Digitized by the Internet Archive

in 2014

[Link]
The Family
 by the same author

The Bride Price

Double Yoke
Joys of Motherhood
The Moonlight Bride
The Rape of Shavi
Second Class Citizen
Slave Girl
The Wrestling Match
BUCHI EMECHETA

The Family

GEORGE BRAZILLER
New York
Some of the place names in this novel are imaginary,
others are real

First published in the United States in 1990

By George Braziller, Inc.

Originally published in the Great Britain

by Williams Collins Sons & Co. Ltd.
(Published in Great Britain as Gwendolen)

Copyright © Buchi Emecheta 1989

All rights reserved
For information address the publisher:
George Braziller, Inc.
60 Madison Avenue
New York, New York 10010

LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA

Emecheta, Buchi.
The family
I. Title

PR9387.9E36F36 1989 823 89-70783

ISBN 0-8076-1245-6
ISBN 0-8076-1250-2 (pbk.)

Printed in the United States of America

First Edition
To that woman in the Diaspora who refused
to sever her umbilical cord with Africa
 CONTENTS

1 Parents 9
2 Uncle Johnny 21
3 Moder Kontry 41
4 Gladys Odowis 49
5 School 67
6 Education 81
7 Mr Ilochina 101
8 The Church 107
9 Sonia Away 113
10 Winston's Roots 121
11 Sonia in Jamaica 129
12 Emmanuel 141
13 Sonia's Return 159
14 Institutionalized 169
15 Sonia's Intuition 185
16 Winston's Death 195
17 Gwendolen Alone 203
18 The Settlement 215
19 James 221
20 Iyamide 227
 1

Parents

She was christened Gwendolen. But her Mammy could not

pronounce it, neither could her Daddy or his people.
She could remember, though not too clearly, what Daddy
Winston looked like. She saw him in her mind's eye the day
he left for overseas. She could not recall much before that
day. In her memory, that was the day she was born, that was
the day of the very beginning, the day the world began.
Before then, there had been nothingness and void.
After endless shouting and arguments from Granny, her
Mammy and Daddy had to go to the office to get married.
Gwendolen's dress was made from organza. The skirt,
shaped like Granny's 'coolies' umbrella', was a full one. Her
Mammy threaded a few yards of blue ribbon around the waist
instead of a belt. Her hair, after it had been pressed, was
parted in the middle and tied on each side with more blue
ribbons. Granny Naomi gave her a small, black, plastic purse
with a string, which she slung across her shoulder. She had
a pair of black patent shoes and white cotton ankle socks.
Everybody looked at her, smiled, nodded and then agreed
that she did look smart and pretty. They said that she was a
lucky girl. Some said, 'You'll go to England and join your
Daddy soon, gal.' And then they'd touch her cheeks, or
Johnny always touched her thighs.
gently pull her hair. But
Gwendolen had smiled happily, her brown and white eyes
dilating translucently in childish pleasure.
She had no idea where or what England was. But she
sensed that her Daddy's people who lived down in Kingston
and who were so incredibly sophisticated - because they all

9
wore white gloves - thought it a good place. All she knew
was that England was responsible for her Mammy marrying
her Daddy in the office that very morning and making her
Mammy cry all through the arguments and laughter.
It was all terribly confusing then, because one minute they

said it was a good place to go and it was good that her Daddy
was going, and that since her Daddy was going he had to go
to the office and marry her Mammy because it was not nice
for her Mammy and Daddy just to be 'stuck up', next minute
her Granny Naomi was shouting and her Mammy crying.
She was then only five and still wet her bed. Granny
frequently shouted at her and told her that she wet her
bed because she drank too much water and ate too much
dumpling. But on that fine, sunny day when her Daddy was
leaving for England all that was forgiven.
Her Mammy's dress was similar to hers, only Mammy's
was pink. Granny wore a flowered shift and a straw hat with
little flowers on the brim. Mammy bought Granny the hat

specially for the wharf. Uncle Johnny came with them too.
There were so many relatives and friends. After the wedding
at the office, they all took a bus down to Kingston where her
Daddy lived.
Gwendolen had not known or seen her Daddy all that
much, because mostly he worked on the ships way down
Kingston. But whenever he came to visit her Mammy and
herself on the hill in Granville, he would let her sit on his
knee and give her boiled sweets.
She was always impatient to run outside and tell her
friends, Shivorn and Cocoa, that Daddy had brought her
sweets all the way from Kingston. She would show the
sweets, allowing them to have a lick while she held the
greater part. She never trusted Shivorn, not since the day
Shivorn swallowed one right out of her fingers. So, she would
hold the best part of the sweet and stand on tiptoe, whilst at
the same time reminding her friends to make sure they did

10
not again swallow it by mistake. It never occurred to her to
lick all the sweets by herself. She knew she just had to share,
because that was the way things were in Granville.
Now her Daddy was going away to a far, far place called
the 'Moder Kontry'.
There were too many people and it was too hot. Uncle
Johnny, who came in his smart church clothes with stripes,
held her by the hand. Mammy was busy crying and Granny
busy telling her Daddy off. All the others seemed to be talking
and laughing. They all had so much to say in excited voices.
At the wharf, there were different-coloured dresses, suits and
hats, and more people than Gwendolen had ever seen in
their church in Granville. Once in a while Uncle Johnny
would ask her, 'You all right, gal?' And she would nod that
she was OK. He would smile at her, displaying his golden
tooth. Sometimes Uncle Johnny would smile at Granny
Naomi too. Once she had caught them winking at each
other. At other times, he grinned hugely at Gwendolen and
called her 'Smart Juney-Juney'.
Soon was time for Daddy to go. There was a great deal
it

of rushing and pushing. Then her Daddy remembered her,

lifted her up for a goodbye kiss. Gwendolen touched his face.

He had a lot of flesh and his head was soft. Her Daddy was a
big healthy 'African' as her Mammy used to say. He was
really black. He had eyes sunken right into his head. He was
tall, with very broad shoulders. He was a silent man who

stammered whenever he tried to talk rapidly like his friends,

so not infrequently he grunted instead. Gwendolen felt safe,
that split second he held her up to say goodbye. But unfortu-
nately, in so doing, he was exposing her legs and knickers,
because her full skirt was stiff. Mammy saw it, looked horri-
fied and pulled her down very quickly. Years later,
Gwendolen was unbelievably sorry for her mother's haste.
She would have liked to have spent a longer time in saying
goodbye to her Daddy, because even then she knew that

11
Daddies could go away for an awfully long time. Shivorn's
Daddy had been away to become a famous boxer. Cocoa's
Daddy was working in the hotels down the coast, but unlike
Gwendolen's Daddy Winston, Cocoa's Daddy very seldom
came to Granville. Cocoa's Mammy had to go down there
to get money from him for Christmas. Sometimes Cocoa's
Mammy came back with no money.
Anyhow, on this day, Daddy Winston went into the boat and
it soon hooted away. Everybody waved and waved until the

boat disappeared on its way to the big ship that was waiting
in the middle of the ocean. Her Mammy Sonia lifted her and
showed her the away from land.
ship that stood so far
Mammy Sonia did not cry much after Daddy left. She took
Gwendolen's hand and did not allow Uncle Johnny to hold
her again. Gwendolen felt she now had all her Mammy's
attention. Mammy had been fussing around her Daddy all
day. Now the boat had taken him away to the big ship. None
the less, Uncle Johnny winked at her behind Mammy's back,
and she winked at him too, just as if they were playing
hide-and-seek. There seemed to be an understanding be-
tween her and Uncle Johnny. He was a fine funny man,
Uncle Johnny, a good friend of her family and a neighbour.
He looked jaunty and funnier still that day in his striped suit.
Another bus took them near home. It was a dull, long,
uphill walk back. Mammy carried her most of the way, for
by the time they reached home in Granville she was asleep.
She dreamed of her Daddy with his soft shaved head, smart
black suit and bow tie that smelt of camphor, on his way to
England, the 'Moder Kontry', where they said her Mammy
would soon go. Was England as big as the White Road down
Kingston way? she wondered.
Gwendolen remembered each time Daddy Winston wrote
from England. The sun always shone, but it seemed to have
a special balm when England letters came. Mammy would
put the letter on the table by the window and sit there looking

12
at it She would then send her to tell Uncle Johnny
for a while.
to step this way
in the evening because Daddy Winston had
sent a letter from England. Uncle Johnny would say, 'Right-o,
Ah sure to be there. And how's my Juney-Juney?'
'Me OK, Uncle Johnny, thank you.'
Gwendolen would skip happily back to her Mammy quite
well aware that the letter brought exciting news.
Uncle Johnny came every evening anyhow. His lean-to
shack was only down the road. All their friends lived on this
side of Messina Road. Those on the other side lived in trailers.
Her Mammy said they'd been there since the big hurricane
and they'd never left. Gwendolen had asked Shivorn when
she thought those people living in the trailers would go. And
Shivorn had said that they would go when another hurricane
struck. Maybe that was why they lived in houses on wheels,
Gwendolen thought.
However, on days Daddy Winston's letters arrived from
England, she did not let such thoughts bother her too long.
Uncle Johnny would be given a chair by the window to
catch the light. But sometimes, when he came too late, he

would read with their hurricane lamp. Granny would sit on

her bed, which was on one side of the room. Her Mammy
would sit on her sewing chair and Gwendolen would sit on
the grass mat on the floor. Their eyes were fixed on Uncle
Johnny's face as he spelled and mouthed the words first to
himself and then aloud to them all. Mammy always asked
Uncle Johnny to read it all over again. Uncle Johnny would
say, 'Right-o, sure do.' This often made Granny Naomi laugh
and say, 'You good to us, Johnny.'
As for Gwendolen's Mammy, she would smile and nod and
say, 'Me know, dat's a'right. Dat's a'right.'
But it was not always all right, because Mammy would take

the letter to the Indian teacherdown Victoria Avenue to read

it again. Then Mammy would be happy and sing joyful church
songs. And Gwendolen noticed that most of the letters con-
13
tained paper money. Mammy would then take her to the big
money Daddy Winston
post office in Kingston to collect the
sent. As soon as Mammy had collected the money, Gwendolen
would ask, 'Mammy, Daddy send money today?'
'Yeah, June-June, your Daddy send money today.'
'It's a happy day, and we have nice Daddy, not so,

Mammy?'
Her mother would nod in agreement and smile at her while
her bottom cheeks dimpled outside her mouth. Mammy did
not always open her mouth when she smiled because her
teeth were bad. Granny Naomi said it was because she had a
sweet tooth as a child.
'Cocoa and Shivorn's Daddy don't send no money, don
they, Mammy?'
'Come on, you little Marm, you love your Daddy so, eh?
No, Shivorn's Daddy can sen' no money because 'im be big,
big boxer one day.'
They would then shop and buy material to make dresses
for church. They would buy meat for food and plenty of
biscuits for friends and neighbours. They would buy a bottle
of rum for Granny Naomi and another for Uncle Johnny.
Then they would pass Victoria Avenue to pay the Indian
letter-reader. Mammy would then sit and dictate a letter to
her Daddy, telling him at the end of it that his daughter
'June-June is a big 'oman nuh, and sends she love'.
Mammy would pay the man for writing the letter. On the
way back with all their shopping they would pass by the little
post-box and Mammy would let her drop Daddy's letter into
it.

On Sundays, they would wear the nice dresses Mammy

had made and go to church where they would sing and clap
and praise the Lord. Granny Naomi always danced in the
church, but Mammy never did. Gwendolen was too shy to
dance, even when her friends invited her. But she knew
all the words of the songs by heart, and she could really sing.

14
She really liked going to their Pentecostal church on Sundays
in Granville.
Soon, another letter arrived to say that her Mammy was
to go and join her Daddy Winston. Gwendolen was quite
restless when Uncle Johnny mouthed the words. Why should
her Mammy go and leave her with Granny Naomi? Why
could she not take her along? They said her Mammy would
send for her. This time was different; she was not so calm
about her other parent going. She was even afraid. She did not
miss her Daddy that much because he had not been living with
them anyway. But she was going to miss her small Mammy
Sonia. Sonia was a small woman with bow legs. She was very
dark too. She had a small head and this smallness was emphas-
ized by her lack of hair. Her hair was so short that one could see
patches of her skull. Half her teeth were broken. They said it

was because she ate too much honey and too many sweets. But
how could she have resisted eating honey and sweets since her
parents collected honey for their living?
Mammy told her that Grandaddy Richard used to look very
strange in his work gear. He wore a huge straw hat with nets
at the brim covering his face, before going to the bee hill on
the farm. As soon as her Mammy was old enough, she
too had helped in collecting honey. Mammy Sonia taught
Gwendolen how to remove the wings and bodies of dead
bees from the honey, ready for Granny Naomi to process.
There was nothing her Mammy loved like munching the
half-processed honey. She would chew the dry pieces for
hours on end. Sometimes she would be so full that she went
without her dinner saying, 'Me belly full of honey, me no
wan' dinner.' Granny would raise her gritty voice and tell
her that too much honey was bad for her teeth. Mammy
would not listen. Also, she favoured boiled sweets sold by the
coolie women down the foot of the hill. She invariably gave
Gwendolen some.
Now that her Mammy Sonia was going, and Grandaddy

15
Richard had died, she was going to be the only one left to
help Granny Naomi on the bee farm. She did not like the
bees, because she knew they could sting.
She tried once to stop her Mammy from going to England.
She pointed out that there were no bees there, so where
would she find enough honey to chew as she was used to in
Granville? Her attempt failed to have her intended effect, and
they laughed at her. Mammy laughed the loudest, displaying
proudly her new set of teeth, teeth which were too white
and too many for her face, giving her the look of the grinning
skeletons which Gwendolen had seen in a book Shivorn's
sister brought from America. 'So many tings to eat for
England, me forget honey self,' her Mammy said in reply.
This made Gwendolen shut her mouth and pray that it
would not be too long for her parents to send for her.
A few days before Mammy left, she busied herself in making
her house-dresses and church clothes. Gwendolen sat in the
corner by their bed, sulking and watching her happy Mammy
singing as she sewed. Mammy stopped singing, turned her
head and asked suddenly, 'June-June, you like school?'
little

Now whatbrought that on? Gwendolen thought. First

she was going away in a few days, now she was asking her
if she liked school. She'd seen older children go down to
school in groups. The schoolhouse was far beyond the church,
an open building with lots of open windows, standing in open
grass fields. And you went to school without your Mammy.
'Me no like school,' she declared defiantly.
'You learn education for school, June-June. When your
Daddy send money to Granny next time, you start nice school.
Tomorrow Ah buy your uniform for Marcus Garvey School.
Nice school. Shivorn soon start too when her Daddy send
money.'
'Shivorn's Daddy no have no money for send she. Him
going to be a big, big boxer, one day.'
Sonia laughed, displaying those horrible new teeth again.

16
Gwendolen was more used to her Mammy's old teeth. These
ones made her look as if she was slipping away from her bit
by bit. She was becoming a new Mammy. First she was
singing and laughing more than usual, and now these new,
too white, too many teeth.
'You're big clever 'oman nuh. You make plenty, plenty
friends at school.'
Granny Naomi came in and asked what they were talking
about. Granny was sweating. She'd been working in the yard
among the chickens and the sweat poured from under her hair
to her face. She removed the scarf on her head, wiped her face
with it sighing all the time. She looked tired but happy. She
too was looking forward to her Mammy going to the 'Moder
Kontry'. Everybody wanted her Mammy to go away.
'Your grandaater no like school,' Mammy explained.
'Ho, ho, ho, ho, you no know how lucky you is. Good
schools like Marcus Garvey's cost plenty money, you know.
Education is the thing nuh, gal. Soon get used to it. After
school, then you help ol' Granny on the farm and the yard,
huh?'
'See you'd so busy, you won't miss me, eh, June-June?'
Gwendolen knew that with Granny she could not win.
That the shack was built by herself and Grandad Richard was
a fact she never allowed them to forget. Many a time she
would shower Gwendolen with love and gifts. But when
Granny Naomi got angry, she shouted and her coarse voice
became unrestrained and would melt all her good deeds
away. Gwendolen had learned never to answer Granny
Naomi back, because her Mammy got upset. Granny Naomi
was tougher than her Mammy though, because her Mammy's
voice was not so loud. Granny always won. Anyhow, she had
learned to share her love, to include all of them, her Mammy,
her Daddy Winston, her Granny Naomi, Uncle Johnny down
the road and all the rest of them, because that was the way
things were done in Granville.

17
 They trailed again to the wharf. This time Mammy did not
cry. She laughed all the time looking stranger still with her
new hair-do and the new teeth. The heels of her new shoes
were too high so she wobbled in them. Gwendolen had never
seen her so happy. But Gwendolen felt so lost that she cried.
Not only did she cry because her Mammy was going, but also
it looked as if her Mammy was happy to leave her behind,

giving the impression that she was not really wanted. If that
was not the case, why then was her Mammy so happy to go
away and she so sad to see her go? Gwendolen felt cheated
because everybody kept telling her that she was a big 'gal
nuh' and should be able to look after her Granny Naomi. Her
sadness made her nervous, so she kept tripping and falling on
their way to the minibus. Nobody understood how she felt and
she could not talk to anybody about it, because she knew she
would look stupid. Even her friend Shivorn had said only last
night, when she saw her crying in the yard, that she was a
cry-baby. Her Granny would shout and remind her that she
had her and all their friends and neighbours in Granville, did
she not? That might be so, but Mammy going was the final act
of rejection life had imposed on her. She wanted her Mammy
not to go. Would she ever be wanted by anyone, she wondered,
as they walked back to Granville after wishing her Mammy a
hurried goodbye, for unlike her Daddy Winston who came on
time to the wharf, her Mammy was late. It took her too long to
fix in the hairpiece under her pink hat and to pick up this and

that thing she was going to need in England.

Last night, amidst all the packing, Mammy told her that
her Daddy's people who lived in KingstonWhite Road at
number 33 would come and visit her from time to time. 'Me
sure, they'll come visit you in Granville. Anyway, you soon
come an' join me an' your Daddy in England.' She had smiled,
tripping over her packing cases like a young girl playing with
her dolls.
'Why we no go together? Me wan' go with you, Mammy.'

18
 'Me soon send for you, June-June, never fear.'
All thatwas only last night. It looked today as if it was ages
ago. That little sunshine hope she had last night seemed to
be covered with rainclouds today because her Mammy looked
and felt so far away already. But she remembered the address
of her people in Kingston.
By the time they turned into Messina Road, the untarred
dusty road in which her Granny lived, in which Mammy was
born, and in which she was now being raised, the world had
become black and grey. The shadows were indistinct. The
lights from the hurricane lamps escaped from doors and
windows of the lean-to shacks like their own.
'Home sweet home,' Uncle Johnny's voice announced
heartily from the back as he and Granny Naomi were slowly
bringing up the rear. Gwendolen felt that Uncle Johnny's
jocularity was meant to cheer everybody up. But with her,
he failed dismally.
After putting away her clothes in the laundry basket for
her and Granny to wash the following day, Gwendolen
crawled into her corner. She missed Mammy more now,
because as far as she could remember they had always shared
this corner of Granny's shack. Now the bamboo bed did not
only feel empty, it was large. She felt the type of loss she
could not give name. The loss was deeper because something
inside her kept telling her that when she saw her Mammy
Sonia again, things would never be the same as before. Here
in their little village in Granville by the hill she had had her
mother's whole attention.
Granny was kind too, but she became tired easily and
tended to complain a great deal. She was getting old, nearly
fifty; she'd said so so many times, 'Me's near fifty now, you

know.' Granny sometimes made the age of fifty appear like

a badge you wore in front of your dress.
Gwendolen started to sniff in an attempt to hide her tears.
But Granny who sat on Mammy's now empty sewing chair

19
heard her and asked in a low voice, 'Lawd God Almighty,
what dat sniff, sniff mean? You big 'oman nuh, June- June.
So why you cry like small pikney for your Mammy? Nuh, you
have a big, big bed to yourself. Your Mammy soon write from
England .
.'
.

There was a knock on the door. Granny said, in the same

low voice, 'Henta.' Even before he came in, Gwendolen knew
it could only be Uncle Johnny. All their other close friends,

Mrs Roza Blackson, Shivorn's Mammy, Shivorn, Cocoa and

all the other male cousins who came to see Mammy off would

be too tired to come for a late chat. Most of them were there
last night anyhow, reminding her Mammy of this and that

and her Mammy busy showing off to Roza and Cocoa's

mum. The men just watched and laughed. But tonight, Uncle
Johnny was the only one close enough to pay another visit
and to ask how they were getting on without Mammy. He
knew they both trusted him implicitly.
'She only gone five minutes, Johnny, but henta anyhow.
You was always a God-bless soul church broder. Me miss
Sonia, you know.'
Granny lowered her voice. Gwendolen knew that this was
out of consideration for her. But she was learning to swallow
her sorrow.
That night, when was dark and the stars twinkled, she
it

kept imagining where her Mammy would be and what she

would be feeling. She heard Uncle Johnny and Granny cele-
brating. From the sounds of their voices, she could tell they
were incredibly happy her Mammy had gone to England. She
lay very still. She heard every sound made by Granny Naomi
and Uncle Johnny. They thought she was now asleep, because
she was usually asleep by this hour, but for her that night
there was little sleep.
For to Gwendolen, it seemed, the end of the world had
come.

20
 2

Uncle Johnny

Gwendolen soon learned that you had to accept things you

could hardly change. The hurt of mother's departure lay
heavy and tangible on one side of her chest for years after.
Pangs of jealousy razed through her mind whenever she saw
Cocoa or Shivorn running to welcome their Mammies from
the farm, or when she saw them going to church together.
Yes, she had Granny Naomi, yes, Uncle Johnny paid them
regular visits, and he and Granny always celebrated till very
late, making their little lean-to shack warm with their merri-

ment. But Uncle Johnny was not her Daddy and Granny
Naomi was not her Mammy. They both tried very much to
be kind though.
By the time two years had passed, she learnt to disregard
their noise, and oftentimes slept through it. Their conver-
sation did not mean much to her anyhow.
One such night, she dozed off however, but was woken by
Uncle Johnny. He was kneeling on the bamboo bed. He was
now touching her face and mouth, telling her not to cry, that
he was here to take care of her. She struggled to get up, but
he shushed her, telling her not to wake Granny who was
very tired and now sleeping. Gwendolen could hear the rise
and fall of Granny's snores. The hand Uncle Johnny kept on
her mouth was firm, but his other hand touched all her body,
as if Uncle Johnny had four hands instead of two. His breath
smelt of rum, he had been celebrating with Granny Naomi.
They must have had a lot of drink. He put his hand under
the bedclothes and tickled her with his fingers. He wanted
her to laugh and enjoy his playing with her, but instead fear

21
and shock froze all her emotions. Was this man with the iron
grip over her mouth Johnny who used
the same Uncle
to bring her and Shivorn sweets and lemonade drinks at
Christmas, who used to bring her ripe mangoes from the tree
during mango season? Was this Uncle Johnny who used to
rub oil on her grazed knee? Was this Uncle Johnny who used
to call her Juney-Juney and wink at her and she would wink
back? Was this Uncle Johnny who Mammy had said cried
all night when Grandaddy Richard died because they were

friends? What was the matter with Uncle Johnny tonight?

She wanted very much to ask him what he was doing, but
she could not; his hand was firmly over her mouth and she
could not struggle because her body was frozen. Only her
eyes roamed and it was dark. He was on top of her. She
almost suffocated, but he soon rolled to one side.
'Your Mammy gone na England to join your Daddy. Dem
no want you dere, but me look after you, right? Me help
your Granny on de farm and buy you tings, right? We one
family nuh. This our secret, right? Don't tell nobody, because

they'll say you're a bad do anything for your Uncle

gal. You'll

Johnny, not so, Juney-Juney? And if you wan' anything,

anything at all, just tell me. We good friends now, good, good
friends.' His voice was hoarse, his breath came and went and
the sickly smell of rum escaped every time he opened his
mouth.
Gwendolen could listen no more. She struggled out of
his hands and rushed into the dark backyard. Her inside
burned and she felt sore. She was going back inside to tell
Granny of Uncle Johnny. She could not stand there for
long because the night air, in contrast to the suffocating air
in their shack, was chilly. 'Mammy, why you no take me
with you?'
When she returned, she stood by the side of Granny's bed
and peered into her corner of the shack. Uncle Johnny had
gone, but still she snored and was deep in sleep. Gwendolen

22
decided to go back to her [Link] was too late to wake

Granny now. Granny would only start complaining and

maybe blame her. She would tell her in the morning. She
placed her mother's sewing chair behind the door to prevent
Uncle Johnny from coming back. It took her a long time
before she was finally able to fall asleep.
The crow of the cocks and cackling of mother hens in
concert with the early birds did not wake Gwendolen. She
was still tired and sleepy when Granny woke her. Granny
reminded her that now her daughter Sonia had gone, they
had to work hard and that meant waking up on time. There
were the hens to feed, the room to clean, breakfast to get
before they could go further up the mountain to the bee farm.
Sonia was a good hard-working girl, and that was why she'd
got herself a nice, nice husband. 'Sonia in England nuh,' she
reminded her granddaughter proudly.
'Me know,' Gwendolen replied slowly as she cleared the
night clothes from the bamboo bed so that it could serve as
a seating place during the day.
Granny was right. They rushed through the morning work
and were soon on their way up the hill, even before the rising
of the sun.
Gwendolen could find no time to tell Granny what hap-
pened in the night. So she pushed it from her mind, hoping
to do so when they were settled on the farm. However, as
they climbed the hill, other bee-keepers joined them and the
talk was of her Mammy. They were all saying how lucky her
Mammy was.
'Some people sell them houses and land, you know, just
to buy the tickets for England, but Sonia's man just sent for
her,' Shivorn's mother said.
'Sonia make you jealous?' came the happy voice of Uncle
Johnny. He appeared suddenly from the side of the track in
his work-clothes.
'Where you going so early dis marning?' Roza asked.

23
 'Naomi would need another pair of hands, Ah guess.'
Granny Naomi was very happy to see Uncle Johnny, but
she too showed some surprise at seeing him so early. He used
to come and help whenever he could spare the time but
never this early. Naomi thought this gesture was to show her
the depth of their friendship. They soon fell into conversation
and the other bee-keepers took their various tracks to their
various hives. Gwendolen followed them in a confused state.
If what Uncle Johnny had done to her last night was wrong,

how come he behaved so normally this morning? Telling her

Granny now was out of the question, because she was so
happy with Uncle Johnny's help.
Granny Naomi might not believe her anyhow. But there
were two things she was sure of, she did not like Uncle
Johnny troubling her at night, and she did not like to see
Granny Naomi unhappy. She listened to their conversation
without taking it in. Their talk was inconsequential banter,
to her anyway. They were always telling each other how
lucky they were to live this long and oftentimes praising the
Lord for giving them enough to eat.
In the evening, Uncle Johnny brought Gwendolen the
bottle of lemonade he had promised.
'Oh, Johnny, you spending so much money and time on
us?'
'Me think the chile still missing she Mammy. This to stop
her from crying.'
'Oh Johnny, you so kind. Looking after your friend's family
like be your own.'
'Yeah, those of us left must stick together, eh, Granny?'
'You sure right, Johnny, thank you. Gwendolen, whey
your manners? Uncle Johnny bring you lemo -
'

'Thank you, Uncle Johnny,' Gwendolen said quickly before

Granny's voice became raised. She thought Granny looked
silly putting on that childish voice just because of Uncle

Johnny.

24
 Looking back at that time as an adult, Gwendolen could
not really pinpoint on which day and at what hour Uncle
Johnny had started to make her feel guilty. All she knew was
that as she grew older, she began to entertain the irrational
fear that everybody would blame her if they knew her secret.
She was beginning to learn by daily indoctrination that there
was little a man like Uncle Johnny could do wrong. He was
usually right, listened to and regarded as a very kind person.
Who would believe her word against such a respectable man
as Granny's friend Uncle Johnny? True he was not married
to Granny Naomi, but theirs was a respectable relationship.
Two middle-aged people, God-fearing and church-going. Yes,
Uncle Johnny must be right. He had told her that they were
not hurting anybody and that it was her way of showing him
she loved him. It seemed at that time a sin not to love Uncle
Johnny. He so good to them.
Mammy sent them a letter the Christmas after she left. She
told them she had had a baby boy and she sent them some
money. The money was good because Gwendolen could feel
how hard things were becoming for Granny. In Granville
people did not go hungry during the mango season, but
Granny was counting and rationing the ones she picked.
Uncle Johnny still picked them some and helped on the farm,
but things were becoming hard.
The letter pleased Granny because of the baby but it sad-
dened her for a while because Mammy wanted Granny to
use part of the money to send Gwendolen to Garvey's acad-
emy. 'But, June-June, you such a help on the farm,' Granny
cried. 'Me wan' you to learn education. Education is a good
thing, but we produce little honey these days, not enough to
buy bread and beans.'
'Dem no go school on Saturdays,' Uncle Johnny said. 'Dem
have so many holidays in those schools, me tell you. Teachers
nowadays don' like much work, not like our days. She helps
on her free days, Naomi. Let she go.'

