,’ she says.

  ‘Oh, go away.’

  You walk across Phoenix Park instead. The dredges of summer hang above you while she describes a summer before she knew you, spent working in Dublin. A time which imbued the city with a different feeling, one which allowed her to breathe here. It’s a strange turn of phrase, you think, being allowed to breathe, having to seek permission for something so natural, the basis of life; in turn, having to seek permission to live. You’re trying to remember the occasions when you couldn’t breathe, when each inhale took effort, trying to bypass the weight lodged on the left side of your chest, trying to bypass the weight of having to know how you can breathe ­here –

  ‘Where did you go?’ Her eyes twinkle as they meet yours. You shake your head as the threads of thought come loose and fall away.

  Walking towards the cinema, you pass a police van. They aren’t questioning you or her but glance in your direction. With this act, they confirm what you already know: that your bodies are not your own. You’re scared they will take them back, so you pull down the hood which is shielding you from the cold. She doesn’t mention ­it – the unspoken exchange, the act of ­self-­preservation – until you are sat outside her apartment block, watching a dog dance across the lawn with the moon as his spotlight.

  ‘Are you all right?’ She pauses as she lights her cigarette, taking a long drag. ‘The police. Earlier. You good?’

  ‘Yeah. Yeah, I’m good. Thinking about the film.’

  The film you saw together that evening, Barry Jenkins’ If Beale Street Could Talk, undid you. You didn’t cry, just a twinge as something snapped into place, recognizing yourself in the actions of others. You didn’t cry when Fonnie’s cheekbones had gained shape and a purpose he didn’t intend; when the tired man was on one side of the glass, and Tish on the other, equally wearied, cradling her unborn child, a protective forearm around her distended stomach. You didn’t cry when Fonnie, stretched too far, snapped, trying to explain the intricacies of his current condition without the language to do so; Tish, collateral damage, a story you know too well. You didn’t cry when she, unmoving, reached towards him to say, I understand what you goin’ through, I’m with you, baby. No, you didn’t cry, just a twinge as something snapped into place, recognizing yourself in the actions of others. The motivation of each character was the manifestation of ­love – she told you ­this – in their various actions. All actions are prayer, and these people have faith. Sometimes, this is all you can have. Sometimes, faith is enough.

  That night, you dream the police wrote your death story and only included your name as a footnote. You jerk awake, squeezing her leg as you do; your limbs are wrapped together, and she lets out a small moan as you grapple for purchase. It’s not the first time these anxieties have visited you in the night and, like before, the images remain long into your waking moments. You often worry that this will be your destiny, and, though she’s always with you, she won’t be there ­then – and you won’t know who to call in that emergency. You wonder if the emergency has already begun. Evidence for this idea: the daily surprise of your enormous frame being walked into; being tailed by security guards in stores, both those who look like you and not; the scrubbing of identity with syllables that have never been your name. Further reading: jokes at your expense, implying a criminality or lack of intellect; others wanting to ­co-­opt a word they dare not say in your presence, like they have not plucked enough from you; the wearying practice of being looked at, not seen.

  You leave her in bed, and go first to the kitchen, for a glass of water, then to the living room. When the anxieties visit in the night, you like to watch rappers freestyling, because there is something wonderful about watching a Black man asked to express himself on the spot, and flourishing. You load up a video you’ve seen before on your phone and nod along in the dark. The first time you heard Kendrick say, ­Ha-­ha, joke’s on you, ­high-­five, I’m bulletproof, your shots’ll never penetrate, those lyrics sailed over your head, obscured by that instrumental and the playful jest of your favourite rapper. Now, you want to repurpose them for a future you could live in the present. You would like to be bulletproof. You would like to believe the shots will never penetrate. You would like to feel safe.

  Over the next couple of days, you can’t stop thinking about a scene in John Singleton’s Boyz n the Hood, where Tre arrives at his girlfriend Brandi’s house, after being stopped while driving by the police. The stop is routine. The policemen, one Black, one white, tell Tre and his friend to get out of the car. They bend them over the hood, while Tre, the more vocal of the pair, insists that they have done nothing wrong. With this insistence, Tre is asking the Black police officer searching him, Why are you doing this? This question sparks a wick forever smouldering. The policeman cocks his gun and digs it into Tre’s neck. Tears stream down Tre’s cheeks, meeting at his chin. The policeman doesn’t answer directly, but with his actions he is saying, I am doing this because I can.