25
 Granny's smile was slow and uncertain. 'June-June, you're
a lucky gal, you know that.'

'Every child suppose to go to school on these islands, you

know, Naomi, but many parents on the hills pay no mind to
the law.'
'School cost money, Johnny. Dem school uniforms, books,
and the parents losing all the help the child give at home and
on the farm.'
'You start school nun?' Shivorn shrieked when Gwendolen
told her. 'Dem put you in baby class, you know, since you
don' start school in time.'
'Me mammy wan' me to learn education,' Gwendolen put
in weakly.
'Ah know. But, June-June, you too late to go nuh, private
lesson better. You no sit next to a runny-nose pickney. When
my Aunty send money from America, dat's where me go.
Cheaper too. The teacher, she the Sunday school teacher,
Miss Peters, she nice. You know she, June-June, she Yellow
Nigger, Jamaica Brown, but she nice.'
Granny Naomi did not need much persuasion in sending
Gwendolen to Miss Peters's private lesson. Miss Peters did
not need to be a wizard to know that Gwendolen might be a
shy and sensitive child, who was not interested in the intri-
cacies of multiplication tables and the ABC. She did her best,
though. She taught Gwendolen the catechism and some
church hymns and Gwendolen began to recognize some
words in the songs. For months on end, she practised how to
write 'Jesus Christ Our Lord'.
This arrangement suited everybody. Gwendolen could
work on the farm during the day and went to Miss Peters
whenever she was not too tired and when there was not too
much work to do in the house. They did not have to worry
anyhow. Because Sonia did not send money for the next fees.
So Gwendolen soon stopped going to Miss Peters, but Uncle
Johnny did not stop coming to her on some nights.

26
 Granny thought that by now Gwendolen would stop her
bed-wetting. At first she used to tell her off mildly, but now
she was beginning to lose patience. Once, she was so angry
that she made Gwendolen carry her soiled beddings around
their yard to shame Gwendolen
into stopping. This worked
for two days As soon as Uncle Johnny sneaked up to
only.
her again, she would wet her bed that same night. Granny
made her eat her supper at five o'clock in the evening so that
hunger would keep her awake. Hunger did keep Gwendolen
awake, but the few hours of fretful sleep she did have,
released her bladder again.
Gwendolen knew that Granny Naomi was at her wits' end.
She'd heard her talk about it to Shivorn's Mammy several
times. Butone evening, her heart missed a beat when she
heard Cocoa's Mammy suggesting Granny took her to a
doctor.
'Me have no money, man. Sonia forget 'bout us nuh.'
'No, Granny, not dem
white doctors, but the damn good
black 'oman by the market. She good. She tell you why she
bed wet so late. Some children take long to stop though.'
'June-June too long. Sonia not like that.'
Fear gripped Gwendolen so much that that night her bed-
wetting was heavier than ever. What would the woman
doctor do to her? Who should she ask, Shivorn or Cocoa?
The two made fun of her for wetting her bed like a child.
Cocoa always called her baby anyway. Should she ask Uncle
Johnny? She knew the woman they were talking about.
Some called her the magic or obeah woman. What would
she do to her? And her going there would mean Granny
telling everybody about her bed-wetting. Granny did not
know that she was more ashamed of it than herself. Granny
worried about the stink in their room, but for Gwendolen
the shame sat on her like a perpetual load. She tried very
much not to annoy her friends so that they would not call
her a bed-wetter. But if Granny was going to tell everybody,

27
because that was what going to the obeah woman meant,
she would do something about it.
Her Daddy's people lived in the capital by the harbour. She
saw them last when Mammy went to see them
she and her
the Christmas after Daddy left. But her Mammy never stopped
talking about them. Gwendolen knew their address by heart,
but the trouble was that she could not remember how to get
there. She would chance it, White Road in Kingston and
number 33.
Should she ask Uncle Johnny? Maybe he would give her
some money. After all, he promised to help her, but suppose
he told Granny Naomi? And suppose he told her not to go?
He seemed to be right all the time. Her Mammy had been
gone now over two years, but she had written only four
letters. The first one arrived the Christmas after she had left.

That letter came with some money. The second letter was in
a parcel containing a new dress and shoes for her, a headscarf
and some medicines for Granny. The next letter announced
the birth of another brother and the fourth brought nothing
but to say how difficult life was becoming with two baby boys
to look after. Mammy even said she was lucky to have a
mother like Granny Naomi who had agreed to take care of
her daughter. Each time Uncle Johnny read such letters, he
would lift his red-rimmed eyes and look knowingly in her
direction as if to say, 'Did I not tell you that they will go there
and breed and forget all about you?' So Gwendolen's hope
of being sent for was still very alive, yet everybody around
her told her that with the birth of other children her parents
would not be able to send for her because things were expens-
ive over there. That hope was very much at the centre of her
dreams. And if only her parents could send more money to
Granny Naomi, and more frequently, the bitterness in Granny
Naomi's life would not be so severe.
But she was leaving. She was going to her father's people
to avoid the shame of exposure. A big girl like her wetting

28
her bed. But sometimes she asked herself why it was that her
friends, Cocoa and Shivorn, did not have the same problem.
Many a time Granny said that itwas because she ate too
much, at other times she said it was because she drank too
much water, but even though she reduced her water intake
and altered her mealtimes, still that did not help. But she
noticed it became worse after Uncle Johnny had left her
bamboo bed. Telling Granny about that now would not help.
People would ask, 'But why she kept quiet for so long?' And
she was not even sure that that was the reason she wet her
bed. She wished Uncle Johnny would stop though, because
she came to dread it, especially these last months when Uncle
Johnny kept asking jokingly, 'You no wan' make people
know our tiny-tiny secret, do you, Juney-Juney?' Her mouth
went dry each time he made a joke like that. The only thing
to do was to leave Granville.
She was sorry she had to take some money from under
Granny Naomi's pillow to pay for the bus ride. She promised
herself that she would pay Granny back someday. If only
Granny Naomi did not have to depend so much on Uncle
Johnny. He made it his duty to take the finished honey down
to the harbour and hire boats on which to sell the honey to
the businessmen who owned the big hotels down the coast.
Granny had lost the knack of doing this. Gwendolen knew
that Grandaddy Richard used to do this until his death. Her
Mammy Sonia had taken it over, but when she left for
England she had assured them that Granny would not have
to depend on honey for her livelihood. Granny now depended
on it for their daily bread. Gwendolen knew that her own
help was becoming invaluable too. Granny said that she was
so good with handling eggs from the hens. When they had
many eggs she sold them in the market-place and bought
yams with the money. But Uncle Johnny brought enough
money to buy fish, kerosene, rice and beans. What would
happen to Granny Naomi if she left Granville and went

29
to Kingston? She guessed they'd be able to look after one
another.
The journey took most day and she arrived safely at
of the
the gate leading to the yardwhere Granny Elinor lived with
her family. It took Gwendolen a long time to explain that she
came because she wanted to see them and know her Daddy's
people better. She found herself repeating this rehearsed
statement over and over again to Granny Elinor's close and
Granny Elinor was happy to see her, but,
piercing questions.
Gwendolen was better on the hill with her Granny
as she said,
Naomi because she could see 'how overcrowded we be,
no room for breath here, lovey,' she explained grandly to
Gwendolen.
Granny Elinor was young-looking and very pale almost
like white people. All her children were like that. So how
come her Daddy Winston was black? She had noticed this
before, when she and her Mammy came to visit them the
Christmas after Daddy Winston had gone. But now she was
older and she became more curious about it. She looked so
different, so much so that many of Granny Elinor's acquaint-
ances were commenting on how black she looked, just like
Winston. And she noticed that Granny Elinor did not particu-
larly like the comment. Unable to keep it to herself any more,
Gwendolen asked, 'How come my Daddy so black, Granny
Elinor?'
'Your Grandaddy different from my last husband.'
'You mean my Grandaddy black and your husband Yellow
Nigger?'
Everybody laughed, except Granny Elinor. For no reason
at all, Gwendolen felt she could speak her mind here among
these people. These might be her relatives but she did not
and would never feel at home with them. She had nothing
to loseby telling them what she thought of them. Most people
in Granville were like her, except her tutor Miss Peters.
Gwendolen had heard Granny Naomi refer to her as Jamaican

30
Brown or Yellow Nigger whenever she made any fuss about
the delayed tutorial payment. 'All dem Yellow Niggers with
these airs.' So Gwendolen had associated people with pale
skin as people with 'airs'. She had seen many half-castes in

Kingston before, but had never given their paleness any

thought until Granny Naomi started calling Miss Peters
'Yellow Nigger'. She felt now that Granny Elinor did not
wish to be reminded of her Grandaddy's blackness.
'Why Daddy go 'ngland, because him black, 'im different?'
'No, chile, nat so, nat so at all. 'Ngland, nice place to go.
Him come back Granny Elinor said in her
a rich big man,'
nicest voice, but Gwendolen was not deceived. She was
beginning to feel that if her skin had been paler like those of
Elinor's other grandchildren, she would have allowed her to
stay. Why was it that people with paler skin colour have airs,

she wondered. Suddenly she realized that the only people

she could ask were in Granville, not here among her relatives
in Kingston.
A few patronizing jokes about her cute brown eyes and
tight natural curls and how she laughed like Winston decided
her. She would go back Granny Naomi. She would tell her
to
everything. At least she would be among real people, not
these cky ones. Their house was not that good either. It was
not a shack like the ones they had on the mountains, but
there were too many people. Granny Elinor seemed to have
so many grandchildren. Gwendolen did not like the yard
here; everybody's apartment door opened on to it. At least
Granny Naomi had her own backyard. True they kept
chickens there, but those were just hens and cocks and not
people. She began to feel homesick.
When Granny Elinor told her that she must go back home,
because Granny Naomi must be sick with worries about her
disappearance, Gwendolen did not refuse. Granny Elinor
bought her a red beret and a packet of biscuits and saw her
to the bus station. She left her with strict instructions to go

31
back home and that she would check from her Granny
whether she had arrived or not. She did not tell Gwendolen
how she was going to do it, but Gwendolen believed her.
However, she did not need that threat; she had nowhere else
to go. She must go back. Maybe one day, just one day, her
parents would send for her. After all, the preacher at the
church had said that 'In the name of Jesus, everything is
possible.' Please Jesus help her now.
Granny Naomi caned her so much that she almost col-
lapsed. She had caused Granny so much anguish. Everybody
had been looking for her. They were going the very next day
to report her loss at the police station in Victoria Road. Why
did she have to go to those people who had never asked of
her since her Daddy left? Was she that stupid, not to know that
Elinor and her children thought themselves superior? Why
did she have to go to them? Since her husband Richard died
and her daughter Sonia gone to England, had Gwendolen
ever seen her go to them in Kingston with plate in hand to
beg for food? Why did she have to go to those snooty-nose
people of all places? Why did she come back, anyhow, why?
'Because me love you, Granny,' Gwendolen whimpered.
'Me no have no one else, see, please, Granny.'
'Naomi, stop now, hear what the lill gal say. Make you
stop now. She understands nun,' Roza Blackson, Shivorn's
Mammy, said. 'Don't you ever do no such thing again, June-
June. Bad men could have tief you away, you know dat.
All the way down the harbour on your own. Never do it
again, you hear.'
Gwendolen nodded like a robot.
Granny looked straight at Gwendolen in the eye, just as
one would at a real person. She usually looked above and
beyond her, never at her straight. Why was the child running
away from home? she wondered. A sense of guilt was envel-
oping her. After raising Sonia, and knowing that she could
not have any more children, she had reconciled herself to

32
her lot. She wish to go through worrying after
really did not
a young girl had dragged Winston from
again, not since Sonia
the coast to tell her bewildered parents that she was pregnant
and that he was the father of her child. Naomi had thought
that her only child would be a little school marm like Miss
Peters, but instead she got herself 'stuck up' with an illiterate
like Winston. She had given up trying to raise anybody
proper. She was not good at it. She had even told Richard
several times to sell his honey from a wooden shed, but he
preferred boats tied to the coast because they were cheaper.
When the heavy rain came that year he was drowned in the
boat. Now Sonia had taken her Winston to England and left
her with this child without sending enough money. She was
not supposed not to love her only grandchild, because that
was bad. But she wished Gwendolen were with her mother
so she could worry about her own belly and her church-going.
Was Gwendolen able to see all that? Was that why she ran
to Winston's people in Kingston?
Gwendolen looked up and saw a new kind of sympathy
and understanding in Granny's eyes. The look was new to
her and she could not give it name.
That night, Gwendolen called her Granny and told her
what Uncle Johnny had been doing to her and that that was
the reason for attempting to run away in search of her
relations in Kingston.
Surprisingly, Granny Naomi believed her. She called all
their neighbours and they marched to Johnny and really
started a fight. Everybody came and shouted at him, calling
him all kind of names under the sun. Her Mammy's friend,
Roza, suggested Uncle Johnny should be reported and sent
to prison. 'You silly ol' man, troubling lill babies. Never seen
such a ting. God damn you, you know.'
'Me just can't take it. He a Christian too.' Granny Naomi
shook her head. 'What me tell Sonia, huh? Say me no fit
raise she daater? Lawd ha' mussy.'

33
 Most of their male neighbours were shocked at first, but
they recovered very quickly and began to look rather amused.
And Uncle Johnny could sense it. He did not deny the accu-
sation,he just looked detached as if all the noises people were
making had little to do with him.
One man, Jeffrey, who lived in a trailer across the road and
who normally had little to do with those who lived in houses,
even though the houses were wooden shacks, came up and
thumped Uncle Johnny on the chest and asked, 'Dis true, Mr
Johnny? You trouble the lill pikney?'
'Don't fex me, man. How Ah fit do such a ting, when
Naomi dey dere? Me and Naomi friends long, long time, you
know. Ah work my ass out on she bee farm, so this is thank
you. Why June-June no shout, huh? Why she keep quiet?'
'Now, June-June, when did Uncle Johnny trouble you?
Last night? Last Sunday?'
Gwendolen shook her head. She knew she would be ridi-
culed, she knew they would not believe her, but she prayed
that at least after this night Uncle Johnny would stop worry-
ing her. In a small voice which sounded unreal even to herself
she replied, 'Long, long time.'
Uncle Johnny's hysterical laughter jolted everybody. 'See,
see wharr Ah mean. Whey Naomi when Ah trouble you? In
the same room? With your Granny watching? Lawd ha'
mussy. E late, man. Long day tomorrow.'
Jeffrey shifted his cloth cap to his nose, hunched his
shoulders and said as he swaggered across the road to his
trailer, 'Maybe the lill marm love the job.'

There was an uneasy laughter among the men as people

away.
started to drift
The women defended her, though their voices of prot-
still

estation were taking a lower key. But Granny Naomi was

incensed with anger. Gwendolen had never seen her so
worked up. It needed the energy of hefty women like
Shivorn's Mammy to pull her away.

34
 Granny Naomi was not only bitter that Johnny had done
this toher grandchild, but she was sorry and humiliated that
it was done by the only man she trusted as a friend. Naomi

banged at Uncle Johnny's windows, she threatened to burn

his shack down. She cursed the fickleness of men. How could
he? He was here when Gwendolen was born in that very
shack. He had helped in watching over the child through cold
and measles just like his own grandchild, and how could he?
After a time, Granny almost choked and she actually threw
up, but the women led her back into her shack, and started
to talk sense into her.
She must remember that it was Gwendolen's word against
that of Johnny. Granny must not forget Johnny's status in
the society. All Naomi had to do now was to try to forget it
and keep her eyes wide open that a thing like that would
never happen again. Very few people would believe
Gwendolen, she must never forget that.
Gwendolen felt like screaming every time people said that it
was her word against that of Uncle Johnny. But she controlled
herself. She had caused enough trouble for one night. And
Granny Naomi seemed to have suddenly aged. She had spent
the last couple of days looking for her, and now this. Some
people were even giving her black looks. So she kept away
in her corner on her bamboo bed.
Uncle Johnny stopped molesting her. But Gwendolen had
lost her innocence. So adults could tell lies and wriggle

out of tricky situations, simply because they were respected

members of their community. People in Granville started
looking at her differently.
Shivorn was at first very funny. She started waving at her
over the yard and would not stop to talk to her as they used
toon their way to sell mangoes. But Cocoa was curious.
'Why you don't shout when Uncle Johnny trouble you?'
Cocoa asked two evenings later, after making sure there was
no one near. Gwendolen did not know why Cocoa had to

35
look this way and that before talking to her in this low
breathless way. But Gwendolen needed her [Link]
could not bear it when people started avoiding her and
looking at her with the corner of their eyes.
'
'E cover my mouth so.' Gwendolen went on to demon-
strate.

'If na me, I bite so.'

Now why did she not bite Uncle Johnny? There was no
time to think of that the first time because she was scared.
And she told her friend so. She simply said, 'Me scared,
Cocoa.'
'Cocoa! Co . . . coa! Curiosity kills the cat, you know.
Let June-June be. Stop troubling 'er with questions,' Roza,
Shivorn's mother, called from her yard. Cocoa quickly
skipped away. Gwendolen would have liked to talk to her
friends more about her ordeal. The yard suddenly looked
larger and empty. The noises of the chickengrew louder and
she felt so alone.
Days slipped by and people started to forget, but Granny
Naomi's fierce defence was no longer so strong. Since Uncle
Johnny had stopped helping them, and since her parents did
not send money, Granny Naomi started to complain about so
many things. She complained about the way Gwendolen
walked, why she always rolled her backside when she moved
about. Gwendolen was not aware she was doing that. Granny
Naomi tried to straighten her up, by telling her to tuck
her backside in, otherwise men would think she was a bad
girl, inviting trouble. She would try to walk straight, she

promised.
Soon Granny Naomi herself started calling her a bad girl.

How come Uncle Johnny did not trouble the other girls? How
come she was the only one? Because of her behaviour, they
now had honey to sell and less food to eat. Gwendolen
less

started to pick mangoes and add to the eggs to sell by the

street corner. But the trouble was that during mango season,

36
everybody had mangoes. So, she ate many herself. At least
her belly was full at this time of year.
By the time Gwendolen was eleven, life with Granny
Naomi was becoming almost impossible. She'd stopped beat-
ing her, because Gwendolen had learned to run away when-
ever Granny's voice started to rise. Granny would then resort
to taunt at the way she walked. That did hurt Gwendolen,
because she knew Mammy Sonia walked that way. Now
Granny was making sound as if her walking attracted old
it

men like Uncle Johnny, although Granny had believed her

and was really angry at Uncle Johnny. Shivorn had told her
though that Granny talked that way because she was getting
old and afraid of where their next dinner would come from.
After all, did not her Mammy walk that way, bending to one
side? 'Pay her no mind. She ol' and poor. And maybe she
miss she sweetheart Uncle Johnny. Whey he, anyhow? Ah
don' see him long time now. He shame, you know. Silly ol'
fool.'

That was the first time Gwendolenknew that her friend

Shivorn was on her But the whole episode had suc-
side.

ceeded in making her into a quieter girl. 'How come your

Mammy stopped sending money anyhow?' Shivron asked as
an afterthought. Gwendolen shrugged her shoulders to this
question, because she did not know the answer.
A few evenings later, Uncle Johnny suddenly showed up.
Gwendolen and Shivorn were as usual in the backyard,
putting the chickens back into their baskets. Shivorn was at
the same time busy telling her friend how she was going to
look when she eventually joined her Aunt Monica in the
USA. They had both talked of these dreams so many times
that Gwendolen had learned not to ask, 'But when will Aunty
Monica send for you, Shivorn?' She did ask once and her
friend had burst out crying, cursing and even shouting at her,
and said, 'And you, June-June, why your Daddy don't send
for you?' Since then Gwendolen had learned her lesson. Now

37
she just laughed and agreed to everything Shivorn said. She
knew that her Mammy mightnever send for her. As for her
Daddy, she believed he had long forgotten her.
Then suddenly, Shivorn who was facing the gap between
the shacks that led to the front stopped. She started to rub
her eyes dramatically. 'A ghost, June-June, a ghost. Ah sure
see a ghost.'
Gwendolen, who had finished settling the hens for the
night and was now breaking some firewood, dropped what
she was doing and ran up to where Shivorn was standing.
The sight that met her eyes was quite unexpected. They
saw Uncle Johnny in a yellow shirt, with a kind of yellow
handkerchief tied round his neck. He wore a pair of checked
trousers and a cap of the same material. He looked really
smart, and this smartness was emphasized by the jaunty way
he walked.
The two girls opened their mouths wide and stared at each
other. Instinctively they drew nearer the door as he knocked
and Granny Naomi said in her worst voice, 'Henta.'
Then Granny Naomi shouted, 'Wharr you wan' 'ere you
man with no shame .The girls burst out laughing. Their
.
.'

laughter was so loud that the two adults inside the shack
heard them. That probably made them lower their voices.
Soon the girls thought they could hear Granny Naomi crying,
but they were not quite sure. In no time at all Uncle Johnny
walked out with the same jaunty air as he entered. Shivorn
put her hand in her house shift and started to imitate the
jauntiness. Gwendolen laughed and laughed.
When they had laughed their fill, and Gwendolen had
finished breaking the wood for the fire and the sun was going
down and they knew they would soon go to their different
cooking places to start preparing food for the evening, Shivorn
put into words what Gwendolen had wanted to say for the
past half hour. Now Shivorn was speaking for the two of
them. 'But what 'e wan' here nuh?'

38
 'Me no know/ replied Gwendolen.
'Maybe him come for marry you, June-June.'
Gwendolen was not the cleverest of people. She could be
slow, but she was not thick-skinned. She could not fight
Shivorn, because she was slight like her Mammy Sonia. She
hadn't the confidence for a verbal attack on her friend, not
after her years of bed-wetting and the Uncle Johnny episode,
which she knew people could throw back at her to hurt. But
she could sulk and pout. She did that now, pulling her thin
lips together and sucking her breath like a snake. Her friend

knew she had offended her. There was no time to apologize

because Roza's voice could be heard.
'Sheeeeeeeeeevorn, Sheeevorn, whey dat gal!'
Shivorn ran into her own yard, it was time to help in the
kitchen.
That evening, after they had all eaten, Granny Naomi told
Gwendolen that her relatives in Kingston had sent word that
Mammy had had a fourth child and that they would soon
send money for her to come to England to help her Mammy
look after the family.
Gwendolen was too shocked to speak. She impulsively
opened her mouth like a fish gasping for air and quickly
closed it again. She felt that if she said anything Granny might
prevent her from going to England. To England, where she
could be herself - happy, trusting, Gwendolen again. To
England where she would be able to answer friends like
Shivorn back because they would not know about her bed-
wetting past nor what Uncle Johnny had done. She would
not risk this freedom by asking Granny any questions. But
oh, she was burning to know how Uncle Johnny managed
to get the information. She wanted to know where he had
been all these months and how come he'd turned out so
smartly dressed. She wanted to know when the money would
be coming . .she wanted to know many things, but since it
.

was now beginning to look as if Granny was blaming her for

39
what Uncle Johnny did, the little innocent openness that
existed between her and the adults in her world had gone.
She had to be really sure before opening herself to an adult
again.
Why was Granny Naomi crying? Was she crying because
she was going to miss her? The adult world was so compli-
cated, one minute they made you feel unwanted, the next
they said they were missing you.

40
 3

Moder Kontry

'June-June,' Granny Naomi called weakly, as she watched

Gwendolen folding and patting her tropical cotton dresses
into shape, ready to put them into the tin portmanteau she
was going to take with her to England. Granny Naomi knew
from stories people had told her about England that most of
those cheap dresses would be thrown away. Most of them
were bought from cheap open stalls in Coronation Market in
Kingston. Granny knew that Sonia and her husband must be
doing very well, because not everybody who went to England
could afford to send for the child they left behind. And they
would not allow their daughter June-June to wear such
dresses and carry a portmanteau with so many dents for long.
But she was not going to tell Gwendolen all that. The child
was happily preoccupied with her packing.
'June-June,' she called again with a kind of apologetic and
uncertain smile. 'Ah may never see you again, you know,
gal.'

The statement was so unexpected that Gwendolen stopped

her packing. She did not know whether she was expected to
give an answer, and, if she were to give one, what she was
going to say. Granny Naomi did not wait for her reply. She
had not finished talking.
'Well, England is a long, long way. And when you get
there, you won't remember me no more. You busy making
new life, new friends and won't remember these ol' bones
no more.'
Gwendolen recalled the harsh, hand-to-mouth life she had
been through with her Granny. For sheer existence, it was

41
sometimes necessary for them to wake up as early as four
o'clock in the morning as soon as the cocks start crowing.
The work and the bitterness over Uncle Johnny and Mammy
not sending enough money had all distanced Granny from
her. The relation between her and her Mammy was like that
of two women growing together. She could tell Mammy
anything. With Mammy, she could be impulsive, she could
be her real self, open and trusting. But with Granny, she was
not so sure. How many times had she longed to curl up to
her and tell her all her fears, fears that her parents might not
send for her, that she probably had been forgotten? How she
wished she could drop down dead, when Granny made her
walk about the yard carrying her bedding, with all her friends
watching and laughing at the back of their hands? How little
Granny had made her feel when she sent her out to play simply
because she and Uncle Johnny wanted to have an adult talk.
And the most hurtful of all was when she started to suspect
that Granny did not really believe that she did not encourage
Uncle Johnny or that the whole thing was not her imagination.
Childishly, she felt like reminding Granny Naomi of all this.
But instinctively something warned her not to. First it would
be unkind, second, since it was clear that she would be joining
her parents, it looked as if Granny was weakening. And more-
over Gwendolen still feared that Granny Naomi could stop her
from going away. So, Gwendolen replied lightly, 'Oh, Granny,
me never forget you. Ah write you as soon as Ah know how to
write proper. You'll see, Ah promise.'
Naomi smiled. Hersunken eyes went deeper into her head.
The white roots of her hair looked like a halo. She was
thinner, and her hands were becoming palsied and bonier,
with veins now showing in relief.
'You tell your Mammy about Johnny, eh, June-June?'
'No, Granny, Ah won't. They'll blame me, Granny, not so?'
Gwendolen asked breathlessly as she stole a glance at Naomi;
at the same time she smiled without joy.

42
 Naomi did not reply. Maybe for that reason or for a reason
Gwendolen could not understand, her mood suddenly
changed. She became angry. She did not wish to be reminded
of Uncle Johnny. She wanted to bury for ever the picture of
Granny making a show of supporting her, believing her, then
suspecting her of encouraging Uncle Johnny. Suppose Uncle
Johnny should tell her parents, would they start blaming her
too? She wanted to know if Granny would tell her parents,
but was at first too scared to ask. Her mouth went dry. Why
had Granny started talking this way? Then she swallowed
hard and asked, 'Granny, you tell Mammy 'bout me and
Uncle Johnny?'
Granny shook her head. She was in the shadows, sitting
on her bed. The hurricane lamp threw light on the portman-
teau. Gwendolen could not see Granny's face. Was she
laughing at her, the way Shivorn and the others had
laughed at her behind the back of their hands? Was Granny
simply smiling? Was she speaking the truth? Did Granny
never believe that she was innocent? She would never
know. But she did see her shake her head. That was a
promise not to tell.
Her anger against the adult world did not last long these
days. Not since the day it became certain she was going to
England. Somehow she was becoming faintly aware that the
future belonged to the young. Shivorn's voice, 'Your Granny
ol' nuh, she don talk crazy,' was becoming meaningful. After

all, her Mammy sent for her and not Granny Naomi. Granny

was even begging her to be remembered. As a younger child

she used to be impulsive, but since Mammy left without her,
a sense of rejection curbed all her impulsiveness. With the
hope of going back to her parents now certain, she was
beginning to feel almost fully mended. Before she had felt
limp and lethargic like a damaged rag doll. She did not need
to be too cautious any longer. Suddenly, she skipped over
the portmanteau, over her jumble of cheap clothes, and

43
dashed to Granny Naomi and hugged her. 'Me tell Mammy
to send you letters, money and medicine.'
Gwendolen dashed back, crouched on her knees, buried
her face into her clothes and began to laugh.
All such fits of lightheartedness were so unexpected that
Naomi heard herself laughing with Gwendolen. They both
had been so poor that worrying about everyday needs had
made it almost impossible to acknowledge each other. 'June-
June, what come over you? Huh-hun! You happy to go fer
'ngland.'
'Yes, Granny.'
Gwendolen knew she had felt betrayed when her Mammy
was happy to go. Her Granny needn't feel betrayed because
they would always take good care of her, by sending money,
medicine and letters. She would remind Mammy, especially
since Granny had promised not to tell anyone about Uncle
Johnny and herself. She would rather carry that shame and
guilt alone. She would not like to impose them on her parents.
It was her guilt; it was her shame.

Uncle Johnny did not come to see her off at the airport.
Everybody else came. Shivorn was sure she would soon
go to the USA, when Aunty Monica's next letter arrived.
Shivorn's mother, Roza, kept telling Gwendolen to be a
good girl and not to mess about. Granny Naomi reminded
Gwendolen of her promise to write. Shivorn wanted to know
how Gwendolen, who could not write here, could write to
Granny Naomi. Granny snapped at her and said that in
England Gwendolen would go to a proper school, where she
would learn very fast. They all agreed that anybody could be
anything in England. Gwendolen mutely nodded at every-
body and at everything they said. She could hardly wait to
see this England, where she was going to live a new life, with
Mammy and Daddy, her two young brothers and a sister. Life
was not only going to be different, it was going to be fun. She
would always remember all her friends, her Granny, the

44
street markets and Granville. When she became rich like
Shivorn's Aunty Monica, with fine clothes and fine manners,
she would be kind.
She watched open-eyed as the plane took off and the whole
of Jamaica danced out of view. She peered closer to the tiny
glass window by her seat and could see nothing but clouds.
It was comfortable inside the plane, with nice chairs and her

own tiny table. When the air hostess gave her a tray full of

different kinds of food, she was taught how to unstrap the

tiny table. Everything was changing very fast. The toilet in

the plane was fascinating. One of the air hostesses showed

her how it worked. She was and she
nice, this air hostess,
looked like Shivorn's Aunty Monica. She smiled often and
encouragingly at Gwendolen. Her mouth was wide and her
skin pale, like Miss Peters, and her hair, which was pulled
back, was very glossy and black. She smelt lovely. Maybe that
was how everybody smelt in England.
Gwendolen soon fell asleep. It was hours before she was
shaken awake by her new friend, the air hostess, who advised
her to fasten her seat belt, because they were landing in
England soon. She wanted to ask her what England was like,
but shut her mouth because though she could understand
the lady, yet she suspected that her village voice would sound
strange to her.
A grey-green land full of houses and more planes danced
towards them as their plane touched the ground. Gwendolen
arrived in England on this wild windy October morning. The
kind lady came and took her hand, helped her into the
woollen hat Granny Naomi had knitted and asked,
'Gwendolen, where is your coat?'
'Gwendolen.' Was that what people would be calling her
in England? Everybody called her June-June in Granville, in
the county of St Catherine and even in Kingston. The nice
lady was definitely addressing her because she was holding
her hand and looking at her. Coat, coat, coat, yes, she looked

45
around her and saw that everybody was putting on their
topcoats. In reply Gwendolen shrugged her shoulders. She
had no coat.
She had a beautiful dress made of the same kind of organza
Mammy loved. She had white socks - long ones this time -
and a pair of black plastic shoes. Mammy had sent money to
purchase all these things. How she and Granny Naomi had
suffered in the sun, the day they both trekked from shop to
shop in search of white knee-length socks. Most children in
the neighbourhood did not wear socks, and when they did
they wore ankle ones, because of the heat. She and Granny
failed to get a pair at first so they bought some ankle ones
from Coronation Market. But then one of her cousins in
Kingston came to wish her bon voyage and brought her a
pair of knee-length socks which she was wearing. Granny
Elinor and all her relatives in Kingston knew many smart
shops from where they bought beautiful things. Granny
Naomi had thought that with those socks and the tightly
knitted hat, her beautiful dress with stiff petticoats, Gwen-
dolen was well equipped for any place on earth, however
cold. But obviously, judging from the layers of wrappings,
the other passengers were piling on themselves, all her new
were far from sufficient.
clothes
'Maybe your parents'll bring your coat for you. It is cold
out there,' her new friend said by way of assurance.
Gwendolen wanted to say that she did not feel the cold,
but, remembering how different her Granville-bred voice
would sound, decided to keep her mouth shut. Instead she
smiled and nodded. But she could hardly keep steady the
excited beatings of her heart. Just to think that out there
were the members of her family was enough to make her
skip out of the plane, coat or no coat.
But the lady, who could sense her excitement, took her
hand and gently led her through some cream-painted corri-
dors and channels. She talked to some officers in uniform

46
and they checked her passport. One officer peered at the
picture on the passport and looked at her all over. When the
officer frowned, her heart leapt and she thought maybe
Granny Naomi had told these policemen about her and Uncle
Johnny. But eventually the officer gave the passport back to
the stewardess and waved them on. They all smiled at each
other without saying a word, these quiet dumb-like people.
They came out of the partition into another world. A world
in which people were packed together and were talking and
laughing like they did in Coronation Market at home. Some
of them were carrying placards with slogans written on them.
She did not, however, have much time to ponder over this
human chaos, because a very black man with a felt hat, grey
suit and pale brown shirt extricated himself from this thick
mass of humanity and came forward, rather awkwardly, and
said in an uncertain voice that stammered:
'June-June? You be big wo . man nuh
. . Me no
. . . . . .

no ... fit recog . .nize you again. Lawd Almighty!'

.

That must be her Daddy. The faint image of his departure,

that long ago, loomed in her mind's eye and it converged
into this man standing before her with arms open in welcome.
She rushed into the arms. She was like a child again. She was
herself again, not a little girl who had to play adult. She could
be herself now, she could show her emotion. She hugged the
huge man. Her heart beat so fast and she was full to the brim
with joy.
'Ho, ho, ho! You don' wan' to crush your your . . . . . .

Daddy nuh, eh, June-June?'

Gwendolen watched proudly as he thanked the stewardess
and gave her a box of what she later knew to be chocolate
and thanked her again and again.
Gwendolen somehow did not wish the air hostess to go
away. She had, during the past hours, assumed the epitome
of her childhood, her Jamaica. Her presence in the plane was
her assurance of the familiar.

47
 'Good luck, little girl, this is England,' the air hostess said
joyfully and disappeared behind the green partition. Jamaica
was cut from her with that disappearance. It was the cutting
of an umbilical cord; it was the burning of a drawbridge.
Putting all these feelings into words was not easy. Gwen-
dolen smiled tearfully, then, with the new confidence that
had come to her the past few weeks, she ran back and hugged
the air hostess. At least if these sophisticated people did not
understand her language, they should understand her action
of love and trust. The love and trust she had learned as a
child to give to many people at the same time, especially if

those people were friendly. This lady had been her friend
when they were in that huge tin sausage that brought them
allfrom Kingston to London.
Moved, the air hostess kissed the top of her hat and Gwen-
dolen ran back to her Daddy. She felt even at that early age
that nothing, nothing at all given with love was degrading.
She sighed happily, looked up to her Daddy and gave him
her hand to lead her through the corridors of the airport to
the future dreamland they called the 'Moder Kontry'.

48
 4

Gladys Odowis

Winston Brillianton gave his daughter a coat. It was new and

smelt so fresh. It was too long and too big but she swam into
it. The coat gave her a warm secure feeling. The feeling of

privacy - it was like walking about carrying your own house

with you. You only showed that part you wished to be seen.
She dipped her hands into the large coat pockets and could
feel the elastic on top of her knickers without anyone know-
ing. This was great. She could keep her secrets in the big coat.
Her first taste of England was full of tiny discoveries. Here
she was surrounded by a sea of pink faces, making Daddy
and her own dark skin stand out. At home in Jamaica, it had
been the other way round. She even noticed that people
stared at them when they passed. Just as they used to stare
at the whites who visited Granville. Anyhow, all that seemed
so far away now. Granville, Shivorn, Uncle Johnny, all now
seemed like another world. And since she could not imagine
Granny going to the Indian letter-writer to write and tell her
parents about Uncle Johnny and herself, she felt safe. She
took one hand out of her deep pocket and gave it to her
Daddy as if she was giving him her life to keep. She had never
known what it was like to have a full-time Daddy, but from
these first few minutes she knew she was going to like it very
much. She was going to like saying my Daddy and Mammy,
and not Granny Naomi and Uncle Johnny. She pressed her
Daddy's hand and smiled at him. Winston was surprised and
uneasy at the antics of this little girl, who was his daughter,
and whom he was beginning to realize he had to work hard
and wake up fatherly feelings towards. He tried to smile back,

49
but gave a mechanical grin instead. He was uneasy with her,
he was uneasy in these strange surroundings at the airport
where there were so many well-dressed people who appeared
to know exactly where they were going. His friend, Mr
Ilochina, had told him to ask for the bus service from the
airport to Victoria Station. It was easy when he was coming,
because the buses were all there waiting. But here there were
so many people. Like Gwendolen, he had to speak very slowly
for people to understand. A man in uniform pointed to them
where to go.
They went into the coach,Gwendolen still clutching at her
father's hand. Though she was tired, yet she wanted to ask
many questions. But there were so many new things to see
and people around them were not doing much talking either.
The coach was white with blue curtains at the window. It
was much bigger than the one they always caught in Ewarton
on their way to Kingston. This was as comfortable as the
plane. The difference was that the coach was running on
roads. The roads were full of so many cars and the roads were
so wide. Strange-looking houses sped by. There were no
shacks and no trailers. There were no food-sellers or fruit-
hawkers. And the sun seemed to have gone to sleep. The
journey seemed to go on for ever because they kept stopping
at traffic lights. She recalled when she went to Kingston
alone, walking downhill from Granville to Ewarton where
she took a minibus that took her through St Catherine to
Kingston. She thought that the journey then was not as long
as this one. In that bus, people had been talking; the driver
sang and the journey was lively.

Daddy woke her when she was just about to drop off
'We soon be ... be ... home nuh. You tired,
to sleep.
June-June?'
Gwendolen shook her head. 'No, me no tired, eh, Daddy.'
The word 'Daddy' sounded so reassuring to her that it felt

like she had just acquired a new toy.

50
 They left the bus depot at Victoria and queued for a taxi, just
asMr Ilochina had advised. When inside, Winston Brillianton
gave the driver the address written on a piece of paper.
'Off Stroud Green?' the driver asked.
'Dat's ri . . . ri . . . right.'

Gwendolen was wide awake now in this black car. She

looked out of the window and saw more neat houses in rows
on both sides of the road. There were trees, but they did not
look so green. Some of them had leaves that were yellow-
brown. Everything and everywhere looked tidier, but grey.
And now she was beginning to feel the cold everybody had
talked about.
'We home nun,' Winston said as they turned into a smaller
road.
'Where?' Gwendolen asked with expectancy.
'Dere.'
Gwendolen wanted to rush out as soon as the taxi stopped,
but her father's hand steadied her. She looked at the hand,
strong, stumpy and black, and she knew it was the hand of

authority. Her father led her out slowly. He then thoughtfully

counted out the money for the driver. The driver touched his
hat and thanked Winston. This impressed Gwendolen a great
deal. She did not know whether it was right or wrong, but a
white man thanking a black man was a sight she had never
seen. Granny had always said that people with pale skin
colour put on airs as if they had two heads. Gwendolen had
accepted it as natural especially after her encounter with
Granny Elinor. But here, a real whitey thanked her Daddy.
'The whitey, him thank you, Daddy,' Gwendolen remarked
in astonishment.
'Some o' them nice, June-June.'
Her father even had his own key! He did not have to call
anybody to open his door for him. She wished Shivorn were
there to see how important her Daddy had become. Was this
his house? Gwendolen wondered. This big house. Inside they

51
climbed so many stairs. When her Daddy opened the door
on the top floor, it led into a nice warm and colourful room.
Her little brother was about six, there was another who
looked a bit younger, and baby Cheryl was in a cot looking
at her. Mammy Sonia came out of another room and shouted,
'June-June, you big woman nun!'
'Mammy, Mammy,' Gwendolen cried as she rushed into
her mother's open arms. She felt reborn. She felt as if she
was entering into her mother's womb again: new June-June,
a new her. She looked around her excitedly and saw herself
surrounded by warmth, love, curiosity and pride. She sud-
denly felt as rich as her African ancestors who firmly believed
that was always better to have people rather than money.
it

She had now arrived in the warm womb of her family, that
family consisting of her father Winston, huge, black, with
halting speech, her Mammy Sonia, with a scarf on her head,
in a dresswith a full skirt, and a yellow cardigan on top, her
brothers Ronald and Marcus and baby sister Cheryl. What
else could a girl But what she did not know
of twelve want!
was moment, her destiny had become entwined
that at that
with that of 'de Moder Kontry', Britain.
In the morning Gwendolen was exhausted from all the
excitement of the previous day, but not too tired to hear her
Daddy leave for work, her mother getting baby Cheryl from
her cot and preparing breakfast. She wanted to get up and
start helping Mammy straightaway as she knew she had to,

but felt too tired. Added to that was the fact that she did not
know where She moved about the bed she was lying
to start.
in and, unlike bamboo bed in Granville, it did not squeak.
her
She studied the room. She shared the same room with Ronald
and Marcus. Those two shared bunk beds. Gwendolen had
never seen a bed like that before, and for a while she thought
that Ronald would fall and break his neck. But he slept
soundly. Marcus slept soundly too. They all slept through the
parents' talk. Gwendolen knew that baby Cheryl was sleeping

52
in another room with her parents, because she'd heard her
crying in the middle of the night and her mother hushing
her.
What a contrast to her life in Jamaica where she and her

Granny slept in the same room. Her bamboo bed used to

squeak and Granny's used to make a kind of whining sound.
Each of them almost always knew when the other moved.
Here it was different. The room was cosy, and she was lying
on a real solid bed and it was dry. And there were these new
domestic sounds of her family all around her.
She took her hand out of the blanket and could feel the
cold. That cold, the strangeness and the exhaustion made her
shrink deeper into her blanket. She drifted off to sleep again.
When she woke this time, she knew she had to get up. Marcus
and Ronald were having a pillow fight. They were rocking
the bed and making so much noise. She stared at them,
marvelling at their freedom. She wanted to tell them to stop
their noise, but she kept quiet, because though she was much
older, she sensed they had a kind of confidence she lacked.
On top of that, they were speaking with that kind of voice
similar to the air hostess's. And she knew that these two
brothers of hers would laugh at her if she opened her mouth.
She could see that they were mischievous. Maybe here chil-
dren were not told off by their parents.
'Maaaarcus . Roooonald, come for your breakfast. Wash
. .

your faces first. June-June tired, let her sleep.'

'Me awake, Mammy,' Gwendolen cried, jumping out of
bed and at the same time trying to find out where her
mother's voice was coming from. Sonia was preparing break-
fast outside their door in the corridor. A kettle of hot water
was screaming on the cooker. On another burner was a
milk saucepan. The noise from all this bustling domesticity
attracted Gwendolen to the door. Her quick and inquisitive
eye soon took in what was going on. 'Good morning,
Mammy.'
53
 'All right, June-June?' Sonia replied without turning from
the porridge oats she was stirring.

'Yes, Mammy, me all right, but me cold though.'

Sonia laughed. 'You get used to it, no time. Put hot water
in dat blue bath and wash yourself.'
Gwendolen How could she wash herself in a room
stared.
bowl shaped like a boat? Her mind sped back
in a large plastic
to Jamaica where she used two round bowls to wash plates
in the backyard. She was taught to wash the dishes in one
and rinse in the other. But to do all this including washing
oneself indoors, she found fascinating. 'What of the backyard,
Mammy?'
'Hm . . . June-June, backyard too cold here. We do every-
thing indoors here. Wait, me show you.'
Mammy was a busy person. Gwendolen could see that. She
watched in contemplative fascination as Mammy poured some
hot water into a blue plastic bucket, then diluted it with the
cold water she had collected from a corner sink downstairs.
She then dragged the boys back into their bedroom, and with a
towel she'd dipped into the bucket containing the warm water,
she washed them all over. The room, the boys, all started to
smell lovely, because of the sweet smell of the soap. Gwen-
dolen, who had never thought anything like this possible be-
fore, opened her mouth in wonder. How could Mammy wash
two noisy boys, boys who never stayed still for one second,
without water on the linoleum?
spilling the
Mammy was almost Granny's lookalike, but not so
wrinkled. Both women were small, both had scanty hair and
bad teeth. In fact Granny Naomi had very few teeth left and
even those few were always giving her pain. She had been
used to still greater agony until she had most of them re-
moved. In the old days, when Gwendolen was a little girl,
Granny used to have a golden tooth just like Uncle Johnny.
She could not remember what happened to it. But then
Granny had stopped being particular about herself, especially

54
after Sonia left and when Uncle Johnny had stopped coming
to their house.
is how you wash yourself here. Soon
'June-June, see, this
you'll help me wash them every morning,' Mammy said,
cutting into her thoughts.
Gwendolen nodded. She would like to help very much. To
her all that was nothing. At home in Granville, she had to

fetch wood to make the fire, whenever Granny ran out of

kerosene. And this happened almost every other day. But
here, Mammy cooked on a shiny white cooker. The greatest
bonus of all was water. It was downstairs on the first landing,
so she would not have to go into the street to fight for water.
This was something. The only bad thing was the cold. She
was still shivering.
'You very cold?' Sonia asked purely out of concern and
sympathy, because not only did her body shiver visibly but
also she was hesitating about removing her night-clothes.
Gwendolen even clung to the top blanket from her bed.
'Yes, Mammy.' Her voice was She liked this new
small.
feel. The fact that it was her real Mammy and not Granny
who was asking her these questions.
'Yes, Mammy,' mimicked Ronald. 'She's not Mammy, she's
Mum. Yes, Mammy!'
Marcus laughed so much that he spluttered the porridge
allover his face. He was very black and stocky like Winston
and when he laughed like that he looked like his miniature.
The resemblance was startling.
'Stop laughing with yuh mouth full,' Gwendolen said with-
out thinking.
Ronald stared at her as if to say, 'So she can speak.'
Gwendolen watched her mother take a clean cloth and tie
it round Marcus's neck, just in case he decided to laugh again.
'Dirty Marcus,' Sonia said indulgently.
Gwendolen laughed out loud. Her first real laughter since
her arrival. She was feeling confident. She too could tell her

55
younger brothers off just like their Mammy was doing. So
just for a good measure, she echoed her mother, 'Dirty
Marcus.' Her mother's voice was not that different from the
Granville voice, but she noticed that the others did not refer
to her as 'Mammy' but called her Mum or Mother. She would
have to remember that, otherwise the boys would laugh at
her again. That did not stop Marcus, now subdued, from
making funny faces at her, and Ronald saying in whispers,
'Yes, Mammy, no, Mammy.'
In no time at all, they were all washed and breakfasted,
and Sonia had said they had to take the boys to school.
Gwendolen marvelled at the number of clothes her Mum
piled on her. As well as the woollen underclothes, she had
on an extra vest, woollen tights that stretched up to her navel,
a heavy dress, a cardigan and then the deep blue topcoat
Daddy brought her at the airport the day before. Then on top
of all that she put on the white woollen hat her Granny had
crocheted for her. She now had gloves as well and her feet
were thrust into plastic boots with warm lining inside. She
wondered how she would be able to walk in all this gear
which made her feel not only heavy and cumbersome but
also like a walking wardrobe. But she used the corner of her
eyes to spy at everybody and she knew that that was the way
they dressed in England.
'We take Marcus and Ronald to school and me show you
my friend,Mrs Odowis. You hold Marcus's hand and I put
Cheryl in the push chair,' Sonia announced for the third
time, more to reassure herself than for her children. She was
already getting tired that early in the morning, but she had
learned from experience to take little rests in between her
daily routine. She knew the day would slow down as soon
as the boys had been left with their teachers. But before then
there was the mad rush not to be late for school. Slowly they
descended the stairs and on their way out they met their
Nigerian landlord.

56
 'Dat's the landlord man/ said Sonia. 'Good morning, Mr
Aula, this me daater, you know.'
Mr Aliyu who had given up the task
'Hallo, little girl,' said
of teaching Sonia how to pronounce his name properly. Being
meaning to his name, he used
a Nigerian, with a deep family
tobe annoyed when his name was badly pronounced, thereby
rendering it meaningless. He could appreciate when white
people would not bother to make the attempt, but when it
came to black people like himself, the pill became very, very
bitter [Link] by now he had learned to regard it as one
of the dehumanizing processes of existence you have to go
through in a country that is not your own.
'What is your name?' he asked Gwendolen in his heavy
Nigerian voice, quite unaware that Gwendolen had not heard
English spoken that way. His voice reminded her of the voice
of a man chewing coconut and talking at the same time.
But before she could answer Mr Aliyu, Sonia said quickly,
'Grandalee'. She too was trying to remember the right way
to pronounce her daughter's name.
'Grandalew?' asked Mr Aliyu. 'Is it a Barbados name? It is
lovely.' He grinned.
'Me from Jamaica, you know, Mr Aula,' Sonia said smiling
a little. She was amused that this Nigerian 'know-all' man

did not in fact know all at all.

'Oh!' cried the Nigerian who, to be candid, did not know

the difference between the islands in the West Indies. All he
knew was that they were all West Indians. His Nigerian
education taught him the names of all the important towns
in Britain and America, but little about his own country or
about his brothers living in the Caribbean.
'Grandalew, is that right?'
'Me no know, man,' Sonia snapped as she strapped Cheryl
to her chair and made for the door, her children right behind
her.
Mr Aliyu chuckled and said, 'Welcome to London,

57
Grandalew/ making it sound like the meaningless sign-
boards a traveller reads on arriving at another country's
airport.
When they were safely on the pavement and about to rush
off, Ronald asked, 'Mum, is her name not June-June any
more?'
'It's June-June and it's Grandalee,' Sonia replied as
patiently as she could. Ronald wanted to ask more questions,
but decided against it because he had to wipe his already
watery nose with the back of his mittens.
As for Gwendolen, she kept completely quiet. She was
baffled though. She had in the last few days started to be
confused about her name. It was beginning to look as if
different people had different ideas as to how it should be
pronounced. She did not know which version to use or which
was right. In Granville everybody called her June-June. Even
Miss Peters and Granny Elinor called her that. She would
have to get used to these new versions of her name, just as
she would have to get used to waddling in heavy clothes and
not complain too much about the cold wind. Neither her
Daddy nor her mother could do anything about the cold
weather. After all, did Granny Naomi not warn her about it
in Granville? But she did not imagine that it could ever be
this cold. She sniffed, holding Marcus tightly, and tried not
to cry.
And there was no sun: it was misty and grey. But
Gwendolen held on to Ronald since Marcus had suddenly
decided that he was going to hold a side of the push chair.
They soon turned a corner and then saw other mothers with
their children. They had to wait outside the school gate
because they were a little early. The school did not look like
any school Gwendolen had seen before. School buildings
were more open, but this had a big grey wall that separated
it from the road. In the middle of the wall was wedged a

formidable-looking iron gate painted black. They like others

58
before them had to wait in front of this gate. Opposite were
more houses looking like their own. Everything and every-
body had a clean, cold, greying air about them. Gwendolen
noticed that her mother did not speak to the other mothers
and they did not talk to her. They did not even give her a
look. They all behaved as if the family was not there. Every-
body seemed to be standing in their little vacant islands, not
touching, not talking, just waiting for the gate to open. And
it looked as was the most important thing to do at that
if that
moment in the whole wide world. Just standing there for the
gate to open. Then slowly at first, as if it was against their
wishes, a few children started to run around, but still not
making as much noise as Gwendolen knew usually came
from schoolchildren. Like the mothers who in disciplined
readiness stood for the gate to open, the children's play
seemed calculated. Maybe
it was too miserable for the chil-

dren to completely Gwendolen was about to ask her

let go.

mother if a teacher would tell Ronald and Marcus off if they

ran around like other children, when suddenly Ronald let

out a whoop of joy and struggled himself free from

Gwendolen's and ran to another black family turning
grip
into the [Link] mother looked as if she thought she was
late, so was hurrying her two kids along. Ronald met them

and cried, 'Hallo, Ozi, this is my sister June- June!' He was

breathless with excitement. His voice was loud and he was
jumping up and down as he shouted this news.
'And sometimes they call her Grandalew,' put in Marcus
in his equally big voice. Many heads turned at this infor-
mation, and some mothers even managed a smile, all of
which made Marcus hide behind his mother.
'Sonia!' cried the woman. 'Your daughter is here at last. I
thought she might be arriving yesterday. Good for you.' She
came closer to Gwendolen and embraced her. 'Welcome,
daughter. Yourname is June-June, is it not? You see, I know
your name because your mother never stopped talking about

59
you. Gosh, you must be so relieved to know that she is here
safe. Gosh, all those paper fillings and bureaucracy.' She stood
Gwendolen at arms' length and declared in a lower voice,
'She looks exactly like you, Sonia. Your carbon copy. Con-
gratulations.'
Sonia laughed. The laughter started a bit loud and ended
up in giggles, during which her hand went to her mouth
covering She smiled into her hand, a habit which Gwen-
it.

dolen could not remember her mother having.

Now everybody's head turned slightly, though many pre-
tended to be staring at something else right on top of the
browning trees which stood outside the school gate. Sonia
was not unaware of this minor hypocrisy. So she agreed with
her friend in a low voice, 'Ah proud of 'er. She's a grown
'oman nuh. Winston still no fit believe he eyes. She grow so
quick.'
Mrs Odowis nodded. Hum hum. She'd just become
. . .

aware that her voice was unnecessarily raised before. Though

she'd lived in England for over four years, yet she still could
not cope with this type of solid wall of indifference in which
people look past you, or on top of your head, or stare at your
shoes, actually look beyond you so as not to look at your
face, all of which was to tell you that as far as they were
concerned you were not there. And like a child begging to
be noticed, she'd invariably caught herself talking in a rather
exuberant way, a way which she hated and which was
against the very grain of her nature. She hated herself for it
afterwards, and had to hold herself very tight to prevent
her exploding and attacking those who with their uncaring
attitude were reducing her to the level of a child begging for
attention. She knew that her friend Sonia must have been
standing there, and the other mothers must have noticed
Gwendolen, but they would rather die than ask politely, Ts
this your daughter?' They could see that Gwendolen was her
mother's picture, down to the bow legs. It would not be

60
proper for other mothers to ask a human question like that;
it would be might make Sonia Brillianton think
interfering, it

that they actually cared for her. They could not even afford
the pretence. Even some time ago when Sonia used to go out
of her way to say a breezy 'Go marning all', they used to
. . .

ask her what she meant. Sonia had become wise now. She
did not talk to them and they did not talk to her.
Anyhow, Gladys cared. She had to. Sonia did not give her
any choice. Sonia had talked about this daughter of hers for
so long, that Gladys Odowis knew what to expect. Even the
night on which she was so desperate and did not know where
to turn, the night on which her husband Tunde had knocked
her about almost unconscious and had called in the police
claiming that she was mad, and she stared not believing what
she was hearing when it looked as if the police were going
to believe Tunde and not her cries, she had run out of the
house. She took her two frightened children with her. The
only friend who believed her was Sonia Brillianton. Tunde
had beaten her so much that she was incoherent even to
herself. Her face was swollen in places and her hair stood out
in spikes like the back of a hedgehog. Gladys Odowis knew
that Sonia could not understand her BBC Nigerian English
at the best of times, to say nothing of when she was tired and
incoherent, yet Sonia could feel what she was feeling. Sonia
hid her and her children from her husband for three days.
Her husband Tunde did not dream of looking for his well-
educated wife and their two children at the house of their
'Illiterate West Indian minder and her equally bungling
daily
husband'. But Sonia calmed her and her children for three
days, before she could go to her doctor to report that she was
not mad, that her husband Tunde only wanted her to be
locked up, to teach her sense. Sonia was with her all the way,
pushing the children up and down Crouch Hill, and all the
time she was saying, 'If June-June here, she for help with
the pikneys .When June-June come Ah go a work
. . . . .

61
When June-June come, life easy for me, you know, Mrs
Odowis.'
Gladys smiled at her Jamaican friend. She had never had

a sister in her native land in Nigeria, but Sonia Brillianton

was the nearest sister she had. Gladys was grateful and valued
this friendship that did not ask her to be anything else but
herself.
'She's Mrs Odowis,' said Ronald, dancing around the two
mums enjoying this feeling of importance.
When the school gate opened and they took the children
into their classrooms, Gwendolen was struck by all the colour-
ful teaching aids. There were pictures on the walls; there
were paper and paper aeroplanes hanging from the
kites
ceiling; there were piles of books in low shelves and there
were low chairs with wide tops. It was fascinating. Gwendolen
had never imagined any place like this before. It looked as if
all these colourful things were piled here just for children to

play. She did not know what to expect in a classroom, but

definitely not this that looked like a carnival room. Granny
Naomi had told her that she would eventually go to school
in England; she was not looking forward to it, not after seeing
the village school in Granville and after Miss Peters. But this
classroom looked warm and inviting, a welcome contrast to
the greyness outside. She would not mind coming here to
study for a few days.
She was still staring about her and touching things when
her mother and Mrs Odowis who had been hanging up the
children's coats called her. They had to go and leave the
younger kids at school.
'You like the classroom?' Gladys asked kindly.
Gwendolen smiled and nodded shyly.
This is a junior school. You'll go to a bigger one for girls
of your age.'
Again Gwendolen nodded. In the last couple of days, she
had had to listen to English spoken in so many different ways.