  When Tre enters Brandi’s living room, she asks him what’s wrong. He replies, Nothing. He says this because to be him is to apologize and often that apology comes in the form of suppression, and that suppression is also indiscriminate. He explains that he is tired. He has had enough. That he wants ­to – There are not words for what he wants to do. He begins to swing at the air because he must get this out of him. He must explain. He must be heard. He swings at the air, large swipes, hoping to catch that which surrounds and often engulfs. He begins to moan, low and stifled. He wants to believe that Brandi’s comforting will alleviate the situation, if only a little, but still the tears come. The mourning continues.

  But we cool, we real cool, playing it cool. Keeping it real, cool, until –

  ‘Are you OK?’ she asks. ‘Where did you go?’

  ‘I’m good,’ you say. And you are. Despite the fact the incident in Dublin a few days prior has stayed with you, despite the fact your concentration keeps drifting towards this memory and the paths it could have gone down, despite this, you’re good in her presence. Or at least, you believe yourself to be.

  ‘You don’t have to be,’ she says. She takes your hand in hers and
rubs the thumb over the back of your palm. ‘But share with me. I just want you to be OK.’

  ‘Same. Same.’ This is a different room from the one you know together, but the routine is the same. The dimness of a sidelight flooding the room in a short glow. Your smiling figures cast shadows against her yellow walls.

  Your few days together have been spent doing nothing really, which is something, is an intimacy in itself. Outside now, the ground is wet, but it has not rained. You both prefer the warmth but you like the rain and its quiet noise. You spend your last day together trying to remain present. Akin to pushing Sisyphus’ rock up one of the city’s bigger hills, only for it to roll back down with every shove.

  ‘You’re far away,’ she says, returning you to the present. ‘Don’t hide from me.’

  22

  Whenever she asks if you are OK, you nod, mute, convincing her, trying to convince yourself. Then she asks you, are you sure? To be you is to apologize and often that apology comes in the form of suppression and that suppression is indiscriminate. Except here you must unfold your arms and from your chest say, you are tired. That you have had enough. That you want ­to – There are not words for what you want to do. You begin to choke and gulp for air as tears stream down your cheeks. Moan, low and stifled. You must explain. You must be heard. You think you are alone in this until you realize, she is with you too. You want to believe that her comfort can alleviate the situation but only if you allow yourself to be held. You do not need to apologize here. When she asks, are you OK, do not fear the truth. Besides, she knows before you speak. There’s no solace in the shade. Let yourself be heard and hear her words. Have faith. Suck at the snake’s bite, spit out the venom at your feet. Gaze at the fading scar but do not dwell. Do not hide but do not dwell. There’s no solace in the shade. Let yourself be heard and hear her words. Have faith.

  Faith is turning off the light and trusting the other person will not murder you in your sleep. This is basic, audacious. Name your love. Name the sweet whispers exchanged in the darkness. Name the beauty of imagining your partner’s fluttering eyelids as she dreams in her waking moments. How beautiful is beauty? You can find her lips with your eyes closed. Nothing more durable than a feeling. Tell her you’re scared of being taken from her. Tell her what you struggle to tell yourself on some days. Tell her you love her and know what comes with these words. Describe the image of God in the darkness: the crooks of her long, slender limbs, catching light, even in the dark; features slack, eyes closed, lips turned up in a slight smile, cheeks pulling up with them, a small, pleasurable sigh slipping from her mouth every so often; the way her body tightens, loosens, tightens, loosens with every touch, every graze across the fine curve of her spine. Let her kiss the single tear. You don’t know why you’re crying. Sometimes, love aches. You’re not sad but bowled over. Crumpled like a car crash. Tell her a story. Remind her about that time:

  The fever dream of an evening, your minds swollen with heat. You and she swing your hips this way and that, letting rum dribble from the lips of cups onto the basement floor. A friend croons melancholy from the stage but the joy is not lost. Guitars strum sweet like the cocktails in your hands. You are more than the sum of your traumas, you decide, introducing her to your friends, your rhythms so fluid, a double act to be reckoned with. This is my friend, you say, words neither of you believe. (But can multiple truths not exist? Is anything definitive? Do you believe in permanence?) Anyway, this night is a fever dream and you allow yourselves to be led down a long stretch of road with the promise of another basement at the end of it. Is anything definitive? No, because you both change your minds when you reach the club. The fever has begun to rack your bodies and you shake with hunger. You split away from the group, because fever protects, as madness does. Chicken shop, sterile lighting, she hands over a plastic note, you give thanks, you curl hand around bare curve of hip, and she leans in, back, kiss on cheek, a shade of purple she carefully applied earlier. Midnight meal in hand, down a street on which you met another poet many years ago. Another basement. The poet leaned close and told you to loosen up during the ­warm-­up act, so in no time you were in rhythm, fluid, an act to be reckoned with. Here, you sit on someone else’s front steps, and you decide you believe in permanence. This definitive arrives when your best friend breaks the hot silence, cool and measured. She tells you she loves you and now you know that you don’t have to be the sum of your traumas, that multiple truths exist, that you love her too.