62
Mrs Odowis used words differently. The good thing was that
her voice was slower but it was none the less different.
The two women were walking very fast, and Gwendolen
was bringing up the rear. She could hear everything they
were saying, but she concentrated on the pavements, the cars
rolling down the hill and the grey sky.
'You're really lucky now, Sonia. Girls raised at home are
very useful, you know.'
'Yeah, man. Me know. Dat's why she come. Ah fit go
morning job and she look after the kids for me, you know.
She fit look after dem, you know,' Sonia added with an
energetic nod.
Mrs Odowis looked at her friend rather curiously. Did Sonia
send for her daughter just because she would help her in the
house? Knowing Sonia, Gladys suspected that she wanted to
raise her daughter herself as well. 'She will have to go to school,
won't she? It's illegal here to keep girls at home, you know.'
Her voice was not quite able to mask her curiosity. She knew
also that she had to be careful not to sound patronizing. She too
wished she'd had a daughter who could stay with her younger
ones in the evenings so that she could pursue her course in
Community Studies. But the girl must go to school. Not that
her own long years at school had done much for her, but at
least she could communicate, and she could enjoy a good book.
She would not like her friend to deny her daughter that.
Sonia sighed, showing her boredom on the subject. 'Me no
know. Maybe after Christmas. She no like school, anyhow.'
'Mammy, me no like school.' Gwendolen felt that loyalty
was called for here. She'd also forgotten to say 'Mum' as
Ronald and Marcus taught her in the morning.
'School is nice here. No cane, lots of fun. I am sure you'll
come and tell us all the things you've learned. You'll see.'
They crossed the busy road and proceeded into a narrow
one in which nearly all the houses had growing shrubs in
front. They were not flowering, but had autumn leaves with

63
some already browning, readying themselves for the winter
that was to follow. Sonia and her friend pushed their buggies
with their babies in them and talked as if the cold that pickled
the top of Gwendolen's ears and the tip of her nose did
not matter. Maybe it did not matter to them, she thought.
However, she pulled down the knitted hat her Granny gave
her with so much careless determination that she almost
covered her eyes. But she still felt the chill.
They cornered into another street with shops. The front of
the shops had no shrubs but plenty of foodstuff displayed on
tables placed on the pavements. Gwendolen saw men who
looked like Indians she used to see at home in Jamaica,
putting out plantains and yams, okra and sweet potatoes,
some vegetables she was quite familiar with.
'Your mother will miss her,' Mrs Odowis persisted. Some-
how it looked to Sonia as if Gladys was keen to puncture her
new smugness. She did not understand why Gladys should
continue to question her thisway. One would have thought
that she'd hidden the fact of Gwendolen's arrival from her.
But she knew all about it. Or did Gladys think that she and
Winston were so stupid they would not be able to carry
through their plan of bringing Gwendolen into England? She
had no way of knowing. And she knew how wrong suspicion
was. Anyhow, they were friends. And friends who did not
forgive each other, would not remain friends for long. They
needed each other.
None the less, she sighed and replied, 'Yeah, me know. But
what to do. We come here, come work, no work at home.
To work for a few days in the harbour way back home,
Winston had to live in Kingston and me on the hill in
Granville. Life 'ard, me tell you. Ah feel for me Mammy some
time, but what to do.'
T know,' Gladys Odowis said, smiling apologetically. Tf
things had been different, I would have gone back home too.
But, well, here am I in this terribly cold place, pushing my

64
babies like a crazy woman pushing junk furniture. Hm. There
is work in Nigeria you know, but too many family pressures;
I mean my husband's people, they're bound to make trouble.
They would gladly interfere in my upbringing of the
children . .
.'

'You mean they fit take the kids from you, that 'tupid.
Their son, not a good man at all, 'tupid man. Ah no like that
man, you know.'
Both women laughed, clutching at their buggies for support.
'Men like that should be sent to prison, Ah tell you.'
won't see all that beating and harassment.
'Well, his people
They'll say he's your husband, stay with him. And in our
culture, it's bad to talk about the beatings you receive from
your husband outside the family. Many people think a wife
who is beaten deserves to be beaten. And you know that I
talked to social workers and the police. All that had stamped
me as a bad woman.'
'It's like that back 'ome, you know. But me, if Winston

mess up with me, Ah do exactly what you did. Pack and go.
See your kids nuh, dem look happy and cheeky, just like
other kids. Before, them too quiet. But if Winston come nasty
to me Ah show him . .
.'

'Shush . . . Sonia, your daughter is here. She's too young

to understand. We don't want to scare the next generation,
do we?'
Sonia looked furtively at Gwendolen who was trying very
hard to follow their and to keep her ears warm. Her nose
drift

was running shamelessly now. She sniffed and placed the

palms of her hands over her ears. As far as she was concerned,
the women could rattle on as long as they liked, she'd stopped
trying to make out what they were talking about, Mrs Odowis
in a kind of voice she'd never heard before, her mother in a
new kind of Granville tone. There was too much to take in
in such a short time. She wanted to see and hear everything,
yet she wanted her new nice warm bed, with fluffy blankets.

65
 'What next generation, Ah no understand. You mean
June-June?'
In reply Mrs Odowis laughed. 'Oh Sonia.'
They walked towards one of the tables groaning with ethnic
foodstuffs of so many bright colours.
'Must buy some plantains. Did your daughter bring any
from home?'
'No . . . she too small to carry food. Me get small honey
though. You honey?' like
'You know honey and milk are things I never really like. I
coughed a lot as a child. And they always asked me to take
Nigerian honey, you know, the real thing. So I always regard
honey as medicine. I force myself to drink milk when I'm
pregnant. No, thank you.'
'Well, neber mind. Sometimes our food cheaper here, you
know.'
Gladys laughed. 'That is true. Foods imported from Nigeria
are sometimes cheaper and better here. Our people send their
best outside the country to make money.'
'Ah know, the nigger race 'tupid.'

'It is not the ordinary people. It is the politicians who are

to be blamed. They are so greedy, they make us all economic
refugees.'
Sonia stared. And Gwendolen who at that instant had
removed her hands from her ears gaped.
'God died for the truth, Mrs Odowis. You sometimes so
clever with them big big words you know. But me go nuh.
Come on, June-June.'
Gwendolen panted beside Sonia who was walking very fast
to get home and warm herself and the girls.

Mammy?'
'She your friend,
'Huh-huh, we good friends. She Nigerian, you know. But
she a nice 'oman. We good friends.'

66
 5

School

Gwendolen would never forget her first day at school in

England. Hers was a different school from Ronald and Mar-
cus's, because she was twelve. She was to go to a secondary
school and the boys were still in a junior. 'Secondary and

Junior'were words Ronald and Marcus seemed to know very

much seemed to talk of nothing else. It was,
about. They
however, decided that her father and not Sonia should go
with her.
She felt conspicuous in her new wine-coloured gaberdine
skirt, cream blouse, wine-coloured tie, vee-neck jumper and
brown shoes. These new things really thrilled her. Her parents
had been awfully nice to her, buying her all these things.
Still, she worked hard at home though, cooking and helping

her Mum look after the little ones, whom she minded during
the day. All these things were giving her a sense of being
really needed, a new kind of importance.
Despite all that work, life was slightly easier than the one
she had in Granville. She could never put a price on having
her Daddy and Mum, and her brothers and Cheryl around
her. She'd now become used to the sounds of the breakfast
rush, the quick baths, and the between Marcus and
fights
Ronald. They were new sounds Once in a while
of security.
her thoughts went to her Granny Naomi and her childhood
playmates, Shivorn and Cocoa. Would she ever see them
again? She wished Shivorn could see her in her new school
uniform or the new grey dress Mum made for her at Christ-
mas. When Mrs Odowis advised her Mum to buy the material,
Mum was at first not interested. She said it was too dull for
67
June-June. And Mrs Odowis said that bright colours look
cheap in England. She said her Mum
could wear what she
liked, but June-June was going to grow here in England, so
she should start wearing dull colours like white girls of her

age. But when her Mammy made it into a pretty dress with
white collar and white braid trimmings, it was beautiful. She
now wished Shivorn and Cocoa would come and see her
family all dressed up on their way to church on Christmas
morning.
Her Daddy was in a navy blue suit; the jacket had shrunk
a little, because Daddy kept getting bigger as her Mum had
said, but his white shirt sparkled, and Mum put a flower they
called a carnation in his button-hole. Ronald and Marcus had
new suits too, suits which Mum had bought from a big shop
in Holloway Road. And her Mum made her own dress and
Cheryl's too. Oh, they looked so smart and she felt so proud.
And now she was beginning to see how hard they had to
work for all the good things they now had. They had so much
that Uncle Johnny with his smart jaunty clothes would have
been green.
The only confusing thing about church-going here was that
she had no idea what it was about. She knew her parents
were none the wiser. They stood up when others stood up
and sat down when they did. They always sat at the back
because when it became too boring, Cheryl would start her
screaming, and all eyes would turn and look at them. Those
stares made her feel she and her family were doing something
wrong, but she did not know what. She was not surprised
her family did not go to church every Sunday, definitely not
as frequently as she and Granny Naomi used to in Granville.
After the church service the Preacher stood at the door, and
shook their hands and smiled only with his mouth, whilst
the rest of his face remained rigid. The only good thing in
going to church here was in the dressing-up. The rest was
just too cold. But on Christmas morning, Ronald and Marcus

68
showed off because they knew some of the songs. She knew
Christmas songs too and she liked to sing, but with all these
white people around peeping at them from behind their
hymn books, singing to the Lord would be inappropriate.
For the moment, school meant putting on these nice new
clothes. She did not wish to think of what would happen
when she got to school. They said it was illegal for a child not
to go to school here. Her parents would be in trouble if they
arranged for her to go for lessons with Mrs Odowis. Mrs
Odowis said June-June needed friends of her own age any-
how. Gwendolen did not mind either way, but from the way
people looked at her family in the church, the way nobody
talked to anybody at the laundry, she feared the white chil-
dren. She missed friends like Shivorn, and she was beginning
to miss thebackyard where they gossiped and laughed at the
adults. Maybe she would get friends like Shivorn and Cocoa
at school. But would these white girls make fun of the way

she spoke? Would they like her? Anyhow the school uniform
was always keep it even if she did not like the
nice, she could
school. Could they force her to go to school if she refused?
she wondered.
Her father asked people where the school was. To get to
her classroom, they had to go through a shabby building
with rubbish spilling from the dustbin. Her Daddy had had
everything written out for him on paper. And when he
showed this paper to a man who was rushing across the
school compound and was very impatient, he directed them
to a classroom and dashed off on his own business.
They eventually entered into this classroom full of girls of
her age. The teacher was calling out names from the register
when they came in. On seeing them, she stopped and asked,
smiling that kind of smile the church Preacher had, that kind
of smile that stretched the corners of the mouth but the eyes
remained cold like those of a fish and Gwendolen's heart
started to beat very fast, 'What can I do for you?'

69
 'Did . . . diddd . . . June-June,' Winston Brillianton stam-
mered.
The teacher's eyes swept from her table and rested on
Winston, a six-foot-three black man, with a body that mainly
consisted ofbone and muscle, yet somehow ungainly. With
close-cropped hair, a tight Sunday suit, white shirt and a

black bow tie. Her eyes shifted and rested on Gwendolen

for a while. Gwendolen felt like melting and completely
disappearing from the scene, because she knew her Daddy
could not speak the teacher's type of English properly.
Coupled with this was the fact that Daddy was a natural
stammerer. The stammer got worse when he was nervous.
This was what happened when the teacher asked her name.
Then the teacher directed the question to her. She was not
sure whether to say 'June-June', her pet name, or, as her
mother said, 'Grandalee', her official name, but she knew
that neither sounded anything like that version used by the
air hostess on the plane that brought her from Jamaica over
eight weeks ago.
'You are the new girl?' the teacher asked, her voice losing
its former oily smoothness and Gwendolen knew that she
was becoming impatient.
'Da da . t's so,' Winston
. . . . . said and Gwendolen nodded
rather exaggeratedly.
'Now let me see, you must be Gwendolen Brillianton.'
Gwendolen nodded again, this time with her warm sweet
smile. A smile that embraced them all. The relief that Gwen-
dolen felt was so unashamedly perceptible that the teacher
felt as if she was being invited into the privacy of this little

girl's world. A world in which Gwendolen was beginning to

doubt the sense of parents giving their little girls names they
could not pronounce. One thing she was determined to do
on her first day was to learn how to pronounce her name
right. This teacher, being white, she felt would definitely get
it right. The air hostess did get it right, but that was months

70
ago and she could not remember exactly how the letters were
formed. But here in this class, she knew she was going to
have opportunities to pronounce her name correctly. Like
most people who are used to handling and moulding the
young, the teacher seemed to be reading the workings in
Gwendolen's mind and then she smiled. This time her eyes
smiled too, because somehow she felt privileged.
'Your name is Gwendolen, Gwendolen Brillianton,' the
teacher said slowly.
The briskness soon returned to her voice when she called,
'Amanda, please show Gwendolen where to hang her coat
and bring her back to her seat. Don't take all morning about
it, Amanda.'

A very pretty black girl got up shyly, came forward and

said, 'Come on, Gwendolen.'
Gwendolen followed Amanda to the cloakroom, mouthing
her name slowly, 'Gwendolen. Gwen - do - len.' Amanda
showed her where to hang her coat. She smiled at her but
did not utter a single word, much to Gwendolen's relief.
She would not know how to reply properly. She knew she
no longer spoke the full village English, because Ronald
and Marcus had stopped mimicking her. None the less she
had to concentrate on her name and how to pronounce it
correctly.
Back in the classroom, the teacher asked if anyone would
volunteer to look after Gwendolen for a week so as to show
her the routine, because she was new and had never been to
school in this country.
To Gwendolen's surprise, many hands shot up, including
that ofAmanda. At this gesture, the teacher gave Gwendolen
and her Daddy a smile of reassurance. This confused Gwen-
dolen for a while. Granny Naomi had said that most people
with pale skin colour thought they had two heads instead of
one. So Gwendolen had come to be wary of them. Her
experience of Granny Elinor and her family buttressed this

71
belief. Since she came to England, she had noticed that many
white people did not actually insult her parents, but they
treated them as if they were not there. And whenever her
mother tried to communicate with any of them, they made
her repeat herself several times. Consequently, she clamped
her lips whenever they were outside their flat. Her mother,
however, did not mind the whites' indifference. She was used
to it. Gwendolen was still learning. But in this classroom, it
looked as if things were going to be different. The girls really
took notice of her, they listened to what the teacher was
saying about her. Mrs Odowis had said that she would soon
make friends of her own age. She could not imagine herself
having a white girl as a friend. But it was beginning to look
as if this would be possible.
T am glad to see so many volunteers. Amanda, since
you've started taking Gwendolen around, you might as well
continue for the rest of the day. Then tomorrow it will be
Roberta's turn and the rest of you can have Gwendolen
one day at a time. That way Amanda would not monopolize
her!'
The girls cheered and Amanda smiled. Then showing off
she called, 'Come and sit here,come on, Gwen.'
Gwen, Gwen? Was that her name too? Gwen?
Luckily Amanda shouted this invitation with loud gesticu-
lation, so that Gwendolen knew that her name was 'Gwen'
too.
As soon as all this was settled, the Mr
teacher smiled at
Brillianton, who still stood there, hat in hand, his bow tie
showing on top of his dark topcoat. Gwendolen knew that
her Daddy looked smart, for she had polished those shiny
shoes herself last evening.
be all right. Your house is not far from here.' Then
'She'll
she looked in Gwendolen's direction and said, 'You know
your way back from school, don't you?'
Gwendolen stared. She could not understand her teacher,

72
not when she talked so fast. The situation was more compli-
cated now because the teacher had put her glasses back on
and though she looked in Gwendolen's direction, the girl was
not quite sure who was being addressed. The teacher repeated
herself and added, 'Gwen, I'm talking to you.'
Yes, Gwen, Gwen, she's Gwen too, Gwendolen thought
quickly. But Amanda gave her a not so gentle nudge.
Gwendolen shot up. 'Yes, Miss.' Good thing Ronald had
taught her to say, 'Yes, Miss, no, Miss,' and not 'Yes, Marm'
or 'Mammy'.
'Can you get home by yourself?' the Miss asked with that
exaggerated slowness of tone one used for the very stupid
and simple. Her patience was spent.
Having settled all this, Winston bowed to the teacher,
behaving gentlemanly the only way he knew how. He be-
longed to that race who believed that all teachers were
committed and should be treated with the respect they de-
served. It would never occur to Winston and Sonia to question
a teacher, and a secondary school teacher for that matter. He
felt sure he had left his daughter in capable hands. He felt

sure they had done the right thing, bringing Gwendolen to

Britain. He gave his daughter a last smile of reassurance and
encouragement, and then left the classroom.
Gwendolen followed Amanda from classroom to classroom
like her shadow. There was a lot to take in and learn that
first day. But how she enjoyed the physical education and

games. She had been cooped up in their two-bedroom flat

on the top of a terrace house for so long that the large open
hall and all the gym equipment were welcome. She did not
realize how much she needed this freedom, freedom she had
in Granville when running up to the bee hill in the morning,
or when calling over the fence in the backyard to Cocoa and
Shivorn to see a hen that had just laid an egg. Or to gossip
and laugh over Granny Naomi's latest grumble. Here, people
did not talk to her much, not even Amanda. Somehow

73
Amanda was shy when there were only
two of them, but
maybe people and since she could not under-
did talk to her,
stand most of what they were saying, she abandoned herself
to enjoying the physical freedom of the exercises provided.
At mealtime, there was a minor problem. Amanda wanted
to know whether she was free dinner, packed lunch, or
money dinner. Gwendolen had no money and no packed
lunch. Amanda, who was hungry and hated cold dinner, was
now exasperated. Gwendolen had no idea what she was
asking her about. A senior girl who wanted to know why the
two girls were holding up the queue, came to the rescue. The
big girl told the dinner ladies to give lunch to Gwendolen and
promised to see that the paper work would be solved the next
day.
'Suppose she is not a free dinner?' one cheeky first year
asked of her senior. The big girl looked at the tiny girl and
replied without malice, 'Most of them are.'
Happily the innuendoes were all wasted on Gwendolen.

The was a wicked irony because Winston Brillianton

situation
normally came home with good wages and Sonia made a lot
from her daily minding and the parents would have been
delighted to pay for their daughter's meals, but one look at
Gwendolen, her inability to understand London English and
Winston's stammer, and they were automatically regarded as
ignorant poor. Mr and Mrs Brillianton, who were never
given to complaining, accepted whatever the teacher said.
Gwendolen became free dinner because she looked like some-
one who would be on free dinner. What nobody realized was
the price her dignity as a person was paying. Those who
made society's laws are still a long way from knowing that
Gwendolen's inability to speak or understand one brand of
the English language did not automatically condemn her to
be an imbecile. But to keep a school like hers running
smoothly and with less friction for all concerned, it was easier
for her to be regarded as one. All the same, Gwendolen

74
enjoyed her shepherd's pie, followed by rice pudding with
jam.
The last period of the day was reserved for singing. This
was because the school's Open Day was not too far away. For
Gwendolen, this was a bonus. For on her first day at school,
she had physical education, dinner, and singing. The class
had other subjects like combined maths and literature, but
all those went through Gwendolen. It was difficult enough

to follow the teachers' voices, to say nothing of what they

were talking about. Her class teacher Miss Rawbottom called
her when she was following Amanda into the music room
where the girls practised all the anthems they were going to
sing on Open Day.
'Gwendolen, Gwendolen Brillianton!'
Amanda turned and said to Gwendolen, The Miss is calling
you. Why don't you ever answer to your name? Anyone
would think you didn't know what your name was.'
The teacher gestured her to come. Gwendolen followed
her teacher back into their own classroom.
'These are your work-books. The textbooks are in short
supply at the moment, but take these home. I know you'll
keep them clean,' she added encouragingly.
'But why don't you talk to us, though?' Miss Rawbottom
asked after a while. She had expected Gwendolen to say,
'Thank you, Miss.' Gwendolen wanted to thank her, but
somehow her words of thanks got stuck in her throat. Any-
how, she smiled, getting used to the teacher's voice gradually.
'You understand English though?'
'Yes, Miss, Ah do.'Her voice was Caribbean, the teacher
noticed. So that probably was it. And she was undoubtedly
sensitive about it. Well, most girls tended to be self-conscious
on their first days in a new school. All that would change

with time.
'I've put your name on one or two of your work-books.
When you get home, write your name on the others, OK?'

75
 She turned away from Gwendolen and looked at the win-
dow. 'Gosh, what a day! Have you ever seen snow in Jamaica,
Gwendolen?'
Gwendolen was too dumbfounded to answer. She followed
her teacher's gaze and saw what looked like white feathers
falling daintily in the school compound. She'd seen snow on
the Christmas cards her mother had bought and used in
decorating their flat. She'd also heard Mrs Odowis say, 'This
winter is mild. With luck we may not have snow.'
'Dat snow?' Gwendolen gasped eventually after watching
mesmerized for a few minutes.
'Yes, Gwen. This is your first snow?'
'Yes, Miss.'
'When it settles, it is beautiful. You must have seen snow
on cards before.'
'Yes, Miss, and on television!'
'Good, now here it is. This one may not settle. Run along
now to the hall at the end of the passageand join the others.
You like singing? Girls like you usually have good strong
voices.'
Gwendolen thought, what a nice compliment and smiled.
The Miss watched her put the new books carefully into the
new plastic case her Daddy had bought her for Christmas,
'for take to school', he had said. Though made of plastic and

coated in black, it looked very expensive, and Gwendolen

was proud of it. She'd seen many girls in her year carrying
identical cases, during the day.
Gwendolen was too scared to enter the hall. All the girls

of her year were there, not just her class. Some giggled as
they saw her standing by the door, uncertain. The music
teacher glared at the girls and waved Gwendolen inside as if

she was a piece of music. Gwendolen kept her eyes on the

music sheet even though she did not know the tune. She
could only recognize a few words on the sheet anyhow. She
found the melodious tunes unintelligible, just like some of

76
the songs in their cold church. But when it came to one or
two rhythmical ones with catchy words, she found herself
singing with the others.

Miss Rawbottom was wrong. The snow was falling thickly.

The school compound that was grey in the morning, was
now covered in white. Her heart started to beat very fast.
Amanda had disappeared, because Gwendolen had indicated
in the morning that she could find her way home. But then
nobody had told her the landscape would change so suddenly.
She knew she would have to find her way, because many of
the girls seemed to be infused with excitement on seeing the
snow. She watched, alarmed and fascinated, as some slid and
danced on the snow. Others rushed into the compound, made
snowballs and threw them at their friends. There were shrieks
of laughter as some girls fell, got up and chased their friends.
They seemed to enjoy falling. It was a kind of game.
The thought of joining them did not enter Gwendolen's
head. What she was thinking was: How Ah fit get home
today! She tentatively put one foot into the now dirtied snow
and started to walk carefully. It was slippery. She spread her
arms wide like a bird spreading her wings to balance herself,
because there was nothing to hold on to. She did not fall, but
then she had not learned how to avoid the areas where the
snow was thicker. In no time, her socks were wet and the
water soaked into her shoes. Tomorrow, Ah wear me boots,'
she told herself mentally.
People and cars were moving as if nothing was happening.
She scooped some snow into her hands out of curiosity and
because she was breathless. She squashed it and it melted
into water like sugar ice she'd licked at home in Jamaica. She
looked this way and that and, when she knew no one was
watching, she tasted it. It was just water. It had no taste.
God died for the truth as her Mammy would say. This was
experience. She now wished Shivorn was there to see all this.

77
She remembered the promise she made that she would write.
But she still needed to know how to write letters. This was
only her first day at school. When she knew how to write,
she would tell them all about this cold, snowy experience.
Her mind conjured up the image of Uncle Johnny reading
her letter to Granny Naomi by the hurricane lamp whilst
Shivorn and Cocoa envied. Her mind was in Jamaica and she
momentarily forgot that her body was in the snowy slope of
Tregaron Avenue, and she slipped and fell. She fell hard on
the snow. Nobody asked if she was all right. People just
looked away. They did not even laugh or mock. They just
turned their faces the other way.
She picked herself up. Her coat was now wet, and the cold
that was biting her fingers seemed determined to meet the
one that was creeping into her body from her near-frozen
feet. She suppressed a sob. For the first time since she'd

arrived in England, she longed for Jamaica.

She walked more carefully after that, putting her thoughts
into every step as she squelched through the muddy snow.
But as she turned into her street, her heart was elated, because
the snow here was still very white and untrodden and she
thought it would be easier. One big stride sent her rolling
into the muddy bits at the bottom of her street. Their house
was on a slide, and she kept sliding back each time she
tried to go forward. In desperation she called out, 'Mammy,
Mammy!' in her emotional Jamaican voice. She could not
help being natural.
Her mother was too far away to hear her call. But a man
who was returning from work, and whom she'd seen a couple
of times in their street, saw her.
He crossed the street in a few huge strides and said, 'All
right, just hold my hand.'
The man led her to her door.
'Thank you,' Gwendolen said breathing hard. 'This my first
snow,' she volunteered, trying to copy her teacher's voice.

78
 The man smiled. 'Your first day at school as well?'
'Yeah/ replied Gwendolen wondering how he knew.
'Oh, oh, was it nice? Are you going to like school?'
'Yeah, but Ah don' like dis snow.'
'Never mind, you'll soon get used to it. It's beautiful when
it's settle though.'
'Everybody kept saying that to me. "It's beautiful when
it's settle." Well it had settled in her street and all that
'

its beauty did to her was to send her reeling backwards down

the slope. She would have to look at it again on a Christmas

card,maybe then its beauty would become more real to her.
But she would never forget that snow could be beautiful
to look at, yet it could make you break your neck in a
fall.

Inside her doorway, she turnedand looked at the houses

opposite. Yes they were very beautiful. Even the bare trees
were all clothed in white and glistering. But the cold was
eating into her body. She rang the bell firmly.
Ronald opened the door. One look at her tear-stained
face and he howled in laughter. 'Oh, you cry in the snow!
Cry-baby, June-June cry in the snow . .
.'

'No, Ah did not! And my name not June-June. My name

isGwendolen, or Gwen. Don't call me no June-June no
more.' Gwendolen wagged her forefinger in Ronald's face.
She used her other free hand to wipe her face furiously. She
was not going to let her family know that she had cried when
she fell, and definitely not Ronald and Marcus.
'You hear, my name Gwendolen or Gwen nuh! An' the
snow is beauthiful when it done settle.'
Ronald watched his sister open-mouthed. You would have
thought she was making all this emphasis about herself and
not the snow. You would have thought she was saying, 'I'll
be beautiful when I'm settled.'

'You're not going to close dat door and come in? Or you
just standing dere, staring at me?'

79
 'I did not know your name is Gwen. I have a girl called

Gwen in my class, but nobody called her June-June. Why

didn't Mummy and Daddy tell us your name?'
'Because them no fit say it right.'

Ronald was now more than confused.

80
 6

Education

Gwendolen was adjusting so well thatone could hardly

believe that only six months previously she was living
with Granny Naomi in Granville. She'd grown more con-
fident, taller and slightly rounder. Though she still suf-
fered from bouts of cold, yet she looked healthier. The
weather was getting milder and she noticed the unfolding
of the early spring tulips in front gardens and window-
boxes.
She enjoyed leaving home for school, at least to escape
the housework. The glamour of being indispensable to her
mother was slightly wearing thin. The work she had to do in
England was very different from that she was expected to
cope with in Jamaica. But in Jamaica, though there was a
law that said she should be at school, nobody forced Granny
Naomi into keeping it. Here, her parents had to respect that
law and she was expected to keep up with schoolwork as
well. As things were, there was no way she could catch up
with the rest of the class. She could not read for a start, so
she had to spend most of her time in the remedial class. The
school authorities thought that would help her, instead she
felt degraded. Her colour, which was in the minority, was

not helping her very much.

There were four other black girls in her class, one of them
of Indian origin. Apart from the Indian girl, the rest of them
were on free dinners. One of them, Ravi, went to the remedial
class with Gwendolen. About half the class were white, the
others were of Mediterranean origin. Almost all the girls from
the latter group belonged to families with businesses in the

81
 Some of the girls'
rag trade with shops around the local area.
fathers owned a bank or two, or so Amanda told her!
Amanda was black and clever, but she stuck up for her
friends many a time. She understood all that the teacher
was saying and asked so many questions that she made
Gwendolen envious at times. How did she manage to get so
much from all that the teacher was saying? Gwendolen
listened carefully, but she was always lost. However, she
helped Amanda with her needlework, which she was good
at. Gwendolen was not perfect at sewing but making blouses,
dressesand little trousers were things her mother Sonia did
whenever she had the time. So, she was quite used to the
sewing machine. Unfortunately the subjects she was good at
- needlework, cookery, sports and singing - were not re-
garded as academic. As for the likes of mathematics, science,
history, she simply slept through them. She would have liked
to learn how to read, so that she could read her stars and
stories as Amanda did. If only she had the time to study a
little, she knew Ronald would have taught her the basic
rudiments of reading. She knew she could learn more from
him than from the remedial teacher who treated her as if she
had nothing in her brain. As for homework, her mother did
not understand why girls should do any, especially when
there much work that needed doing at home.
was so
'Hi, dreamer,' shouted Philipa when she caught up

with Gwendolen on her way to school that early spring

morning.
'Hallo, Philipa,' replied Gwendolen in her new slow
English.
'Yeah, today is Friday. I like Fridays. No school tomorrow
and the day after so I can sleep late, watch all the programmes
I like on the television and do my homework on Sunday

night. Ha, ha, ha.'

'Don't you help your Mum at home?' Gwendolen asked.
'Help my mother? Well, I do sometimes, but she prefers to

82
do most of the housework herself, because she said I'm too
slow. I don't like housework. My Mum knows that.'
'But you are a girl,' Gwendolen protested with heat.
'So?'
'What do you do then?'
'What a silly question. Well, since you asked, I'll tell you.
I lay the table sometimes and occasionally I help in washing
up. Satisfied?'
Gwendolen's mind went through all the little chores she
had to do in the morning before coming to school. 'I mean,
what do you do before coming to school?'
'What can one do in the morning for Jupiter's sake? I have
to eat my egg and cornflakes and get ready for school. What
else can one do in the morning? What do you do in the
morning then, clever Dick?'
'Well, I make the beds, wash my brothers, cook our por-
ridge, sweep out the front room for the babies . .
.'

'Eh, just wait a minute. What does your Mum do then?

It's not your fault she has so many babies.'

'They not her babies, you know. She minds other people's.'
'Oh, I see, your mum is a child-minder. Then she should
not take the job if she couldn't do it. After all, you're on free
dinner, so she pays nothing for you. It must be really awful
to do all that work and be on free dinner. I'd die Hallo,
. . .

Allison . . . Allison, wait a minute.'

Philipa ran to another girl from their class. Gwendolen
walked slowly into the classroom wondering why some
mothers allowed their daughters to do little or no housework.
They could not be right because even in Jamaica girls did
a lot of work at home. Some of these white girls were
spoilt silly, she thought viciously. She must tell her Mum
about it.

She did not ask Sonia that very day but on the following
Saturday. Even though they did not take in babies on Satur-
days, yet they were equally busy. Gwendolen had to take

83
the washing to the launderette, whilst her mother did the
weekend shopping.
'Mum, me happy here, so much work fe do though.'
'Yeah, me know,' Sonia said laughing. 'You have to thank
me nuh, you speak with so much education.' She laughed
again.
'Them say me have to do more studies at home, otherwise
me stay for ever in the remedial class. And me feel shame,
Mum.'
'What you talking 'bout? What's bad with remedal class?
That na special class, to help you learn quick quick. Hear me

nuh, just hear me. You stay all day at dat school doing nutting,
and when you come home, you have to help. You understand
me? Dat's why me send fe you to come, not just for
education!'
Gwendolen wanted to ask her mother why it was necessary
forher to do all the extra jobs she was undertaking but
kept quiet for a while. She thought of asking about it in a
roundabout way.
'Mum, don't Daddy bring enough money for all of
we?'
'Course 'im does, gal, but we come fe make money here,
you know. What point coming all the way from home to sit
around on your backside, eh, gal?'
Her mother, like Granny Naomi, had a subtle way of
making her sound silly. Now she felt awfully stupid. Making
money was good, but her mother was always dashing about.
The only time she was still was when she was lying down in
bed ready to go to sleep. Gwendolen thought that before long
her baby sister Cheryl would have a younger brother or sister.
She had believed everybody lived like that until Ravi, Amanda
and Philipa started talking to her.
Maybe all those people Amanda talked about were rich,
but what of Mrs Odowis? She too had three children and was
expecting her fourth. But they lived in a big flat. The boy Ozi

84
had his own room and the little girl had hers and there was
another room which they kept for visitors. She was not even
living with her husband, yet somehow she seemed happier
and more relaxed than her mother. Why was it her parents
could not have accommodation like that?
'Some black people buy dem own houses up the road, don't
they, Daddy?' Gwendolen asked her father one Saturday
afternoon, when she knew her mother was not there to shush
her.
'Yeah . . . me . friend Mr Ilochina, him don buy 'im
. . me
own house. Dem dem have money, you know.'
. . .

'Be nice to have a house of we own,' Gwendolen said

wistfully.
Her father laughed. He stammered and that made him
lower his voicewhen he talked. But when he laughed, it was
different. He usually threw his head back and opened his
mouth to the ceiling and gave out a humorous bay and then
slapped one of his legs. Sonia, when around, often joined
him in this loud humour.
'Look, look look the 11 11 gal me paid fe bring from
. . . . . .

Jamaica the other day. You wan' make Ah buy a 'ouse, huh?
Nice nice. But 'ouses cost
. . . cost money. Plenty money.' . . .

He rubbed his two thumbs together to emphasize how ex-

pensive houses could be.
'Well, Daddy, can't we have one like Mrs Odowis? It's nice
and she don't have much money.'
'Ah, da dat's council flat. Her 'usband nasty to her, so
. . .

dem gobermint give she a new 'ouse.'

Gwendolen stared, uncomprehending.
'You you wan' make your Mammy
. . . part with me be
. . . cause of a 'ouse?' Winston asked humorously.
'No, Daddy, me just ask.'
Winston narrowed his eyes and studied his daughter more.
She was growing into a pretty young woman. She had a
smoother skin than Sonia. She had the alluring hesitant

85
attitude of the disciplined young, still unsure of her steps and
frightened making of mistakes. Then it struck him.
Gwendolen was going be a beautiful and stimulating
to
woman. But when grow up? It was only like
exactly did she
yesterday that he was kissing a little girl with bare legs
goodbye at the harbour in Kingston. And the next thing he
knew was this young woman coming to live with them. And
she was already having big ideas. Sonia was different. As long
as he gave her his pay packet, she felt happy. What she never
guessed was that he always kept a little for himself, just to
buy that extra lunch he needed when he was tired of his
wife's soup and bread roll lunch. In their private life, she
accepted him without a murmur. The only thing that hap-
pened to alter the monotony of their life was the arrival of
babies. On the whole, they considered themselves really
lucky. If they had stayed in Jamaica, he would have asked
Sonia to come and join him and the best accommodation he
could afford, on the odd jobs he was doing, would have been
one of those barrack-like shacks in a cheap shanty district. If
one was white in Jamaica, one could coast along, if one was
brown, life could still have a meaning, but if one was black
and uneducated, life was a steady downward pull to Hades.
And it would not have ended with himself, but with his
children too. Now his daughter wanted them to move up,
because unlike her parents, she saw only part of the poverty
of the Hills, she did not taste the stink and degradations of
the shanty towns. In a way, he was happy about it, because
sometimes he thought they had left the girl too long at home.
This one was going to demand more from life than his Sonia.
Gwendolen had her mother's small frame, but she tilted
her head to one side as if to get a better view of life. She had
inherited Sonia's rickety legs and, when she walked, this
tendency to tilt to one side looked like an affectation. And
she had changed so rapidly within a few months. Women
grew so fast huh?

86
 'Pay me no mind, June-June, when Ah ... Ah win the
pools, we buy big, big 'ouse.'
Winston, Gwendolen and the boys laughed loudly and
A kind of family bond was
happily at their father's joke.
growing, despite the fact that Gwendolen had only joined
them than a year ago. Father was looking at his long-lost
less
daughter with a new eye and Ronald suddenly seemed to
realize that he had a new sister. The idea of their father ever
winning the pools was to them not only remote but impossible
and as for that of buying a house, Gwendolen must have
been dreaming. Winston Brillianton lifted his thigh again and
let out one of his bays. 'Lawd God Almighty, whar rr . . . . . .

is this?'
Suddenly Sonia was there, taking in the whole scene in
one angry glance. The laughter ceased abruptly. They all felt
guilty for no reason whatsoever. She dragged in the large
plastic trolley, which was filled with food and cheap market
junk, a physical proof of the last week's hard work.
'June-June, why you sit dere laughing with your Daddy
and Ronald? Me give you work fe do, before me go to market.
You sit dere laughing with men, eh, Marm?' Anger blazed in
every word.
Sonia sat down with a bump. 'Lawd, Winston, what is dis,
huh? You encourage the gal to sit down and do nutting?'
'Me washing the window, Mammy,' Gwendolen said in a
small voice.
'Windows, windows, eh? You fe finish them Jong time ago.
Whey Cheryl, huh? Whey your baby sister, June-June?'
'Cheryl sleeping.' Gwendolen's voice was despairing.
'Look, look, Sonia, we just laugh. We we just taak and. . .

we laugh. Wharr wharr wrong with dat? Sit down,

. . .

woman.'
'Sit down, sit down! Hear me nuh, just hear me. If Ah sit

down who fe get ready your church clothes for Sundays?

Who fe clean the 'ouse and cook the dinner? If the place

87
dirty, Ah don' get no baby to mind. Ah have to clean in de
evenings too.'
'You know wharr killing you . . . you? Greed. Me give you
enough money fe . . . fe anything you wan' but you put
money fe big padner . .
.'

'Me save money fe we all. Me go a work . .

.'

To the surprise of Gwendolen and Ronald, their mother

started to blubber like a child. Sonia herself did not know
why she was crying. Winston was a nice man, but he and
she seldom laughed together, the way she caught him laugh-
ing with Gwendolen and Ronald. Winston had never laughed
like that with the boys. There was something new and she
guessed it was Gwendolen. She could not put a name to what
exactly it was that suddenly made her inadequate. But she
felt it. It was there.

She could not believe what she said. It sounded as if it was

coming from somebody else's voice. But she said it. She said,
'To think me tell Winston to let we save money for bring you
here. I hope you're grateful, gal. Ah sincerely hope so.'
Something coiled inside Gwendolen. The picture of her
Granny Naomi in her off-white dress and scarf, hinting that
she had sent Uncle Johnny away loomed in her mind's eyes.
Her young chest cried: Oh please God, don't let me be blamed
for laughing with me Daddy. She could foresee the same play
rolling on again, and she did not care very much for the
repeat. This was bound to be different. After all, this man was
her Daddy. But why did her mother give her the eye of
suspicion Granny Naomi gave her a long time ago in
Granville? She wished to bury that past, just as if it had

never happened, as if itbad dream which must be

were a
forgotten at the dawn of the day. Or like the body waste that
must be flushed out in the water closet. She so hated that
past, and hated even more the idea of being reminded of it.
Her mother was wrong. This was her Daddy and Daddies did
not hurt their daughters. Her laughter with him was innocent.

88
She knew what her mother was suspecting, because she had
grown older than her years in such matters. Pity she could
not tell her mother. It would only do more harm than good.
See what happened in Granville.
'You tired, Sonia,' Mr Brillianton said solicitously, as he
adjusted his braces and clamped his cloth cap on his head
and stumped out. Ronald, on deciding that it was better
outside, called his brother Marcus and they went out into the
small open Green nearby to play football.
When they had gone, Gwendolen thought her mother was
going to beat her, but she did not. Their parents never laid
hands on any of them. They did shout and bully Ronald and
Marcus, but they did not beat them.
When she finished the windows, she went to unpack the
shopping bag. There was the usual offal, green bananas,
black-eye beans, rice and then window net; shiny tea-cups
and saucers, plastic flowers and their containers, another
plastic table runner, more plastic flowers, these in orange and
those in blue, and more cloth remnants . . .

Oh, Mum, we don't need all these, her heart cried. There
was scarcely any space in their front room for any more
decoration. But she knew that that was where most of the
money they all worked so hard for during the week went.
Sonia liked their flat to be clean, bright and shiny.
Gwendolen became very cautious after that day. That feel-
ing of belongingwhich had engulfed her when she first came,
became slightly tarnished. Not that she ever confided in her
mother that much, nor in any other adult, but that slow trust
that she had begun to nurture towards Sonia began to waver.
She now knew that she had to tread warily.
She watched with the corner of her eye when her mother
picked baby Cheryl up, felt her nappy to know whether it
was wet, but found it to be dry. She picked up the glass mugs,
mugs which were ordinarily meant for drinking, but which
the Brillianton family used as decoration, and looked inside

89
all them one by one, but found them to be clean. She was
of
looking for a fault. Her movements were jerky, mechanical,

as if she was not thinking of what she was doing. Gwendolen

felt so hurt that she did not wish to calm her mother by

saying something nice, because she felt Sonia was going to

misjudge her like Granny Naomi and because these two
women were hurting her by not trusting her. Her mother
had not said it, had probably never entered
the thought of it

her mind until now. And Gwendolen

felt that it was a ques-

tion of time before her mother would accuse her of the same
sin Granny Naomi had blamed her for when she was a child
in Granville. Or maybe she was imagining it all. That mental
bruise she had at ten years of age had coloured her image
of her mother. After all, she was only laughing with her
Daddy.
Sonia worried that probably she was too harsh on
Gwendolen. She was not that educated but she had always
lived among other people and that native West Indian sense
had taught her so many things not found in books of psy-
chology. She knew she was wrong, but how could she apolog-
ize to her young daughter about the uneasiness 'me feel in
me bones'? It was so ridiculous, that she did not wish to give
itanother thought.
Sonia pushed it all to the back of her mind. It was all due
to the fact that she wanted Gwendolen to come to England
and help her with the housework and looking after the others.
But she did not take into account thatin doing so, Gwendolen
would become confident and free like the English girls she
saw in the streets and those she met at school. That freedom
seemed to be eroding her power over her daughter. When
she had been little, though her parents spoiled her, yet it was
always, 'Yes, Mammy, yes, Fa.' She had never challenged her
parents. She had never given them the feeling of not having
authority over her. She could understand Marcus and Ronald,
demanding their freedom early because they were boys and

90
were born here. But Gwendolen was supposed to be her ally,
and to be hers, and to be under her. She had not allowed
herself to think too far into the future of her children. All
Sonia cared for now was that they were clean, well fed and
kept healthy.
Sonia had a thing about nice clean net curtains. She had
net curtains with frills on all her doors. She had lacy ones for
her windows and some ones on her coffee table instead
frilly

of runners. She still favoured frilly petticoats under wide

organza skirts and wore beautiful hats of different colours.
And as for plastic flowers, she could never have enough of
those. If anybody asked Sonia about tomorrow, she would
quote from the Scriptures, 'Enough unto the day, man, just
enough.'
She had not failed to notice though that sometimes
Gwendolen did not jump
the housework she was asked
at
to do. And anyone had asked Sonia whether she did not
if

think she needed some time to herself, she would say, 'But
a woman's job neber finish and she growing into a big, big
'oman.'
Gwendolen mother on
started going shopping with her
Saturdays. She loved going on buses and roaming from one
market stall to the other in search of bargains. Most stall
owners in that part of the Holloway Road knew her mother.
They always spent more time in the material stalls. Her
mother fingered this one and that one, and as soon as she
saw a new net curtain design, she became almost excited.
She bought and bought. Their shopping trolley was full of
frothy white remnants. She was going to make new door nets
for their door and flounces for their bedroom. Gwendolen's
arms were full of gaberdine remnants that her mother was
going to make into shorts for everybody one day. It struck
Gwendolen that they had so much money to spend and not
to save to buy their own house like Amanda's family and the
families of her other schoolfriends. But her friends' homes

91
were bare compared with theirs. Theirs was always crowded.
'Mum, we have money.' Gwendolen had learned very early
to start a conversation by stating the obvious.
Sonia laughed. She almost laughed like Winston now. The
two of them had lived for over seven years together and
tended to behave alike, though neither realized it. They
reacted similarly to events. Her father too liked to be told
they had money.
'Why can't we move to a bigger house? There's not much
space in our present flat.' Her face now was almost level with
her mother's as she was nearly as tall. She screwed up her
face, ready to hear her mother say that she was talking
nonsense. But was surprised when Sonia said, 'Houses cost
money, but me want one of those council places. They no
cost much, but the landlord man will be in big trouble if we
ask the council to give us a house.'
'Oh, I know. The type Mrs Odowis have, council house.'
Her mind went to the four-bedroom flat their friend Mrs
Odowis and her family had. They had a kitchen, their very
own toilet and did not have to boil their hot water.
'Why the landlord man be in trouble, Mum?'
'Because him not suppose to let the flat in the first
place.'
Their bus came and with so many other shoppers they
rushed in dragging trolleys and packages. There were many
mothers with babies and buggies. Buses that plied that route
along Seven Sisters Road were wont to be noisy especially on
Saturdays.
When they came out at Finsbury Park to change into
another bus, Gwendolen gave her mother further glances to
continue the conversation, but Sonia's stiff face told her that
her patience was now exhausted. She dared not ask any more
questions. Here she envied Ronald and Marcus. They would
ask their mother unanswerable questions, they were not even
afraid of offending their parents. Gwendolen, though she

92
loved both, parents, knew somehow that she could never
reach such deep understanding with them.
The same situation was repeating itself atShe was
school.
not academic. She could never be. She'd started too But late.

she was fast mastering the language. Although English was

her mother tongue, this type of school English was different
from her emotional brand. With constant teasing from her
brothers she was beginning to get the drift. They were still
trying to teach her to read and write. She could print her
name and was beginning to recognize words, but she never
let her teacher come close enough to see her ignorance. When

asked to write she would say she had no pen, or that she had
a bad hand. Reading aloud in the remedial class used to be
hell, until she learned to shout back at the teacher. Sometimes

she would use to her teachers the new swearwords she'd

heard her friends use in the playground. She knew she could
scare them into silence. They probably put all these things into
her report, but as neither parent could understand written
English, she had nothing to fear there.
She learned a great deal during the current affairs dis-
cussion time. It was from here that she knew of overcrowding.
It was here that she learned that she was old enough to need

her privacy especially during her monthly when she would

rather just lie in bed and be alone. It was here that she learned
from Amanda and Marie that one could question one's
parents.
Marie came to school from a Home. It did not take her long
to identify with the dregs of the class like Gwendolen. The
clever ones stuck together and their circle was very tight. You
could never belong unless you were clever and had parents
who visited the school and talked intelligently to the teacher.
Gwendolen knew her parents were actually shrewd with a
lot of common sense, but did not have the posh voice to
show these attributes to the likes of her class teacher. Their
intelligence was enough to make them live and be happy in

93
their own world. But a new world which her parents did not
know was being opened to her and her brothers. She was
going to let her family share from her experience.
Gwendolen would have liked to be one of the clever ones
in her class. They were always in stream 'A' or Group One
for most subjects, but she could hardly read, to say nothing
of knowing the whole contents of a book. None the less,
school meant getting away from their two-room home, get-
ting away from cleaning other mothers' babies; away from
cooking and away from washing.
'Why don't we have a council house?' Gwendolen asked
Amanda suddenly in a harsh stage-whispery voice a few days
later during a needlework lesson.
'Because your Dad is too dumb, that's why,' came the
wicked reply.
'Lawd Almighty, Amanda, you've no right to say things like
that,' protested Gwendolen in her now diluted Jamaican voice.

'Then you have no right to ask such daft question,' Amanda

replied, her voice rising.
Tf you two don't keep quiet, you'llgo out and have your
shouting match there,' the supply teacher who was with
them during this lesson said in an equally loud voice.
The two girls looked at the teacher as if to say, 'How dare
you intervene when we talk.' She was only a supply teacher
after all. But they kept quiet so suddenly that its abruptness
made the other girls giggle.

Gwendolen told herself that when next Amanda invited

her to her house, she wouldn't go any more. Just because
Amanda's family had a three-storey house with a garden;
justbecause she had her own room with a television and a
record player. A needle pricked her finger and she shouted,
'
'Ow, now see what you have done.' There was more
laughter from the other girls. Suddenly she laughed too. It

was nobody's fault. But whose fault was it? Anyhow, I won't
pay no mind to Amanda, she's a friend.

94
 Less than a year ago, she was Jamaica where
in Granville in
she shared the same room with Granny Naomi. All her
prayers had been for her to have enough to eat and to have
enough energy to go to the farm to collect some honey
for sale until her mother Sonia sent them money. Despite
everything, she did not wish to stay there, get married and
raise babies. She dreamed that one day she would go to
England or to America like Shivorn's Aunt Monica. When
they played, Shivorn, Cocoa and herself, they all talked about
going overseas. They did not know in which direction over-
seas lay. They had no idea what they would do when they
got there. All they knew was that they wanted to live in solid
houses and not in the likes of her grandmother's shack.
Shivorn had scared the living daylight out of her when she
explained to her that Uncle Johnny's intrusion into her
privacy could make her pregnant. Because she had seen a
girl who had a baby at the age of eight! This had scared

Gwendolen the more because she'd seen one of the women

living in the trailers in labour, she was waiting for a taxi to
take her into hospital. Her screams haunted Gwendolen. It

was more frightening when they heard a few days later that
the woman and her child did not survive the ordeal. How
that incident had given her sleepless nights for days. Shivorn,
she had a way of scaring you so!
But all that happened in the time of long ago. She ought
to put all that behind her now. Now she had everything she
thought she wanted - until she visited Mrs Odowis's house,
and until Ronald started peering at her whenever she wanted
to change her clothes. Once he was so baffled and exclaimed,
'Gwen, you know you're a girl.'
'Yes, I know I am a girl!' Gwendolen retorted. 'Everybody
knows I'm a girl. You're stupid, Ronald you know that.' And
this made Marcus who was there in the room laugh so much
that he started to cough.
'Yes, choke yourself. You boys don't know nothing.'

95
 The church which they attended occasionally preached
against greed. She was greedy. Her Daddy always said her
Mum was greedy. Then she must be greedy. But having to
wait for the tenants on the ground floor before using the
toilet was no laughing matter. She'd seen Ronald doing a

water dance one day because he was waiting for one of

the landlord's innumerable guests to finish with the toilet.

Sometimes Sonia allowed Marcus to use the bucket inside

their bedroom when he could not wait any longer, because
he was young.
Her mother sent her to Mrs Odowis in the evening to give
her some left-over remnants she'd bought.
'Gwendolen!' Mrs Odowis exclaimed. 'Honestly, you shoot
up so fast and you look so pretty. Children, children!'
She spoke good English, Gwendolen thought, but with a
different kind of music in her voice. Gwendolen could not
always understand Mrs Odowis, but she was nice and looked
really educated. Her life surprisingly did not look as busy
and cluttered as her mother's. Her flat felt so spacious that
Gwendolen wondered whether it was out of choice or because
she had no money. She knew Mrs Odowis genuinely liked
her so she felt confident enough to say, 'Our place is too small
for us now I'm living there, too, and my Daddy said he does
not wish to upset the landlord. And here the backyard is

so cold, you do everything inside the rooms. It feels like a

prison.'
'Oh, I know you're overcrowded. Your parents are nice
people and they never forget that the landlord gave them
those rooms when
they had no other place to go. Do you
know that at one time they allowed me to stay with them
when I was having difficulties with my husband? Oh, your
parents are nice. But I still think they should talk to the
landlord. He will understand. And it takes a long time to get
an accommodation from the council these days.' She did not
wish to expand to the girl the main reason why she was given

96
a The phrase 'battered wife or mother' was scary enough
flat.

for grown-ups, to say nothing of a young teenager. After all

only a minority of men were insecure enough to batter their
families.
'Mrs Odowis, you don't like furniture?'
Gladys Odowis looked round her flat and did not under-
stand what she meant.
'I mean, Mrs Odowis, you no like lots of nets and flowers
and chairs and baby things?'
'Oh, I see, you're a very observant young woman. I like
openness. no use buying all those things with my children.
It's

They run around and knock everything down. And I think

it's easier to clean when you have less things around.'

'When I have my own flat, I am going to have an "open-

ness" - is that what you call it?' Gwendolen asked, spreading
her young arms wide to include the whole room.
Mrs Odowis laughed and agreed. 'And you will have a nice
hard-working young man to help you paint your walls. I
never get used to flowery wallpapers. They seem to clutter a
living room somehow. I don't mind them in bedrooms. Maybe
that is why your place looks so close to you. Your parents did
not hang those wallpapers, the landlord Mr Aliyu did.'
'And we have a lot of birthday and Christmas cards on the
walls.'
'And don't they make your walls look so nice and colour-
ful?' Mrs Odowis said with tact. She was a mother too and
was not going to encourage Gwendolen to criticize Sonia
behind her back. It was a thing not done in her culture. You
stand by your family, no matter what. But she wondered if
Gwendolen had not started talking to her friends and teachers
at school. Should she warn Sonia that her daughter was not
only growing very fast but also that she was absorbing all her
surroundings including the culture of this place? This place
where it was not considered bad manners to talk of one's
family outside. She could not imagine a conversation of this

97
kind taking place in Nigeria. But how would Sonia take it?

Suppose it is permitted in the Caribbean.

Gwendolen turned it all in her mind. People were the same

and yet Her mother and Mrs Odowis had several

different.
things in common, they were both black women, and they
both had young children, yet they were so different. She
wondered why this was so. And the painful part of it all was
that her family worked so hard. And for no reason at all, she
was shy about her home. Telling her mother about it was out
of the question. She could not bear to hurt her, because her
mother thought she was doing the right thing, things like
buying very expensive and colourful Christmas and birthday
cards and sticking them on their walls. They never sent
Christmas cards to any of their friends Well, she simply
. . .

would learn to accept it and not ask too many questions,

otherwise people might start thinking she was simple. What
was the word Amanda had used? 'Daft', that was what she
said, and she also said that her father was 'dumb'. What did
it mean to call somebody who could hear perfectly well and

who could speak, 'dumb'? 'So many tings fe learn for dis
England,' she concluded.
She shied away from reading aloud. She pronounced the
words wrong and she felt stupid at failing to do such a minor
thing as reading, which her brothers could do with ease.
Nevertheless, she observed acutely and listened and reasoned.
Yeah, it was not so bad in England after all. On the one hand,
her physical needs were mostly satisfied. But on the other
hand, she felt reduced as a person.

She and her Granny had lived in a shack made of corrugated

iron sheets. She slept on a bed made from bamboo sticks and
so did her friends Shivorn and Cocoa. They all lived in similar
shacks too and were always referred to as those who lived
on the Hills. She had not learned to envy those who lived
down the coast because she had no friends amongst them.
But here her friends lived in proper houses. She lived in a

98
house too. But it was a different kind of house, part of a
house with no backyard and no garden. In England, there
were homes and homes. They were all homes, but they were
different. What a complicated place. Made more complicated
by friends who knew and yet were too 'nice' to say it to your
face. Did all her friends feel like this and still pretend it did
not matter? She dared not ask Amanda, or Ravi, or Isabella,
or any of them. They would only say, 'You're daft, Gwen,
you know that.'

But all these things were making her feel as small as a titch.
She could not fight against all this. She was helpless. Just
as helpless as when Granny Naomi was hinting that she was
walking in a strange way, leaning to one side, and that it was
this walk that lured men like Uncle Johnny into troubling
her. Gwendolen knew now that whenever Granny Naomi
found faults in everything she did, food was running short.
She was the scapegoat. And but for her, Granny could pop
in at Uncle Johnny's for salt fish and beans. Her speaking-out
closed this channel. But one thing was certain, Granny Naomi
had stopped being friendly with Uncle Johnny for a while.
She could not force her parents to change the way they
lived. They were happy, and she was happy until she started
comparing their life with that of others around them. She
had to get this feeling of helplessness out somewhere. She
was not conscious of this, but that was what was beginning
to happen.
Gwendolen started fighting her teachers. They stood for
authority and everything that was right and proper, things
the likes of her family could never get. Things her parents
were not even aware belonged to them by right, things they
did not even know existed, things they had not even acquired
the taste for, but which had now been thrust under her nose.
It looked as if the Authority was saying to her, 'Look, but do

not touch.'
Gwendolen became disruptive, so much so that soon

99
teachers learned to ignore her and even warned her that she
could be expelled from school. She soon learned just how far
she could go, how far she could use her knowledge of Gran-
ville swearwords to shock her teachers and classmates, be-
cause she needed to get out of the house.
This was a pity, because if anyone needs education it is the
Gwendolens of this world.