  Walt Dickerson wrote the piece ‘To My Queen’ for his wife. It’s slow and contemplative, and reaches into extreme, beautiful depths to render a union in all its colour.

  You don’t have music, but you do have your way of seeing her. You do have a way of capturing her peaceful and energetic rhythm. You do have a way of portraying her joy.

  You do have words.

  23

  To have a home is a luxury. To know someone before you knew them introduces a freedom previously unknown, when in their presence. Perhaps this is what home is: freedom. It’s easy to stay furled up where you can’t live, like folding a book in half on its spine to fit into pockets.

  Sometimes you don’t know why you feel this way. Heavy and tight and tired. It’s like the incomplete version of yourself is in dialogue with the more complete parts. You had another conversation with your grandma, long after she passed. She came to you in a night vision and told you the body has memories. Told you to wear the scars on new skin. Let the woman you love kiss you and allow yourself to be called pretty. Unfurl, stretch out a spine made crooked by keeping small. There’s only freedom here. You did not have a home coming into this world, but your world and your home have become synonymous with one another and they look something like this:

  You run for the train. Someone left their umbrella under the seat in first class. It’s raining. You crave blue skies and sunshine. She told you there was a hunger in your eyes, and you didn’t disagree. You come from the same place. Same cloth. Gold woven into the kente. The shirt made for you from your grandmother’s house is pale blue like the peace you crave. You want to give this to her. How do you say the things for which there is no language? Can you think of a time in which she was hungry too?

  Returning from Dublin, on the train home, you don’t know you’re crying until the ugly splotches appear on the pages. Caught fast in your throat, syllables being rounded out and smoothed, language descending into noise. This is how you say those things for which there are no words. You want to scream. Two have become one but a hot blade has been taken to your skin and you have to wear these stories like scars. You want to wash them clean, and watch as she swims in the bath, slender limbs loose in the water. Love as a form of meditation; reaching towards a more honest expression of self. Remember that your body has memory. Scars do not always blemish. You kiss them and call her pretty. You’re always surprised by the substance of her under your fingers. You want to lie beside her in the darkness and whisper your truths to her: To my queen, forever is a mighty long time, but I knew you before I met you, so now we’re free. You didn’t have a home coming into this world, but you’re home now. You’re home now.

  24

  ‘Are you getting a trim before I come home?’

  ‘What’s wrong with my hair?’ you ask, running a hand over your scalp, feeling the tiny curls beginning to kink.

  ‘Nothing’s wrong per se,’ she says. ‘It would just be nice, you look handsome with a fresh trim.’

  ‘You’re digging yourself a hole here.’

  You keep an eye for oncoming pedestrians as you walk, holding your phone slightly ahead of you, trying to keep your face in the frame of the video call. Four hundred miles away, she flops down on her bed, and reaches towards her camera with her finger, attempting to close the distance.

  ‘Listen, I don’t think it’s a crime for me to want my man to look and feel good.’

  ‘That’s fair.’

  ‘So ar
e you gonna get one or not?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Maybe?’

  You stop walking, right on time, and point the phone camera in front of you, to the barbershop.

  ‘Ah,’ she says. ‘Great minds.’ You sign off and go inside.

  A haircut is an undertaking. You think of the waiting, waiting for your hairline to breach the line your barber had placed on your forehead a few weeks before. You think of the decision to go, a gamble in itself; your barber, like most barbers, doesn’t have a schedule. Today, as you ­enter – you’re early, early is always ­better – there’s a child in the seat, bawling as the barber takes a ­metal-­toothed comb to hair which has curled and twisted, roots and undergrowth merged together to form a dense, kinky bush on his head. His mother watches on as the barber attempts to tease the comb through hair which won’t reciprocate the effort. Leon, your barber, doesn’t give up. He oils the hair with his own hands, so it is a smooth journey for the comb, rather than the scratches like twigs snapping. He takes care, and the child calms, comforted by the endeavour and the barber’s instructions for kink prevention.