100
 7

Mr Ilochina

The weather was so bad in February 1971 at the start of

Gwendolen's second year in school that it looked as if it
would never get better. Azu Ilochina hated Februaries in
London. He'd noticed that with the passing of January his
heart would leap in hope that they would at least have a few
warm days to allow their guv'nor to fit in some outside work
for them. But no, this cold and wet dragged on and on.
He was thirty-nine now. His wives quarrelled all last night
because the senior one caught him playing with the younger
wife. Cecilia, his senior wife, was much more masculine and,
as a result, she believed in fighting her way through life. Azu
Ilochina knew that the fault was all his. He had sneaked into
England, in the late fifties, with a young and beautiful student
of his, leaving an older girl-friend at home. Unfortunately
the older and plainer girl had become pregnant. And as if
that was not enough she had a set of identical male twins
and they were the picture of the father. To put her aside was
an abomination. He could imagine the joy of his parents at
home and also their sorrow when they learned that he was
in England with another girl. He was an only son, so his
mother made sure that the plain woman was in England too
with her two sons. This woman had now become the queen
bee. If she caught him having sex with the younger woman,
she would demand hers however tired he pleaded he was.
And if he refused, there would be no peace and her children
would howl. The older one kept having boys. It looked as if
God was on her side. Trouble was, he would have liked
Maureen to have at least one son, but how could she hide

101
her pregnancy? For as soon as she became pregnant, Cecilia
would want to be made pregnant too and she would have
another boy enhancing her position the more. Maureen had
five girls now and Cecilia six boys and a girl. The house he
was struggling to pay for was like a zoo.
He did not mind it very much in summer when he could
get enough well-paid outside work to cover the mortgage
and the food bills. But in winter, and this type of prolonged
winter, there were few indoor jobs. He had done everything
he could. He and his large family occupied only a floor of
their three-floor terrace house. They sublet the other rooms,
but still he was short of money. And damn it all, should he
not be studying for his law degree as he'd intended instead
of sitting here worrying about the lack of employment on a
building site.

His mind was so full of his own woes that he did not hear
Winston Brillianton's greetings.
'Goo . .gooo
. .good morning, wharrr happen to you?'
. .

Winston stammered loudly in protest.

'Hmm, hmm, sorry, Winston, I did not hear you come in.'
Mr Ilochina did not need much prompting for him to pour
his heart out to his friend. As the day was freezingly cold,
and they could see that there was no hope in hell of their
getting an outside job, they made themselves comfortable by
building a small fire in an old tin drum. Some of the workers
spread their hands over the heat hoping that their guv'nor,
who had gone out earlier on a call, would return with some
good news about an inside decorating job.
Winston Brillianton and his African friend looked so gro-
tesque that if the devil himself had seen them, he would run
for shelter. Both men were big and tall and this morning it
looked as if they had on twenty layers of old clothes instead
of the usual two. They each wore two pairs of socks and two
thick jumpers. All these had been smothered with the usual
London grime, which outside workers have a knack of collect -

102
ing in cold weather. Their gloves were originally made of
yellow suede, but one had to look really close to see the traces
of the original yellow leather, for they were all now covered
in murky brown. The only was
difference in their turn-out
their head-covers. Winston wore his cloth cap, but he
still

now pulled it lower down to the bottom of his ears so that it

looked like a beret rather than its original shape. Azu Ilochina
wore a woollen hat with external flaps for his ears. The way
both black men turned out every morning, one would have
thought they were going to have a fight to the death, a battle
with the devil, and not just going to work for their daily
bread.
Winston listened to his friend with patience. One of
Winston's attributes was that unlike most black men he was
a good listener. Maybe this was due to his stammer which
had a way of surfacing whenever he allowed himself the
indulgence of over-excitement and rushed his words. Some-
how he was able to view his friend's problems dispassionately.
That today's babies would still depend on their parents in ten
years' time and that they would have to be fed and nurtured
for at least six years after that, made Winston frown. Winston
seldom frowned. His face was always full, shiny and placid.
The sudden frown that came to his demeanour called for
attention. Azu Ilochina stopped talking suddenly. He stared
at him.
Outside the wind howled without mercy shaking the bare
London trees from side to side. It was grey and the slight
snow that had flickered in the air the night before was too
light to settle. But it had turned slushy grey as well.
The frown on Winston's face got deeper.
'Did you listen to all I have been saying, Winston?'
'Yeah, yeah, me hear you. But who's going to look after
all dem chillun? Who? Who? Lawd Almighty, e 'ard. E 'ard.'

Was that all? Was that all his friend was going to say?
Where would he start explaining to Winston that he was a

103
Nigerian and from the old Ibo kingdom. That in his culture
they believed 'Ubakanma and onye nwe madu ka onye nwe
ego' - a person who is rich in relations is greater than he who
is rich in material wealth. And the Olisa who created the
children will always create the food with which to feed them
and the clothes for their covering. And that he was an only
son, whose mother would never hear of his not allowing his
wives to bear all the babies they were physically capable of
bearing. He'd never heard a black man worry about 'Who's
going to look after all dem chillun?' He knew his friend was
not usually stupid, but this time he was stupid.
'What do you mean, who's going to look after them? I
have a mother and when I qualify as a barrister, I won't
practise but will go into Nigerian politics or go into business.
A Nigerian businessman could be a millionaire in a few years.'
Winston could say nothing for a while but started laughing
with his shoulders ashake not unlike his little son Marcus.
Azu Ilochina joined too.
'Wo wo
. . men. You busy man. Lawd Almighty! You
. . . .

favour one better that de other?'

'Yeah, that was before. Now all want I is peace.'
Well, we . . . 11, send them both to work. Every one feed
'im own kids. That'll show them.'
'But they are my children,' Ilochina exclaimed, warming
up to this brand new idea which he had never thought of
before.
'Yeah, yeah,me know. You you somebody's child too.
. . .

Dem wan' be baby machine, let dem carry on. But dem feed
their kids.'
Both men laughed so loudly that their colleagues, who
were warming themselves over another drum of fire, thought
they were drunk. Unfortunately Ilochina felt that they would
never understand the black man's joke in a billion years. He
waved to them and said, 'Don't mind us.'
His gaze turned again to Winston, this time with respect.

104
This silent stammerer knew
a thing or two. Though Ilochina
came from was born in the city and schooled
Africa yet he
there. Winston on the other hand came from the hillside of
Jamaica and he nurtured some home-grown strategies of
survival which his friend might not have come across in all
the law books he often lugged about.
Yes, that was what he would do, Ilochina decided. After
all, both women collected family benefits from the state. The
money was not enough, he knew. They had to go out and
work to supplement it. He came to England to study law, not
to slave his life out for children. Yes, they were his, but, as

Winston said, they were theirs too.

He slapped his hand on Winston's back and cried, 'Winston,
my good friend and brother from Jamaica, you have saved
my Baby machine. Wait until I call them that. That will
life.

really hurt, because they were both trained teachers. Good.

Thank you.'
The broad-faced guv'nor with folding chin stamped in,
rubbing his hands in glee. The dejected workers sitting around
the drums of coal fire could detect a glint of hope in his grey
eyes.
'Got it then?' asked Bob.
'Yeah,' the guv'nor replied. 'Not much. But could be worse,
an office block. Should take the rest of this winter. Work for
everybody.'
The went around was perceptible. Build-
sigh of relief that
ing workers were well paid in summer when the weather
was mild enough to work outside. But to get an indoor job
in a winter like this one, when the wind howled among the
naked trees, was a bonus.

105
 8

The Church

Gwendolen thought that the longer she stayed at school the

more removed she was going to become from everybody. All
her mother wanted from her was to be a good girl. And good
girls for Sonia Brillianton were hard workers at home, looking

good with pressed hair for church.

A new church started with Brother Simon who originally
came from South Africa. Brother Simon was a pale-skinned
half-caste, wiry and with a tiny mouth. If he had been a
woman, he would have been undeniably pretty. He was tall
and had a small balding head. Brother Simon met Sonia and
Gwendolen one day when they were shopping at Queen's
Crescent Market.
Gwendolen was momentarily distracted by an enthusiastic
vendor who was shouting for attention from passers-by. The
man was selling some huge slabs of fruit cake with thick
layers of marzipan and icing which gave them the look of
dark wood houses at Christmas. Her attention was drawn
and focused on them, her mouth involuntarily watery. She
jumped, swerving jerkily awake when she heard her mother
call:

'June-June, come on, gal. Me no have all day.'

She walked up very fast, as fast aswas possible on a
it

Saturday at the Crescent Market. Saturdays were busy days

at the Crescent. Here was the teacher free from school looking
for bargains, there was the unemployed builder in search of
cheap tools, and at the other place was the young mother
looking for inexpensive knitting wool for a winter matinee
coat for her two-month-old baby. All kinds of people visited

107
the Crescent. Sonia and her daughter were no exception.
On reaching her mother, Gwendolen realized that Sonia's
call for her was more for security and assurance than for
anything else. Her mother wanted the man who was chatting

her up to know that she had a daughter and that the daughter
was right there behind her. She would like him to go away
and leave her to do her shopping. But Brother Simon was
not to be put off. He flashed his smile on Gwendolen, a feat
that required a great deal of effort because of the tiny size
of his mouth. His teeth were yellowish, but otherwise
perfect.
he enthused. 'Aren't she preddy?' Brother
'Hi, little girl,'

Simon known to himself always fancied he

for a reason best
spoke like the Americans. 'How you doin'?'
To all his well-meaning questions Gwendolen could only
smile in reply.
By the time they'd finished shopping, however, Brother
Simon had got their address and promised to call. He did call
only a few days later to talk about his church.
Sonia and Granny Naomi used to go to church in Granville
every Sunday and of course they took Gwendolen with them.
But for some reason since she came to England, things looked
and felt so different. The inside of the church buildings she'd
seen looked so remote that she dared not ask why they did
not go to church often here in London. She remembered one
day shortly after she came to England when she was going
to the launderette and she looked inside another church, very
near to their house. She had known it was a church because
the bell was pealing. The people were not particularly well
dressed unlike the church-goers in Granville. Because they
were all in dark blues, dark browns and grey overcoats,
colours which looked ordinary and dull to her, she decided
that they probably would remove those outer garments to
reveal bright Sunday colours. She could not imagine people
going to church looking so dull and unhappy.

108
 She was so curious that after putting their washing into
the machine, she crossed the pavement and went into the
churchyard. She shuddered at what she saw. There was no
joy here, she thought. It even looked as if it was colder in
there than outside. She stepped back quickly but not before a
lady with a stiff kindly smile asked, 'Have you lost something,
dear?'
Gwendolen shook her head and walked away very quickly,
her Wellington boots crushing the icy patches on the pave-
ments. Her thoughts quickly swerved to the frosty air. All
churches here must be for the very cold, remote whites, and
it must be very cold in there as well. There was no single
black face there. Hence she'd thought that black people went
to church in the West Indies only. The people here must be
worshipping a white, cold God. No wonder her family at-
tended on special days only.
There was that spiritual vacuum in her family which Chris-
tianity, in the cold and remote way it was preached in
England, could not fill. They needed a livelier God.
Convincing the Brillianton family was easy. They needed
a place to go every Sunday, they needed to pray to God, they
needed the Christian sermon preached to them in the warm
humane way they were used to. Like the Africans, the West
What other place was
Indians loved to dress and look good.
and look good than a church in which one
better to dress
was expected to praise and thank one's creator for all the
bounties of life.

It was only
did not bother the Brilliantons that the church
Mornington Crescent.
a tenants' hall in a block of flats near
For as Brother Simon said, 'Wherever two or three are gath-
ered in my name, there I shall be also.' In no time at all,
Sonia made new Christian friends and so did Winston.
Brother Simon, who had been ordained in South Africa,
became the Leader. The women prettied the church hall so
it looked warm and colourful. They sang the old missionary

109
hymns of their childhood days. Hymns like 'Onward Christian
and 'What a friend we have in Jesus' were favourites
Soldiers'
of BrotherSimon. In no time at all the children, Marcus,
Ronald and little Cheryl, could be heard humming some of
the tunes.
The hall had a stage and on this a table was placed. In the
middle of the table stood a fairly big golden cross, which
Brother Simon said he was given by a monk who lived on
the hills outside Jerusalem. Gwendolen and Ronald joined
the choir, and the church soon became the very centre of
their life.

It met their social needs becausemembers did talk to

each other even on weekdays; met their musical and
it

entertainment needs because members could sing and clap

and dance to the Lord. It also met their spiritual needs because
prayers were not read from a book but said loudly and
personally. People could come forward to testify to what the
Lord had done for them.
Winston became Brother Brillianton and despite the stam-
mer that left hesitance in his speech, he was good at preaching
the sermon. And because of Sonia's hard work, the Brillian-
tons became one of the leading families of that church near
Mornington Crescent. Even though she was expecting
another baby in the autumn, and her stomach was tumbling
big, Sonia saw to it that her family always looked smart for
church.
Gwendolen soon began to look forward to Sundays. They
became busier on Saturdays, but it was busyness with a
purpose. The church clothes were to be aired or washed,
shoes to be polished, and in the evening Gwendolen and
Ronald would rush to choir practice. Practising Christianity
became a way of life. Each time a pair of new shoes were to
be bought, the question was usually asked, 'Can you wear
them to church?' And as for taking the buses to Finsbury
Park and then to Mornington Crescent, it was like being on

110
cloud nine. Gwendolen started taking a real interest in the
way she looked in her church clothes on Sundays.
For school every day, she wore her wine-coloured gaber-
dine raincoat. But for Sundays, her mother bought a green
coat with white fur round the neck, a white hat and gloves,
white shoes, and white knee socks. She really did look smart.
But when they got home, they had to change back into
ordinary house clothes. To them church clothes were just
going to church. You were not even allowed
that, clothes for
to wear them for Sunday dinners.
Word went round the black community living in Kentish
Town, Hornsey and Camden Town about the new church
and people began to leave the impersonal established Church
of England where the Good Lord seemed so distant, for this
one where somehow people felt that God would understand
their language the more.
Gwendolen and her brothers made friends with people of
their ages. That church and the reunion with her family
became the two most important events she felt she'd gained
since her arrival in England.
By the time Gwendolen became fourteen, the school had
become a place of humiliation, a place of shame. A place
where her parents were regarded as black illiterates who
could not come to parents' meetings or come on open days.
The thoughts of going there every day were not dissimilar to
the thoughts she sometimes experienced when she recalled
the fact that an older man had invaded the privacy of her
body when she was still not nine.
She could explain this neither to her parents nor her
teacher. And yet it was illegal for her to simply stop going to
school. That would put her parents into more trouble. That
much, Amanda had told her. There was no escape for her
but to force herself to go to school every day, pay little
attention to the teachers, refusing to let them come closer to
her, in case they discovered her shame and ignorance, and

111
feign a kind of aloofness bordering on insolence, whilst wait-
ing impatiently for another Sunday. Another day to sing to
the Lord.

112
 9

Sonia Away

The church service on this Sunday was particularly long but

spiritually uplifting. During the course of it, Mr Brillianton
preached in his stammering voice about the evils of adultery.
He said that the world was in chaos because of adultery.
Adultery ruined and brought bad blood into otherwise good
families. That it broke men's hearts to see their wives prattling
on about eyeing other people's husbands or young girls
dreaming of married men. The Lord was against it. The men
in his audience nodded and said, 'Yeah, brother, yeah, man
. Amen.' The women smiled worriedly and looked at each
. .

other.
Gwendolen looked at her father and worried. She worried
because when the words became difficult, they jumbled
together and only the members of his family could understand
him. He was in such a state once or twice that he resorted to
floundering his arms like a drowning man. Gwendolen held
herself to her seat by sheer force. She loved her father dearly
and since he'd started preaching in the church, her respect
for him was beyond bounds. No one knew why the easy-going
Winston, whose tiny wife Sonia could bully him into silence
at home, talked so brutally about women whenever he took
the pulpit. As usual though, he survived and, to Gwendolen's
relief, he even had enough breath to say a long-winded prayer

to God.
After the service, they had a women's prayer meeting, the
kids' Angelic League and the men's prayer meeting. As Mr
Brillianton never liked very much the members of his family
going home separately after such a spiritually uplifting day,

113
they all to wait for each other. By 2.30 they made their
had
way bus stop at Mornington Crescent. Marcus and
to the
Ronald, with their new haircuts and dark suits with matching
bow ties, were the miniature of their father Winston. Sonia
still favoured wide near-circular skirts but Gwendolen was

now opting out, for the slimmer look. The only thing was
that she had to make it rather long for modesty, as befitted a
girl from a Christian home. She thought this unusual length

ruined the whole dress, but she did not realize how stunningly
beautiful she looked in it. She did not mind though, for, after
all, was going to church not the highlight of the week for

her?
They were so hungry by the time they got home. Marcus
could hardly be made to change his clothes before tucking
into his plate of boiled rice and tripe stew. They were in the
middle of this when the sound of a scooter stopping noisily
in front of their house reached them. As they were not
expecting anyone, none of them saw the need to disturb their
meal. They were too hungry. Who could blame them? They'd
had nothing since their eight o'clock breakfast of porridge
oats and hot milk.
None the less, they could hear the front door open and
their Nigerian landlord talking to someone.
'Must be the la'lord's people,' Sonia observed redundantly.
Her husband nodded. 'Me know.' His mouth was full of
tender tripe which had been allowed to cook slowly in its

own juice.
But when they heard the landlord's steps coming thought-
fully up the stairs, they all stopped. He waited bytheir door
and then knocked. Mr Brillianton looked from one member
of his family to the other, adjusted his braces over his vest,
wiped wet mouth with the back of his hand and answered,
his
'Yeah, me
coming.' When he got up, Sonia dusted the rice
grains off his Sunday black trousers which he had not
bothered to change out of, because he was so famished.

114
Cheryl, now rising four and a London child, got up. She
wanted to see what it was all about.
The Brilliantons were no trouble-makers. Winston worked
hard at his building site and his wife did all kinds of jobs to
make ends meet. She could sew, at least for the family, she
minded other people's children and the strain of this had
once made her seriously ill. She recovered quickly though
because Sonia's mind worked like quicksand. And despite all
this, they never owed Mr Aliyu, their landlord. Winston

Brillianton's wife made sure that the money for their shelter
was the first thing she took out of her husband's pay packet
every Friday evening. So Mr Aliyu seldom saw any reason
for him complain about this or that. And as for cleanliness,
to
Sonia was obsessed with it. She or Gwendolen washed down
their windows every Saturday, and when there was the
slightest sign of part of their window net going grey, she
would trek down to Queen's Crescent, buy a couple of yards
of net more gaudy than the last one and sew it up. They were
friendly with Mr Aliyu, but though they all spoke English,
yet they found it difficult to understand each other.
Mr Aliyu was always impatient and thought that because
he was studying engineering at a local polytechnic he could
not be bothered with 'West Indians' who spoke funny. And
the Brilliantons thought, Well, he may speak good, but he an
uncivilized Africa man, man.' So his coming up the stairs
slowly and knocking at their door, this Sunday afternoon in
September, meant something very important.
It was a telegram. Mr Aliyu who had signed for it downstairs

had had a peep at it. Granny Naomi had died in Granville.

T have some news for you,' he announced importantly.
Being originally from one of those African kingdoms to whose
people understatement was equivalent to good manners, he
referred to the fact that Granny Naomi had died as 'some
news'. As Mr Brillianton 'could not find his glasses' Mr Aliyu's
position was intricate. Should he be like an Englishman and

115
tell this family what had actually happened? But he could
remember quite vividly stories from his early moonlight
which bearers of
nights in his village in Ijebu land; stories in
bad news could be it was quite
killed. In his own culture
correct to say that Granny Naomi had not died, but was very
ill. If Mr Brillianton had been a Nigerian, he would have

guessed straight away that his mother-in-law had died. But

the man had had that part of his cultural heritage taken away
from him by slavery. Mr Aliyu wished Winston could read
and not pretend he had just lost his glasses. Funnily enough
both men knew he could not read and it had been Mr Aliyu
who had first, indirectly, suggested the lie to Winston years
ago when he had caught him trying to spell out words on a
piece of advertising that had come through their letter box.
He had hated himself for catching Mr Brillianton like this and
he had said hastily, 'I see you've lost your glasses.' And Mr
Brillianton had replied, 'Yeah, man, me lost me glasses.'
None the less he apologized for disturbing their Sunday
dinner, but called Mr Brillianton out. They went out into the
small passageway which served as Sonia's kitchen. As he was
about to open his mouth to speak again, Cheryl asked, 'Wha'
is it, Mr Landlord?'
'Ge . . . get . . . back inside,' Mr Brillianton said.
Out of earshot, Mr Aliyu said, 'Your mother-in-law is very
sick. Your wife must go home and see her.'

For the next few days, the Brilliantons' home buzzed with
medicine for toothache, medicine
talks of injections, passport,
for rheumatism. No one knew why Sonia, who always
double-checked letters from her husband when she was in
Granville, did not bother to show this telegram to others.
Maybe because inside herself she believed, like many others
like her, that nothing that happened in England would be
imperfect. If they met Mr Aliyu in England even though he
came from Africa, and he told them that her mother was ill,
then it must be so.

116
 Guilt fuelled Sonia's behaviour. Something was telling her
that she was probably too late. Her poor mother. She had not
been writing home as frequently as she should have. For
while it was understandable not to write at home in Granville,
it was not so here in London. Mrs Odowis used to write for

her, but when Scnia got closer to her, she felt she was better
than Mrs Odowis in many things. At least she'd kept her
husband. Winston might not be a book man like Mr Odowis,
yet he was faithful to his family. She had her husband and
Mrs Odowis did not. She also kept her flat spotless but Mrs
Odowis said she'd rather keep her huge apartment comfort-
able. Why, sometimes that woman would buy second-hand
clothes, wash and mend them and put them on her kids.
Sonia would never do anything like that. True, Mrs Odowis
paid her with cheques when Sonia minded her children for
her, and each time they went to the local Barclays Bank, to
cash them, Winston would go with her in his church clothes.
And they used to get so worried when the cashier went
behind the counter to check something before paying them.
She'd asked Mrs Odowis once, 'Why dey go behind the
counter?'
'Because they wish to check if I have enough money.'
'And you have?'
why else would I give you a cheque?'
'Of course,
'Some people have more money than sense,' Winston had
remarked.
That was why she stopped getting Mrs Odowis to write her
mother. Sonia felt she lacked some real common sense even
though she was studying in the evening. And if someone had
asked, 'How does somebody with basic native common sense
look?' she would have shrugged her narrow shoulders,
wrinkled her eyes in laughter and replied, 'Me no know,
man; but me know sensible 'oman when Ah see one.'
Now her poor mother was dying, dying without hearing
from her for years. All because of her pride. Then her thoughts

117
would switch to the present. 'June-June, don't forget to clean
Cheryl's teeth every night. And Marcus, if you don't comb
your hair the teacher will . .
.'

'He he. .him no get

. . . . hair. Rest yourself, 'oman.'
'Rest yourself, rest yourself. You say because she not your
moder.'
Sonia burst into tears. Winston got frightened thinking she
might slip into a mental hysteria. He comforted her clumsily.
He was not used to handling her with care but when forced
to do so he did it with deep concentration.
By the time Sonia left for Jamaica - the Jamaica she'd left
over seven years previously - she had not only exhausted
herself but everyone around her. They all breathed huge
sighs of relief when they eventually took the train back to
their flat.

Gwendolen was now the little mother, a duty she did

not resent. She was used to doing most of the housework.
Fourteen, going on fifteen, she was a real little madam. One
happy thought that struck her as her mother left, was that at
least she could skip school as often as she liked. Her father was
always out, working on the site. Ronald and Marcus would
not notice as long as she took Cheryl to her little school
down the road. She could cook and eat what she wanted and
clean the house when she felt like it. Somehow instead of
dreading the responsibilities placed on her, she felt a kind of
freedom which she could give no name. Her mother would be
all right in Granville among her old friends, and they would

help her with the new baby when it was born.

Gwendolen was stirring a pot of Quaker oats for her
younger brothers and sister when she again heard Mr Aliyu
coming up the stairs. Her heart almost stopped beating. What
was it this time!
'Your father in, Gwendolen?'
'Yes, Mr Landlord, he is in the front room.'
Winston came out again. His stance was questioning. He

118
too was resting from the mental demands of the last week.
Mr Aliyu felt he had to say what was on his mind quickly
without any preamble.
'I have to tell you that your mother-in-law is dead.'
'A . . . aw . . . when . . how
.
.?' Winston went com-
. .

pletely incoherent.
'Well, it was in the telegram. You see, among my people
when we say that somebody is very ill, the men in the house
should know what we mean. But I'm glad your wife is gone,
which I think is a good thing.'

Myriads of thoughts ran through Winston's mind. Sonia

had carried home enough medicine to equip a mini-hospital.
He had gone to an Indian chemist nearby and told the man
that his mother-in-law was fairly old, had bad teeth, maybe
bad feet, and aching stomach. The good chemist had made
him buy so many capsules, bottles, ointments and tablets just
in case Naomi was suffering from one thing or the other. And
all that money. They had collected their 'padner' money,

Winston had borrowed a little from Mr Ilochina, his friend

and colleague at work. They had not even had enough money
to buy a return ticket. He simply promised to send Sonia
some money when the time of her return came. Their church
had prayed and fasted for God to spare Naomi's life, all
because this stupid uncivilized African decided that telling
him the truth was not according to his stupid culture.
Mr Brillianton's eyes went red, just like the colour of a ripe
kernel. Talking would take too much time. Before anyone
could stop him, he shot out one arm and it landed on Mr
Aliyu's chest. The man fell crashing on to the banister railings
of his old rickety house. Winston made as if to follow him,
but for the cries of Cheryl and Gwendolen. 'Daddy, Daddy,
don't kill the landlord man.'
He would have had good job following him, because Mr
a
Aliyu, with his bleeding head and twisted ankle, picked
himself up quickly and ran as fast as his legs would allow him

119
into his own room downstairs. He knew what an angry
African Caribbean man could be. He did not wish to take
chances with a tribe which he told himself were kitchen knife
carriers.
Half the trouble in this world is caused by people who
mean well. Mr Aliyu thought he was doing the right thing.
He was shocked by Winston's behaviour, but, Lord, the man
could have killed him. When he collected himself and came
to the foot of the stairs, he stared at the Brilliantons' flat, not
quite believing what he had just experienced. If he had been
this considerate to a countryman of his, he would have been
applauded for being so tactful and for not wanting to gloat
over other people's misfortune. He broke the news to Mr
Brillianton, man to man, when he knew his wife was out of
the way, and see what he received. How could he tell a
pregnant woman that her mother had died? He shook his
head. He could never understand these Caribbeans.
But Mr Aliyu knew and had read from many books that
the gulf which was made by slavery that separated brother
from brother was still too wide and too deep to be crossed by
a single narrow bridge made of the wooden plank of the
English language. His feelings were not dissimilar to those
early Bible people who were building the Tower of Babel.
Lack of communication brought confusion. Mr Aliyu did
not know where to begin. He could still see the red in Mr
Brillianton's eyes. He could also see the picture of his children
holding him, pleading with him not to kill the landlord man.
Basic instinct advised caution. Aliyu avoided the Brilliantons
like one avoided the plague.

120
 10

Winston's Roots

It was on morning in late September that the letter from

a
Mr Aliyu's was delivered. Winston had left for work
solicitor
and the letter arrived after he'd gone. Even if the letter had
arrived whilst he was still there, he would not have picked it
up. The family never wrote to people and since one mostly
reaped where one sowed the Brilliantons did not blame the
world for not writing them. They missed nothing. The jobs
of going out to work, cooking, cleaning and for relaxation
rearing children, were enough to fill their days. Conse-
quently, whenever there was that odd occasion when a letter
did arrive, it was Mr Aliyu who invariably picked it up, took
it up and read it to them on the landing.

The Brilliantons were law-abiding people until Winston

felt that Mr Aliyu was robbing him of his dignity as a family

man.
Aliyu, who knew what that particular letter contained, did
not bother to open it as he used to, but kept it on the front
room table. Soon Ronald, who not unlike most boys of his
age always ran through the tiny hallway and up the stairs,
came scampering by.
'Ronald, Ronald,' Aliyu growled.
Ronald opened his mouthwonder. No one could blame
in
him, for Mr Aliyu had not spoken aword to any member of
his family since their father's show of anger. When he stopped
suddenly in his tracks and turned himself slowly and mechan-
ically, Aliyu could see that, though Ronald had his mother's

face, fairly bony legs and a gait with a bias, leaning to one
side even when he ran, nearly all his movements were his

121
father's. That man must have strong blood in his veins for all
his children to be so much like him. Ronald walked down
the stairs stiffly like a soldier, with doubt written all over his
face, wondering what Mr Aliyu was calling him for. He was
not frightened of the man after seeing the way his Daddy
dealt with him only a few days previously. His normally
brown eyes now turned black. On seeing those eyes, Aliyu
left the letter at the bottom of the stairs and went back to his

room. He did not need to say anything.

Ronald snatched the letter and for no reason at all ran up
the stairs two at a time. He read the back of the envelope
when he got to their sitting-room and knew that it was for
his father. The orange and white antimacassar that Sonia had
made for the television carried several baby photos of the
children. Carefully, Ronald looked for a place in between his
baby photo and a glass horse and wedged the letter there
until his father returned.
It did not occur to Winston to ask Ronald to read it. He felt

his son was too young and, like Gwendolen, he carried the
fear that probably little Ronald could do what the adults could
not tackle. So he took it to his friend Mr Ilochina.
'What have you been doing to your landlord? Did you
really batter him? He wants you and your family out of his
house in four weeks.'
'Me know. 'Tupid man. He lied to me, you know. Lied to
me just because me no fit well, 'tupid African.'
. . .

When one's dignity had been bruised, relating it to others

could be another hurt. Double hurt. Winston looked at his
friend as he sat outside on a wooden bench that had been
abandoned by whoever had lived in the dilapidated house
they were renovating, and sighed. To tell this man, another
African, that his landlord had lied to him because he could
not read his own telegram would be exactly that, another
humiliation. Mr Ilochina knew this, and he was not going to
allow Winston to suffer it. Having worked with him for four

122
 he knew he might be uneducated, but that did not
years,
mean he was unintelligent. He had never seen a more hard-
working and fearless man. Winston would climb any ladder,
however high, as long as there was a job to be done. He had
watched Winston handle the road-digging machine with his
bare hands as if it was an animal to be tamed. Education and
native intelligence are not always synonymous.
A long silence fell between the two men. Ilochina hated
the landlord who had the audacity to turn his friend out of
his house and who he suspected behaved in an arrogant way.
Could he not at least have talked to them first, instead of
rushing to a solicitor? After all, the Brilliantons paid their
rent on time and did not owe him a penny.
He unwrapped his sandwich and started to chew it mechan-
ically as if he was chewing his morning chewing stick. With

every munch, he was allowing his anger to fester.

'Arrogant Yoruba fool,' Ilochina spat.
'Wharr . wharr
. . you say?' Winston asked.
. . .

'I swear by my dead ancestors that that man is a Yoruba

man, and I'm telling you that he is arrogant and a

fool.'

'Hmm, just because he a Yoruba man?'

Both men relaxed into easy laughter.
'You deserve a new you know. Those rooms
council flat,

are too small for you, narrow and badly

and as for those
decorated stairs, they are the pits. Our women put up with
anything. I mean, your pregnant wife going up those narrow
stairs.'

The image of the house loomed in Ilochina's mind. It was

one of those Victorian houses with several steps leading up
to the ground floor. Maybe it was because it had a basement
flat. Then inside the house had that tired-looking yellow

wallpaper, peeling off the wall here, patched with another

[Link] was clean, Sonia saw to that, but too choky with the

heavy smell of rich African- Caribbean food. The house always

123
smelt of beans as well. Yes, his friend needed a new council
flat.

'Why have you not applied for a council flat before?'

'Me no know how ... bu ... but we happy there.
The landlord be in trouble too, with the council, if me
apply.'
'Who you that? Aliyu? Then he has given you the
told
rope with which to hang himself. I wonder why he did that.

I know, I know. The arrogant fool. He thought you would

not know how to go about it. He did not know you have
another Nigerian as a friend. I'll show him, leave it to me, I'll
show him. Tomorrow we'll go to the Tribunal.'
'Where dat?'
'I'm reading to be a lawyer, you know. So leave it to me.
'First, don't pay him any rent from today. He'll be too
scared to ask you. When we get to the Tribunal, we'll show
them this letter and you just move when they give you a flat,

even if it takes a year.'

'The lan'lar's rent, what then?'
'Save it, don't give it to him. He is too proud. It takes a
Nigerian to know another Nigerian, you know.'
'You no like Yoruba people, dey from Nigeria too?'
'I'm Ibo, you know. Not the same tribe, not the same
language. We
don't behave like that. We are nicer people,'
Ilochina said without realizing how vain and arrogant he was
sounding.
Mr Brillianton, who could see all that, tactfully said nothing
but just laughed athuman nature in general.
'We have it, you know. People from Grenada say we
Jamaicans eat monkeys.'
Ilochina laughed too. 'We eat monkeys. We call it ewen.
We say monkeys have ugly faces but delicious meat.'
In the streets, an early autumn wind howled, scattering
yellowing leaves about. Some of these brown and yellow
leaves were blown inside the glassless house they were

124
redecorating. The house without its glass panes looked like
a skull without eyes.
Then suddenly Winston asked, 'Is Yoruba from the Ashanti
then?'
Ilochina looked at his friend, pulled his cap an inch down-
ward as a protection against the wind and smiled. 'Who told
you about the Yorubas and the Ashantis?'
'Well, Ah know. Me gran'father, him never a slave, you
know. Ah ... ah ... ah think he Ashanti, but followed his
sweetheart Adaora to slavery. Them went to Brazil, you
know, then ca ca
. . came to Jamaica. Them going back
. . . .

to Africa, then them start having chillun.'

Ilochina's eyes opened. 'You mean he volunteered to go
into slavery because of his woman! This beats the band. This
makes Romeo and Juliet sound like a child's moonlight play.
I can't believe it!'

'Dat's right, man. Me tell you. Bloody African.'

For no reason at all the two men started to laugh. They
could imagine a woman doing a thing like that. But an African
man of over a hundred years ago, that was something else.

Where had he read that black men

were of those days
bestial and heartless? Ilochina mused. 'You sure?' he asked
again.
'Yeah, the story dey in me family ever since. Me see
dem graves, you know. Me happy dem did not reach Africa
though.'
'What did you say your grandmother's name was?'
'Adaora,' replied Winston.
'Well, that's neither Yoruba nor Ashanti name. It is an Ibo
name. And your grandfather, the great lover, what was his
name?'
'Me no fit say it well, you know. 'T's Keke Kwekwu Tijani.'
'You know, Tijani could be Hausa, Fulani, or even an Arab
from Timbuctoo. He must have been a great lover. Those
early Muslims stuck to the Koran. Fancy going into slavery

125
because of a dame. Obviously, he had no money to buy her
freedom. I've never heard a story like this before. Some men!'
Whenever Ilochina read the story of Mrs Simpson and the
then Prince of Wales, he used to think how soft in the head
some men allow themselves to be simply because of one
woman. But look at his friend Winston, the offspring of
people capable of making the same sacrifice. Aloud he said
simply, 'Stupid African.'
'Ah know. 'Tupid.'
And they both laughed again.
'Don't you think you've had enough break?' their overseer
reminded them not too unkindly. An indolent laughter fol-
lowed this remark from the other workers as well. They knew
their guv'nor. An easy man who had a clever way of really
getting things done.
Ilochina was dying to share the jokes with them, but the
difficulty of race restricted him. How would they take it?

They might even use it What a shame, he

against them.
thought. Stories like that would have brought them together,
stressing their commonalities and the vagaries of human
emotion.
Towards the end of the day, Ilochina asked Winston, 'Can
you do it for your Missus? Go into slavery for her?'
'Don't be 'tupid, man. Me a Christian nuh. Dem days
people not Christians. Dem be uncivilized African Muslims.
Nuh Ah know better. Me a Christian nuh, man.' Winston
winked at Ilochina as he made this statement. He was not
completely devoid of humour.
T know what you mean. Christianity has made us all softer
and maybe more individualistic and wiser. Now, Tijani would
have spent all his life praying for his sweetheart and not
actually going into slavery with her. But I am sure my wives
can do it for me, not because they love me, but because none
of them would give me up for the other.'
Then, dem must lo lo lo. love you, man.'
. . . . . . . .

126
 'Love, shio! None of them would give me up for the other.
You know, just to spite the other woman.'
Winston corrugated brow, in a vain attempt to follow
his
his friend's drift. He could not
see any sense in marrying two
women in a place like London, anyhow. And as for one
woman not giving up one man for another ... it was too
confusing. The argument was too circular for Winston. Then
rather unexpectedly, he announced, 'Me hungry, man.'
'Adaora married Tijani and they ended up in Jamaica. What
a world,' Ilochina murmured to himself as if singing a litany.

127
 11

Sonia in Jamaica

About a year ago, if someone had stopped Sonia in Holloway

or Stroud Green during one of her rushes to buy sweet potatoes
and tripe to make supper and said to her, 'Look, Sonia, I think
you need a rest,' she would have given the person one of her
loud happy laughs, displaying her badly fitted teeth. She
would have said, 'Me tired? Me all right as rain, man.' And
she would plunge the listener into an anecdote of her day's
activities, starting from what she intended giving Winston for
dinner, to what material she was going to use in making
Cheryl's latest church dress. There was always something for
her not only to do but to worry about, talk about and even
hurry about. And however much she hurried, she was always
late for finishing the project. She would invariably finish the
dress just minutes before the family left for church.
She had enough money though, for Winston was not a
stingy man. If anything he was not too keen in finding out
what his wife did with the housekeeping money. 'He not
dem ambitious ones talking bout 'ouses and cars, but 'im
pleased with the pace of we life,' Sonia had told her friend
Gladys Odowis several times, and she knew that she fitted
perfectly well into this tempo.
The sudden announcement of her mother's illness rocked
the very bottom of her life. She was neither so young nor a big
enough fool to think that anything would last for ever. The fear
was always at the back of her mind. And this sudden announce-
ment brought it home to Sonia. Throughout the preparation
and the flight to Jamaica, her thoughts were going up and
down like a see-saw. One thing she fought very hard not to

129
allow her mind to wander to, was death. When her mind came
near to the edge of such thoughts as 'Maybe me Mammy don
die long since', she would jerk it back with such a force that she
would feel it affecting the child she was carrying.
Where would this baby be born? she wondered. If her
mother was not too bad, she would return to London in a
few weeks to have the child. But if Naomi was too ill, she
would stay longer to look after her. After all, she usually had
normal pregnancies and there were friends in Granville like
Uncle Johnny, Roza, her mother's church friends. She had
seen many babies 'birthed perfect' in Granville. Anyhow
Kingston was never too far away since she had all their
padner money.
Sonia felt a little money. She had paid in
guilty about that
their contributions for the past ten months. They had planned
to collect theirs last so that they could put it away in a bank for
the rainy day. Now she had collected the whole money. And
Winston would have to pay the last two instalments all by
himself. He was a good man, Winston, and maybe this was a
rainy day. She had enough money tied around her waist to last
her Mammy two good years. Her Mammy would be really
happy about that. Sonia allowed herself a smile as the picture
of her happy mother conjured itself up in her imagination.
Her mother deserved all their savings. Her mind switched
back to her childhood days, where they had lived on the hill
on a knife's edge, gathering honey, selling it at the harbour
and using the money to buy food, mainly corn for cornbread,
cornmeal and cornflour. Her Mammy grew plenty of veg-
etables in the yard. They had their own chickens, because
chickens were easy to rear. Chickens ate anything from their
own droppings to the family's leftovers. Being an only child,
she had an egg for breakfast every other day. In a good honey
year, she had a new dress at Christmas, but in a bad year, her
father would go down to the harbour and do any odd jobs
including fishing and she would have to make do with an

130
old dress. That used to make her father whom she called 'Fa'
really cross. She called him 'Fa' because he had called his
father that, 'during dem slave times'. People made fun of her
sometimes, but she and her Mammy Naomi 'paid no mind
to dem gossiping neighbours, who know no better'. As far as
her mother was concerned, nothing was too good for her
only daughter Sonia. Because of this, neighbours gave her
the nickname Marm'.
'Little

All those days were gone now. Her father had died when
he went to the coast to fish and was caught in the heaviest
rain of the year. The rain was not quite up to hurricane level,
but it caused a big havoc. Rickety shacks were blown away,
some trailers along the hills collapsed and those selling fish
and honey from their boats tied up at anchor did not have
enough protection against the wind that roared with the
voice of the devil non-stop for five terrible days.
As Sonia had not anybody of her arrival, she took a
told
taxifrom the airport She was impressed at some
to Granville.
of the changes. But as she neared her old home, she could
see that poverty still existed in plenty by the hills. The tracks to
the shacks looked narrower and dirtier. There were children
everywhere. On the other side of the track were not only
poor trailers, but people living in carcasses of old cars. The
smell of rubbish filled the air.

Uncle Johnny was sitting quietly in front of his shack

thinking about old times and all the friends and neighbours
he had lost. Pity that Naomi never trusted him fully after that
nasty episode with her grandchild. He had now changed, he
had become a born-again Christian and he knew that God
had forgiven him. But the nasty women in the neighbour-
hood never forget. Anyhow, Naomi was now gone. Her shack
would soon be sold and new people would have to move
in . . .

His thought was cut short by a Kingston taxi that was

slowing down. Uncle Johnny was thinner, but still jaunty.

131
He saw Sonia, and could not restrain himself. 'Ah, London
lady, welcome, Sonia. Welcome. You don look splendid.
Welcome.'
Roza heard his voice and looked out of her window. She
ran out, pushed Uncle Johnny aside roughly and embraced
Sonia. 'Ah no fit know you again, Sonia. London don suit
you. Welcome, Sonia.'
Shivorn, now a big girl, started taking Sonia's things inside
Naomi's shack.
Sonia noticed that Roza gave the keys to the shack to her
daughter to open the door. Whilst everybody was smothering
her with greetings she managed to say, 'Me Mammy sick.
Whey she?'
There was an instant silence. But Uncle Johnny jumped
and came forward. 'Yeah, Naomi sick in 'ospital. Come in,
come fust, rest a while, then we take you to see.'
Sonia was so suspicious that her voice went panicky. 'Me
wan' go straightaway. Ah wan' see me Mammy.'
Uncle Johnny's hand was gentle but firm. 'Come in first,
Sonia, come in, daater.'

Sonia took one look at the room, at the bamboo bed that
was now turned against the wall, at the unearthly tidiness of
the room. She looked Uncle Johnny straight in the eye and
said piteously, 'My Mammy
don die, not so?'
Her friends had no answer to give her. They just shook
their heads and cried. They allowed her to cry, but Roza
shooed Uncle Johnny away. 'What you doing here anyhow?
Go out of this 'ouse,' a woman whom Sonia did not know
said to Uncle Johnny in a loud whisper.
'Shush, shush,' said Roza.
'No, me no wan' see dat dirty man fe here. Me no care if

he become born-again Christian. A dirty man is a dirty man

to me.'
The woman's voice was hushed as the house filled with
sympathizers.

132
 Shock and sorrow snapped the taut string that had held
Sonia's sanity together. She cried and raved for weeks, and
people did not know what to do. She was not completely mad,
but she was not herself. Her mother's neighbours, her friends
all helped. They made her local potions, they talked to her, but

all the time not reaching her at all. It was a miracle that she

survived the birth of her stillborn baby as she did nothing to

help the poor child's progress. By the time people knew she
was in labour, it was too late to do anything for the child.
With the help of the Pastor o f the church howling prayers
by the door of Naomi's shack, and the local midwife rubbing
Sonia's stomach with a mixture of herbs and lemon grass,
the child came out. If Sonia was aware of what was going on,
she did not show it. She simply looked blank. But the midwife,
Mama Jackson, gave her more of the mixture to drink, and
that mercifully sent her to sleep for over twelve hours. When
she woke, she had that glazed look of the mentally ill. Since
people did not know what else to do and because their Pastor
was getting tired of praying, it was decided that as Sister
Naomi had been a good Christian woman, Sonia should be
taken into church shelter.
Uncle Johnny, who would not let neighbours shame him
into silence and who was now a very good Christian and
respected in the church, suggested that maybe they should
write and tell Winston Brillianton of his wife's illness. But
Shivorn's mother Roza, who in church circles was now
known as Mrs Sister Blackson, said, 'You wan' mess up
people's life again, Johnny? Ah no care how many good deeds
you don done these days. A bad man always a bad man. Keep
your dirty fingers off Naomi's pie. Now which of oonu man
wan' hear say 'im missus don go crazy? Give her time, man,
she soon recover from the shock in no time at all, Winston
none the wiser.'
Since Uncle Johnny had repented his sins in the front of the
Apostolic congregation, he had learned to be angry silently.

133
Raising his voice would make people say, 'Leopards neber
lose dem spots, you know.' But he gave Roza an awfully
dark and unchristian look. And with his shoulders slouched,
sulked away, his not so white robe sweeping the dust.
'Some dem Christians don sin more than the very Satan,'
Roza continued in a loud voice for a good measure. This
raised a gentle laughter from the knot of loungers standing
by.
They did give Sonia time. She started to recover. Being in
an atmosphere that was not unlike a relaxed holiday camp
did help a good deal. The only thing that disturbed the
calmness was the prayer sung in the early morning, in the
afternoon, and in the evening. She did not have to worry
about her meals, her family's meals, their washing, their
bed-making and the children's bed-wetting. She did not even
have to worry about the weather. To pay for her keep she
had to sell most of the medicines she had bought for her
mother. Roza packed them all off to the Jewish man Mr Lasky
who had a chemist's shop by the alleyway off Jones Town in
Kingston. He paid her handsomely and requested more. The
chemist then sold the medicine to tourists and sailors who
wandered around the harbour. The Apostolic church forbade
white man's medicine. Some people who belonged to the
Rasta group said the medicine was from Babylon and that it
would do Sonia more harm than good. But Sonia rallied none
the less, and praised the Lord with the other sick people living
in the church haven.
When she went back to Naomi's shack, the pace of life was
still slow. She was not one of those people to put on airs

simply because she had lived in London for over seven years,
but the temptation to show off her good-quality clothes was
too much to resist. As she got better and stronger, she wore
her new clothes, put on her nice shoes, and carried her
beautiful handbags. All these made her stand out in the
congregation. And the Pastor was always inspired to say

134
thanksgiving prayers whenever Sonia was in church, which
was often.
Suddenly Sonia started to see the possibility of a new life
away from Winston. She truly loved her children and as she
got better she longed for them. But the thought of living by
herself as a person, with no mother to look after, no children
to feed and no man to cook for was at first disconcerting. She
felt frightened. She felt like a person without a purpose in

life. Like a person without roots. She knew that good women

were not supposed to live and exist for themselves. They were
expected to remain alive for others. They were created to
look after members of their families, to boost the ego of the
man in their lives, be the man a father, a husband, or even
a son. And they were to nurture and act as agony aunts to
their offspring. But to live for themselves was not to be. There
must be something awfully wrong with her to discover such
happiness in the selfish habit of doing exactly what she
wanted to do. 'Lawd, forgive me, a terrible sinner,' she prayed.
Yeah, she must be a terrible sinner to find out the joy
of taking her bath slowly, cherishing the warm water, the
satisfaction of massaging her own body herself with pure
coconut oil, and the joy of trying on several dresses before
choosing the one she would eventually wear. Roza, Shivorn's
mother, helped her with her cooking most of the time. And
she felt like a real Marm.
Previously, she used to pity single women, but now she
was not so sure. She had thought that they must be missing
sex and men terribly, until she started sleeping peaceably on
clean sheets without disturbance all night. She could even
sleep in her own blood on her bleeding days without the
added worries of how Winston must be feeling. What she
sometimes missed was his presence, just his solid self, since
he was neither a great talker nor a conscientious listener. But
was Winston missing her? she allowed herself to wonder at
times.

135
 The children? Yeah, they would be missing their Mammy.
But Gwendolen was there. She, a little Mammy herself.
So, Sonia Brillianton got about rediscovering the Jamaica
of her youth. She made many trips to the harbour, not
knowing exactly what she was looking for. She saw the bright
lights of the tourist hotels. She recoiled at the number of
young girls who had to live by selling their bodies. Somehow
she was an outsider. She watched people going in and out,
people swimming, people drinking fizzy drinks and sparkling
wines. She could not go in. She could not join in any of these
activities. The thought of being unfaithful to Winston did not

appeal to her. There was no need, because the temptation

never arose. She was a little saddened by this, but to herself
she said, There be two Jamaicas, man, two Jamaicas. One
for the rich whites and browns with education and sophisti-
cation, anoder for the black race.'
That heavy thought did not weigh on Sonia too long. She
shrugged her shoulders and allowed the sunshine to wash
over her. 'Was me not near death's door? Me Mammy done
go, me Fa too long gone. So what to do? Make me enjoy the
sunshine.'
Then suddenly the sense of guilt started to become heavier
and heavier. Had she mourned her mother long enough?
Why was she not missing her family? She would write to
them, she would. But writing was not so easy either. Before
she went to England, she could ask the Indian letter-writer,
now, with her new sophistication, she could not bring herself
to ask him again. They all knew she'd been to London. And
what a laugh to know that somebody who'd been to England,
the country in which the queen lived, the very 'Moder
Kontry', and stayed there years, could only recognize the
numbers and was not able to write to her husband.
Uncle Johnny used to help with such matters before. But
now, he was so distant. At one time she thought he was
trying to avoid her. She had asked Roza only the other day,

136
and her answer was so vague. 'You don' need men like him
no more, Sonia. Uncle Johnny done change. Him not so nice
a man any more. Just leave him be. What you want from
him anyhow?'
'But he a good Christian man nuh. Him and me Mammy
quarrel before she die?'
you just de recover from serious illness. No
'Look, Sonia,
trouble yourself no more 'bout him. Him come visit you?'
'No, I think him run away from me.'
'Well, leave him then.' Roza'c voice was very harsh.
Though Sonia was determined to talk to Uncle Johnny, she
never had the chance. He avoided her throughout the rest of
her stay.
Sonia thought of asking the church Pastor to help her but
as he was new in Granville he too did not know that she
could not write. To cover her shame, she went to church
carrying her mother's hymn book and Bible. She knew the
numbers of the hymns but sometimes it took too long a time
to find them. So she invariably gave up. Many members of
the church sang from memory. Most of the songs were
childhood favourites with rousing repetitive choruses. Oh,
servingGod in Jamaica could be a soul-lifting experience. No
wonder, the early Africans fell for it and threw away their
gods. The gods that demanded inaudible incantations and
grunts.
On
Sunday, on their leaving the church, Sonia mentally
calculated that she was not so bad off. The shack where her
mother had been living would make a small sum, when sold.
But suppose she was returning to Jamaica at a future date.
Suppose the government should say 'All blacks go home',
what then would she and her family do? Where then would
they stay?
'Me love it here, you know. Church clothes on Sundays,
the sunshine. Me love it, man.'
Roza stopped in her tracks. She was a beautiful plump

137
woman. Her skin which used to be as tight and shiny as that
of yellow apples was beginning to get dry in places. She had
a beautiful shape too, for her dresses were always pushed
back with her high African behind and the top of her was
ramrod straight. She was wearing a light yellow dress with
white spots. The short sleeves and neckline were edged with
white bias binding. Though the dress looked tired and over-
washed, yet one could see that it had been carefully starched
so that its crispness glowed. She had on a white beret and
was carrying the matching white handbag that Sonia had
brought her from England. She stepped back, her hands on
her hips with her plump shapely legs planted wide apart as
if to have a good look at Sonia.

Roza looked her up and down, as if she had just seen

her for the first time. She took in her straw hat with net, her
white lacy gloves, her stiff taffeta dress, and stared at her
matching shoes with a fashionable buckle, and said, 'You say
wharr, Sonia? What you say, 'oman? You gone ma -
'

Then she suddenly stopped, remembering her friend's

recent illness.
Sonia did not miss Roza's dramatic stop. She did not under-
stand why she could not say anything without its being
interpreted as a sign of madness, simply because she had a
mild attack of hysteria on reaching Jamaica, when she real-
ized her mother had actually died. But why Mr Aliyu and
did
Winston play her such a bad trick, hiding the truth from her?
Why did they let her buy all those medicines? She had had
to pay extra in order to bring the cartons into Jamaica. Making
her buy medicine for someone who had actually died. Nasty,
wicked joke. But she was well now. That mental illness is
one of those mishaps many people wrongly think the sufferers
never recover from, was new to Sonia.
But that was not what Roza meant. She was saying 'You
gone mad, woman,' as she would have said to anybody. What
stopped her was the fact that Sonia to her had actually been

138
mad, and that her question did not make sense. Roza opened
her mouth to explain, but she could not make it that easy.
She allowed a long silence to follow during which the sounds
of the grating of their shoes on the pebbles sounded so loud,
almost mini-earthquake. Then she plucked up courage
like a
and said what she had wanted to say at the beginning.
'Nothing dey here for you to love. Only wuk, wuk, and wait
your reward in heaven as the Pastor done just say.'
'Not bad here, Roza,' Sonia repeated, more to assure herself
than Roza.
'Specially now you get money to spend. When your man
stops sending you money, you come hate this place. Nutting
happens here, nutting.'
'He no send me money, you know. Ah still have some of
we padner money, na one whole year padner, you know. So
him no send money yet. Ah fit sell the honey farm though.'
Roza reached her shack first. She then said to Sonia all of
a sudden, 'You hear from Winston? You write to him. You
going back, you know. Must go back. Your pikneys dem,
what of dem? Must go back.'
Roza knew she could not write much. They grew up
together. Sonia felt betrayed somehow. Anyhow, how was
she to write Winston? Some friend!
Sonia felt sad. The song 'Count your blessings one by one',
which they had sung as the offertory hymn and which she
had thought of humming when alone, died in her chest. Roza
suddenly made her feel as if she had no blessings to count
one by one. Well, maybe she must go back. Back to London
with its rain. London with its grey skies. London with its
green trees and concrete pavements. London where she could
make money looking after other people's children, where she
could sew endless clothes for her family. For relaxation, she
and Winston made love when the children were asleep.
London where her family and their friends were. How long
had she been away? How long had she been ill? A year or

139
two? 'God died for the truth, time done fly like crazy bats
with wings.' But why Winston no write?
But Winston too could not write, for the same reason that
she could not communicate with her family. They were both
isolated in their illiteracy. A problem that never bothered her
before loomed so large. Her children must learn to read and
write. She must go back home. Home? Where - London?
Home is where the people she loved lived. Her Mammy's
gone, and her Fa too. But Ronald, Marcus, Cheryl baby,
Gwendolen and Winston were all there in London. So what
she doing here for so long? Yeah, Roza right, think me crazy.
If she could write, she would have written her friend Mrs

Odowis to find out how her family were. She could have com-
municated her doubts to her. Suddenly she realized that
though Mrs Odowis came from Africa, and she from Jamaica,
they had more in common. She could no longer relate to Roza
the way she used London all those years
to before she left for
ago. Roza could only talk of the London of her dreams, but she
knew the reality that was her London. She would go back,
of that therewas no doubt. This had been a long holiday of
[Link] had changed. The sunshine and easy-
goingness were no longer her priorities. Those were across the
sea.
The money she would get from selling her mother's shack.
The shack in which she was 'birthed', in which her Fa gone
out to his death, in which Gwendolen was born and her
mother Naomi had died, would have to be sold. The money
from the sale would pay her fares back to London. She
remembered the prayers her mother had said for her when
she was leaving for England. 'Go to England dem, and make
money and return quick.'
Sonia's ghostly laughter disturbed a rat under the bamboo
bed on which she was lying. Suddenly, the night became
endless.

140
 12

Emmanuel

People say that 'Every day is not Christmas.' Even happy

people have their moody
Dogs and mentally ill people
days.
are said to be affected by the moon. Mr Ilochina had long
noticed these changes in his friend, Winston. The two men
got on very well. They both worked hard to feed their families,
but sometimes Ilochina noticed that his taciturn friend be-
came even more quiet. He would go about his work slowly
and methodically without acknowledging anyone's presence.
If Ilochina tried to probe him with his usual banter, Winston

Brillianton would turn those deep, black, set eyes on him and
he would shrink into deeper silence. And if Ilochina had
disregarded the dismissive behaviour and probed further
none the less, Winston would have said, 'Loo loo . . . . . .

look, eberyday not Christmas, you know.'

But of recent, the silence was becoming too long and the
sighs of his friend too deep. Ilochina was getting tired of
waiting for Winston to get over whatever it was that was
bothering him and be his usual self again.
One day, they sat astride a pile of foam, discarded from a
derelict house, for their lunch break. Winston started to roll
and unroll a cigarette paper.
T don't know you've started smoking,' Ilochina said tenta-
tively.
'Ah s . . 'ome in Jamaica, you know. 'Cause Ah
. moke at
work Ca
in a cemetery, Calvary Cemetery, and to walk
. . .

home ... Ah go thru White Road. You you get White . . .

Road in Africa? You have cemetery dere? You know wharr

Ah mean, cemetery wharr dem tro way dead bodies?'
141
 Winston was ready to talk. Ilochina's legal mind was re-
awakening. Something terrible, almost too terrible to give
name, was worrying his friend of many years. He hoped he
would be of help. He had pulled all the strings in the book to
make the council give him a four-bedroom flat. The auth-
orities wanted to put the Brillianton family in a hotel, but
thank goodness, they claimed they could not understand
Winston's English. Ilochina's persistence and Winston's bulky
presence did intimidate the bureaucrats. They hurriedly put
them in an 'emergency flat' in another part of Camden, but
Winston was delighted. The boys had a room, Cheryl one,
one for Winston and Sonia, and there was one extra which
Gwendolen quickly claimed. Winston was so happy about
their fortune that many a time he was tempted to ask his
friend to help him write a letter to Sonia to tell her of the
family's good luck. But not after the humiliation from Mr
Aliyu. Yet all that was over months ago.
'You know in Africa, men have several wives,' Winston
began.
T have two wives, remember, and I live in Britain.'
'Yeah, yeah, me know. But do you marry your daughters?'
Ilochina was a bulky man too. He used his bulk to slow
down his work, whenever he wanted to. But Winston's
question shot him up like a bolt. He tried to talk but his
mouth went dry. Winston was the one who collected himself
quickly enough to ask, 'You all right?'
'Yes, I'm fine. What did you ask again?'
'Oh, Ah forget,' Mr Brillianton said quickly.
Ilochina was offended. What have those culture killers
done to a nice brother like this? First he had asked him several
embarrassing questions, whether they lived in houses or
trees, now he wanted to know whether they had cemeteries
or ate their dead relatives. But all that he could ignore. But
to ask if a father could marry his own daughter! That really
beat the band. A daughter belonged to the father, her bride

142
price was his. If the daughter was chaste, it would enhance
her father's position and make him richer. So why should a
father wish to ruin his own wealth?
Then he remembered a moonlight story which his mother
toldhim when he was a boy. The man in the story had
committed an incest with his daughter and, according to the
culture of the land, the women of the village executed the
man. And if the man had not been caught, he would have
been killed by thunder. And when the women took hold of
his penis and were about to chop it off, he burst into a song
of agony: 'Na me born am, na me fuc am, na me giam
belleoooo. Please forgive me, na me ting did it ooo.' But the
women were merciless, because it was a sin against the Earth.
They pounded him into a pulp with their cooking utensils.
Every woman in the village was 'expected to give at least
seven blows with her odo handle. It was so terrible that such
stories remained what they were, stories and legends. But to
hear a full-grown man actually saying it, made his whole
body shiver. What had slavery done to a nice brother like
this? His heart cried again.
He intensified his gaze on Winston. And Winston shifted
uneasily. Ilochina's gaze started to ask many questions. And
he could see that Winston was not going word. So he
to say a
told his friend the story. He explained to him that through the
moonlight stories,he learned of the sins that were against the
'Earth'. He told him the meaning of the 'Earth'. That the land
is the soul and life-blood of a community. That the land never

belonged to an individual. That from the land we are

nourished. That when we die we go back to the land to manure
it, in order to feed the next generation. That so our 'Chi' or

souls go in circles. That to offend the land or Earth was to offend

something greater than one's soul. And a father who had any
sexual urge towards his daughter had offended the Earth. II-
ochina thought he saw Winston shrink into a smaller size.
And surprisingly without a stammer, Winston asked, 'And
143
if dem no catch the fader and the fader pay no mind about
the bride price?'
'He would be discovered because the daughter would talk
to the women. Daughters are very close to their mothers in
our land. If he is not discovered, he will surely be killed by
an Earth force like thunder, you know, natural electricity,
drowning, just an Earth force. Natural disaster or what we
say, in legal terms, the "acts of God".'
'Aw,' Winston said in a distant voice.
Gwendolen was so playful. She would walk about the
house with her flimsy gymslip on and when amused she
would lift her leg up and laugh out loud, like a woman teasing
a lover. And she was sixteen. Her young bosom taunted him.
What could he do? He was not drunk. He just went in to
her, hoping she would fight him off like any other woman.
Because she was like any other woman to him. She was
almost grown before she came back into his life. He tried to
equate this young and vibrant person with the baby he
kissed goodbye years back in Jamaica, but could not. Cheryl
was his biological and social daughter. But somehow, Gwen-
dolen was only a biological one and he never really felt
socially responsible for her. She looked so much like her
mother, the bow legs, the bias gait, leaning to one side of her.
She was like another person, yet the type of woman he
favoured, small, vulnerable, just like his Sonia. And like this
woman he expected her to fight him off. After all
other
women were expected to do that - ward men off. He was
not prepared for the look of resignation on Gwendolen's face.
He remembered vaguely that when he was overcome by
desire hehad begged her to give him herself, because he was
her Daddy, and if she loved him she would not deny him the
little favour. He did not expect Gwendolen to believe him.
Men say all kinds of nonsense when roused. No woman
with her head rightly screwed on believed such rubbish. But
Gwendolen did. The girl was stupid.

144
 But Gwendolen remembered Uncle Johnny. He had said
to her, 'Every gal done done it. Dat's why they're girls.'
She remembered too that you got into trouble with the old
women, if you should tell them. But she wished her father
would not ask her to do this. She could not scream, because
though he begged, he covered her mouth with that strong
hand of his. It was soon over. What she did not expect was
her father's reaction. Yes, she fought timidly, but she was not
a [Link] had been taught what to do. In this project she
was already adept, much much older than her age.
'You allow men to do this to you before, June-June?' the
enraged father cried. He thought he was going to be the first.
What a disappointment.
'Yes, Daddy, many times in Granville. Many, many times.
Almost every night for years.' Gwendolen was growing very
fast. She too was learning to shock. She was not going to

allow the world to blame her for the second time. No need
to tell a lie now. Her Daddy might as well know all. After all,
he was her Daddy.
'Shut up, shut up, me say. You bitch. Why you no say so
before? You for stay in Jamaica. B bitch. You allow men
. . .

to trouble you and you no tell me or your Mammy. You

wicked gal. Devil gal. Wicked.'
And he allowed his anger to overcome him. And he started
shouting at her. Gwendolen became frightened. Cries of fear
escaped from her mouth, and Ronald woke, and Cheryl
started to howl, and Winston blindly rushed into his room.
He shouted to the other children to go to sleep because
June-June was having a nightmare.
The following day was a Sunday. It took her a long time
to get ready for church. When
her father Winston started to
preach about the sins of the world, she wondered if her father
did not know that what he did to her last night was a grave
[Link] looked at him as if in a daze. Something was telling
her that this man, though her father whom she loved dearly,

145
was not going to get away with it. The pain was too deep to
surface. Uncle Johnny was a stupid old man. But what of her
lovely Daddy? To her, he was dead now. This one preaching
was his shell, not the real one any more. Where would she
find the friend to talk to? To Jesus? He was so far away.
Gwendolen went back to the shell she had built around
herself against the adults in Granville. She had been out of it
the day her Daddy came to pick her up at the airport and she
had given him her hand to lead her to the future. Now she
had go back into it.
to
On Monday, she missed school. What was the point? Her
father was normally not violent. He stammered a lot, but his
solid silence was intimidating as well as protective. Now he
seemed to be creeping about in his house. She saw, too, that
he had lost the right to tell her what to do. She noted the

helplessness of this walking shell, but was not quite sure how
she was going to deal with The damage had been done.
it.

No going back. So whenever this shell padded into her room

at night, when the boys were asleep, she would not make a
sound. She would just lie there very still, suffering his anger
and guilt.
She was a wicked girl, he had said so himself. Uncle Johnny
had messed her up: a fact she thought she was going to keep
from her parents for ever, since it would cause them pain.
Now that her father had known and had condemned her, he
had become somebody else too. And for this somebody else,
she had to lie very still, because she had no solid and protec-
tive Daddy to shield her any more. Also, no one was going
to know about it. Oh, what was her mother doing in Jamaica
all this time anyhow?
Yeah, the school did write a half-hearted letter asking
where she was, but she ignored them. They never did under-
stand her anyhow. She was not learning anything, only
wasting time putting on a ridiculous purple uniform and
going there and sitting around doing nothing. Anyway, there

146
was so much to do at home, clothes to wash, dinner to
get, chores that would be waiting for her, school or no
school. She might as well stay at home. But she made
sure her brothers and Cheryl never missed school.
And strange enough, they obeyed her. She felt like their
little Mammy.
Gwendolen had heard enough about pregnancy and child-
birth - the only lesson that made sense to her at school - to
know that she was pregnant. She did not tell Winston. He
was so distant and silent these days that one could have
mistaken him for a man who had lost the use of his tongue.
And his silence made Gwendolen more and more guilty. She
felt like a child who kept on stealing money from her mother's

purse, but knew that one day, just one day, she would be
caught. Even the loud laughter and thigh-lifting he used to
do when happy disappeared. Sometimes she felt like going
to him in broad daylight and assuring him that all would be
right. But would it be all right in the end? She did not know.

So her feelings see-sawed. One minute she would be in deep

despair, her heart pounding, especially when she looked out
of their window and saw girls from her school walking down
the road. Other times she would be so happy and became
almost obsessional about the way she looked. She saved
enough money from the housekeeping allowance to buy
loads of cheap make-up.
And those old women started to look at her in a curious
way. Sister Esmee did not stop at looking, she went further.
She started to ask questions.
'Gwendolen, you go to school so?'
'Yeah, Sister, I go to school.'
'Gwendolen, you get a boy-friend?'
What type of silly question for a sister in Christ to ask
anyone. Gwen jutted her chin forward, her nose in the air,

and did not bother to answer Sister Esmee. That sister was
too much of a Nosy Parker anyhow. Then Gwen heard her

147
say with a kind of roughness in her voice, 'Brother Winston,
we wan' taak to you.'
Gwendolen's heart sank. She swallowed hard. Her feet
wobbled. With the corner of her eyes, she could see the
two adults talking. Her Daddy was looking furtively at her.
Normally they waited for their father after church to say all
his hallos and how-do-you-dos to all their friends. But today,
one look at Esmee and her Daddy told her that they suspected
what she had known for almost three months, but had
refused to give name. She decided to go home alone. Their
new flat was within walking distance anyway. Her heart
started to pound again. What would happen now? She had
pushed the thought of it all to the back of her mind, hoping
that something would happen to solve the problem for her.
She'd never heard of any girl who was made pregnant by her
father before. The teachers did talk to them about sex at
school, and many a time she and her friends made jokes
about it. But the subject of what to do if your father made
you pregnant was never discussed.
When Winston returned from the church, he looked
drained. Now she knew. If those ladies, Esmee and the rest
of them, were not sure of her pregnancy, they must have
asked her father some close and embarrassing questions. He
said nothing to her, and she said nothing either. But he
stopped padding into her room at night. Many a time, she
caught him watching her with the corner of his eyes. As there
was nothing she could do about it, she just lived from day to
day.
She stopped going to church and would hide every time
Mrs Odowis came to see how they were. Mrs Odowis did not
come often, because she was busy with her family. But even
though she was close to the Briiliantons, Gwendolen did not
have enough courage to tell her. She had this fear that not
only would they all blame her, but that her father could be
jailed. This country was strange.

148
 She had the whole day to shop for their bread, potatoes
and tripe which she would later make into a stew. Their new
garden had a sun-porch and she liked to stand there enjoying
the mild spring sunshine after doing the house chores, waiting
for her brothers and sister. Without knowing it, she was
beginning to feel like and innocently to enjoy the role of a
housewife.
Suddenly, she noticed that this boy from the other side of
the estate started saying hallo to her. She said hallo back.
Then one morning, he asked abruptly, 'What's your name
anyway?'
Gwendolen felt that that was not a nice way to ask people
their name and said so. But she did not ask him
So instead
his.

of saying that he was sorry, he said, 'My name is Emmanuel.'

He did not even stop there. For like Sister Esmee, he went
on to enquire, 'Aren't you supposed to be at school, any-
way?'
T don't like school,' Gwendolen said without any hesi-
tation. She had heard that statement made often enough by
many of her class-mates. T don't like school', a statement
that would not have made sense in Jamaica. For what was
there to like about school anyway? You just went there to
learn a lot of meaningless jumble, which you would spend
the rest of your life putting in meaningful order again. She
was enjoying her freedom, she implied to Emmanuel.
'What do your parents say?'
'Mum is in Jamaica, and Daddy does not care one way or
the other.'
T bet your Daddy does not know you are bunking off
school.'
'So what are you then, a police officer? You're not too old
for school as well.'
Emmanuel laughed, displaying the braces in his teeth. T
went to school faithfully, never bunked off. My father wanted
me to be a doctor. He told all his friends that I was going

149
to be a clever doctor, but though I went to school and did
everything the teachers never became a doctor. So Dad
said, I

is mad at me all the time. So I stopped school and he became

madder. What is your Mum doing in Jamaica then?'

Gwendolen could not answer because for the first time in
her life, she'd found somebody who could put into words

some of the things she was feeling. She was laughing so much
that tears came into her eyes.
'So what do you do apart from avoiding your Daddy?'
'Oh, I go to Youth Opportunity.'
'Youth Opportunity, what's that?'
Emmanuel laughed now. you know what Youth 'Don't
Opportunity means? Coo ram it down your throat
. . . they
in our school. Everybody knows what it means. Even my
mother, well, stepmother, knows all about it. She can't wait
to get me out of the house. Since I left school, it's been nag,
nag, nag . .
.'

'What do you do there? Will they take me or is it for boys

only? Oh, yeah, I forgot, I won't be able to go, I'm too busy

cooking and washing.'

Emmanuel had thick brown brows. He knitted them
together, and at the same time clasped his palms as if in
prayer. He looked really silly like that, but what he was doing,
was thinking. He did not think that what Gwendolen had
just said was right somehow. But then Gwendolen was of
West Indian parents and maybe that made it right. He cleared
his knitted brow, unclasped his hands and tried very much
to be polite and not too inquisitive. 'Do you want to know
my name?'
'Unless you have other name besides Emmanuel. You told
me before, remember.'
'Oh I forgot.'
'You forget so easily. You're mad.'
They both started to laugh again.
'Look', Emmanuel said, with a little hesitation. He knew

150
how strict West Indian dads could be, but he would try

anyway. 'Would your Dad mind if we go out one night?'

Gwendolen started to laugh afresh. 'Go out to do what?'
'Hmmm, for a drink.'
'Aw, I'll ask. If he says yes, I'll tell you tomorrow. Must
dash in now. Otherwise I'll stand here laughing all morning

and not clean the house.'

Gwendolen was taken aback by her father's jubilation. He
started to stammer so rapidly that she could not make out
what he was saying for a while. His happiness was so infec-
tious that she laughed with him too. Something that had not
happened in months. He kept saying, 'June-June, you got
yourself a man nuh, you big 'oman nuh.' He repeated this
so many times that even Ronald started calling Emmanuel
Gwendolen's sweetheart even though they had not been out
together.
Amanda and the other girls had told her how strict their

parents were. That much she knew. But she was lucky, she
thought. Her nice Daddy did not mind.
Emmanuel was was not complaining.
surprised too. But he
He had thought taking ayoung black girl out would be
extremely difficult. This was a change for him. Life was
becoming really impossible, so much so that many a time
he felt suicidal. He was learning carpentry at the Youth
Opportunity. He liked it very much. He enjoyed creating
things, not just with wood but with other materials like paint
and paper, but carpentry was near enough for the time being.
He knew he had disappointed his father. But then the more
he tried to be academic, the more he slipped lower down.
Before his stepmother returned from her office cleaning
job, Emmanuel had washed himself and put on his new
jacket, which he bought from a woman at the Youth Oppor-
tunity place. The woman had a catalogue, and she was learn-
ing how to start a business. So her persuading most of the
students to buy from her was a good practical exercise.

151
 Gwendolen was waiting for him in her church dress and
coat.
'You going nuh?' Winston asked.
'Uh-huh,' Gwendolen replied proudly.
Winston smiled. 'Ha have a goo' time, gal,' he stam-
. . .

mered. Those church women would soon learn that Gwen-

dolen had got herself a boy-friend. This, please God, would
cover his shame. And Gwendolen was not the type of girl to
speak up against her Daddy.
Emmanuel, for no reason at all, kept asking her what her
mother was doing in Jamaica. When Gwendolen told him
that she went because of her sick mother, who had now died,
he then remarked, T bet if your mother was here, she would
refuse me taking you out.'
'Why would she do that?'
'Well, I have not known you long and I'm white.'
'Yeah, but she might not, because you're only Greek.'
'Yeah, but I'm white and you're black, and your parents
may not like it.'

'My Daddy did.'

T notice that. Strange though, but I like it. Don't you?'

Gwendolen beamed. She'd never been out with anyone
before, white, blue or pink. Colour was not her problem. She
was out to enjoy herself in her best dress and with a nice
friendly boy.
They took a bus and went to the other side of Camden near
Regent's Park. They walked half the park in the darkening
evening, andEmmanuel showed Gwendolen where the zoo
was. 'Only too late now, we can't go in. One day, we'll
it's

come during the daytime.' Then when they were tired of

walking they went into a pub.
'How old are you?' the man behind the counter wanted to
know. Emmanuel did not like being asked his age in the
presence of all these people drinking and in such a loud voice.
'All right, all right, I'm not deaf. I'm twenty,' he lied.

152
 'And that bit with you?'
'She's not a bit, she's my girl and she's em . . . em . . .

eighteen.'
Gwendolen was overdressed with ribbons and bows and
schoolgirl's shoes. Emmanuel knew he felt like calling her
Cindy doll when he first saw her in all her finery, but refrained
from saying anything. The landlord said he was not sure, so
he refused to serve them.
Emmanuel really decided to impress Gwendolen. This is
racial prejudice, just because my girl is black,' he cried in
righteous anger. 'What of her individual rights?'
'It has nothing to do with her colour. I don't care what

colour she is and you for that matter. You're not from the
House of Windsor with all your whiteness. I'm just not serving
you both alcohol. So get out!'
Gwendolen, who had never had time to enjoy the excite-
ment of annoying adults this way, found the whole thing
hilarious. She could not stop laughing. She did not care
whether they had beer or orange juice, making all this palaver
over nothing was fun.
'If you don't do as you're told, I'll get the police,' the

landlord threatened.
Emmanuel froze, but his watchful eye followed the man
as he picked up the telephone. Then he said disappointedly,
'Let's go, Gwen.'
Outside, he beamed and said, 'That was nice, wasn't it?'
'Yeah, and you know so many big words. Prejudice and
individual - what's individual rights? Hmm, you must have
learned a lot from your school, white Greek boy.'
'No I never!' Emmanuel almost exploded. 'That school
never taught me nothing. I learned those words from reading
the newspapers.'
'Yeah? You read the papers? I don't believe you.' Though
Gwendolen's voice was teasing, she was proud to be going
out with a boy who read the papers and who could recall the

153
big words he'd read as well. Curiosity palpitated her heart,
but she suppressed it. Maybe one day, she too would learn
to read the papers. If only she had had a teacher to teach her
privately how to read, and not be sent down in disgrace
almost, to that horrible 'remedial class', telling everybody
how dumb you were. She would learn, one day. She would.
'I read them from Emmanuel's voice proudly
front to back.'
cut into her thoughts. He was now boasting. 'I don't buy
them. People leave them in buses and trains, and I pick them
up, the clean ones mind you. Then I read them over and over
until I get another one. One day, I am going to know how to
use so many big words and that would make me into a
politician.'
'What is a politician? What do politiciansdo? Are they like
the police? Hmmmm, po-li-ti-cian. Sounds like policeman.
Are they the same word?'
Emmanuel laughed so heartily that Gwendolen joined too,
though she did not know what he was laughing at. But
looking at his face go red with amusement, and those funny
braces on his teeth, was enough to set Gwendolen off.
'Gwendolen, you're crazy.'
T know, and so are you.'
T know that too. My mother, well, stepmother, says that
to me every day.'
Off Parkway,Emmanuel told Gwendolen to wait outside,
whilst he went into an off-licence to buy a bottle of cider for
Gwendolen and two pints of lager for himself. He did not
know which of the two had more alcohol. All he knew was
that a girl should drink from a bottle and a man from a can.
Gwendolen did not know the difference; she simply enjoyed
the sweetness of the cider.
They sheltered at the tube station in Camden Town and
went drinking and making rude remarks about anybody who
happened to stare at them. A police car roared past and
Emmanuel hiccoughed and said, T don't like police cars.'
154
 'Me neither. I don't like any policeman. I hope you don't
become one when you learn all those big words.'
'You're daft. Politician is different from policeman.' He
hiccoughed again. 'Let's go to your place. Will your father
mind?'
'He's asleep maybe.' She laughed.
Gwendolen had no idea how Winston would behave. She
did not know how this lovely evening would end. But there
was nothing bad in trying.
Her guess was right. Her Daddy was asleep on his favourite
fireside chair with the television on. She and Emmanuel
walked on tiptoes into her own room.
When there, they at first simply started to giggle. They felt
triumphant, in having cheated the adult world all evening.
Gwendolen had seen sex scenes on television. She used to
wonder why people seemed to like it. From her limited
experience, sex was a humiliation in which women had to
give in to their men just to make them happy. Her stay in
England had taught her she could refuse. With her Daddy
she was too stunned to say a word. Emmanuel was different.
With him it was a play. It was an escape from reality. She
pushed to the very back of her mind the knowledge of her
pregnancy. They played, they fondled. And the fact that they
were mildly drunk made things easier still, but Gwendolen
knew what she was doing. Emmanuel was not that drunk
either. They both knew what they were doing.
Soon her condition would be obvious. She might as well
have a little pleasure - the type she'd seen actresses enjoy on
television in bedroom scenes. Emmanuel was light, he was
young. Emmanuel was fun.
'I've really never done this before well, not to this
. . .

extent,' he said hoarsely, searching for her face in the dark

night.
'My head is cold. I must cover my hair, otherwise it will be
ruined and it takes ages to curl,' Gwendolen murmured to

155
prevent him from asking her intimate questions. She might
be tempted to speak the truth.
'Oh sorry,' Emmanuel said, jumping up. 'What do you
cover it with, a hat? Where is it?'
Gwendolen pointed to it and Emmanuel brought the wool-
len hat Granny Naomi gave her years ago. It had now ex-
panded to double its original size, but Gwendolen had kept
it fluffy and clean and used it as a comforter every night. It

kept her ears warm.

'Do you think I'm good?'
'Wharr ... oh my
Lawd, white boy. You very good. You
Gwendolen was almost sobbing now.
perfect. You're loving.'
She would have liked them to go on like this, just living
like this. And to send to hell all worries about education,
about race, you brown, you white and me black; and to say
'so what' about her pregnancy. Why should life not be this
simple!
She jolted herself back to reality when she saw Emmanuel
peering at her. Tears were running from her eyes now.
'Please don't cry, Gwendolen. I didn't mean to well,
. . .

next time I'll buy a condom. I didn't know the evening

would end like this. Honest, Gwen, I didn't mean to . .
.'

She put her fingers over his lips.

'So many tings you no understand, white boy.'
'Stop calling me white boy! How would you like it if I call
you black girl?'
Gwendolen giggled through her tears, and they clung to
each other once more. Just like two kids drowning and who
had to cling to each other to keep themselves afloat. Once
more, now without any regret, they allowed themselves to
float into the realms of fantasy.
At length, Emmanuel could see the early light of a new
day peeping through the thin curtain. He got dressed quietly
and slipped out of the house. So quietly, that when
Gwendolen woke up, she thought at first that she had

156
dreamed it all. But the chocolate bar which they had intended
eating later was still there and so were the tissue papers

Emmanuel scattered on the floor in his excitement.

So it was real, this type of life. So it was possible. So, one
could really care for another person.
Winston was not unaware of what was going on. He heard
them when they came in. He did pray for God's forgiveness
and thanked him for sending a deliverance in the person of
Emmanuel. He consoled himself that Emmanuel looked like
who could be a good playmate for his daughter.
a nice boy,
Fate,he knew, had played him a bad joke in not making
Emmanuel a black boy, but a white boy-friend was better for
Gwendolen than no boy-friend at all. For all that he was very
grateful.

157
 13

Sonia's Return

Reality hit Sonia frontally at London Airport. The immi-

gration officers wanted to know why she was coming back
to England after nearly a two-year stay in Jamaica. They
were impatient with her fast patois voice. And if they were
impatient, Sonia was the soul of patience. She learned this
very early from her Mammy! 'No need to vex with the
authority dem.' And her personal experience reminded her
that anything that had the slightest hint of white authority
would be slow but steady. She knew they would eventually
let her into England, because she'd lived and worked there

for years and her family were there. But she also knew that
with her being black and alone, the immigration people
would like to have their fun. She 'paid them no mind', after
all did she not have all day? She had not told anybody that

she was returning. The place was warm and she was not
hungry. The officers, noticing her vulnerability, asked her to
wait. Sonia waited till all the other passengers from her plane
had been seen to.
Wicked snide jokes were made of her. Unfortunately for
them, though she was alone, she was completely impervious
to their jibes. A female officer pointed out to her that she
would catch cold if she kept wearing her stockings without
suspenders.
'You should not tie them with your
a string at the top of
knee. Your skirt is too short and it shows. You see,
you if

don't mind my saying so, I can't help seeing the string.' Her
voice had that condescending candy tone used by the vulgar
to address the afflicted.

159
 never occurred to Sonia to tell her to go to hell and to
It

stay there, or to remind her that her false hairpiece was askew
and that it did not match her natural hair. Or that her denture
made her look like a grinning skeleton. Such confident obser-
vations were left to the likes of her children who were not
going to be satisfied with half-measures from the society in
which they were born and in whose reshaping they were
playing their parts.
Sonia simply said, 'Aw', and they laughed and let her go.
She laughed too but it was that uncertain laughter in which
one was aware of being the object of fun and yet helpless to
do anything about it. One thing such treatment did to Sonia
was to make her feel small and stupid; to make her retreat
into a greater sense of insecurity.
The officers loved the likes of her, the lower working-class
blacks. Life would have been easier if they were all kept that
way, in picturesque ignorance from which they could be
called upon to display their physical agility in sports or to
wail their fate in low haunting melodies, for the amusement
of all.

At length their faces relaxed and they smiled at her, sweetly

waving exaggeratedly as if to a child of four. Sonia saw it all

with the corner of her eyes and she heard their voices sink
into a confidential whisper. But she just let it all pass over

her water over a duck and went her way. But not
like spring
before she said in an undertone, 'Stinking Pinky.' She was
by then out of earshot and about to board the bus that would
take her to Central London.
June in London is a month of roses. Their various shapes,
sizes and colours gave Sonia's part of London the look that
carnival floats would give to roadways. Their sweet smell
filled the air, making it heavy and gaudy. Modest council

houses, privately owned three-ups-and-two-downs, and

huge five-to-eight-bedroomed houses all had a rose-bush or
two in front of their gardens.

160
 As Sonia tumbled out of the bus that took her to the front
of her house off Stroud Green, the gaudy scent filled her
lungs. Even in June the sunshine was pale, the air watery. It
was nothing compared to the direct sunshine of Granville
where the hibiscus was full-blown and fire-coloured but
inadvertently covered with dust.
She dragged her case along the grey pavement noticing the
square cement slabs as if for the first time, the trees now full

of leaves, the shut windows, the quiet and indifferent streets.

Her arms were going limp and she was forced to put her case
down. Putting her hands akimbo she remarked under her
breath, 'So much done dey change huh?' If she had been a
poet, if she could write all her feelings down, she would have
at least written Roza about it. But like millions of black
women to whom education - the means of communicating
their thoughts to another - was denied, her confused and yet
exhilarating feelings died in her head. For however glorious
an admiration, however noble an idea, if it is not written or
communicated and shared with another, it might as well not
have been experienced at all. Sonia picked up her heavy case,
walked the few paces to her house and lifting the knocker
gave a big bang on the door. She had not taken her key with
her when she left because the hurry was that much. However,
she was home now, and someone was sure to be in.
There was no response to her several knocks. Gradually
she was becoming aware of the chilly air in her light white
cardigan and white hat. She knocked again and, getting no
answer, peeped into the letter box like a child. Yes, she was
at the right door. The straight brown stairs were still there
and so was the yellow wallpaper with green leaves. The naked
light bulb still dangled in utter loneliness in the hallway. She
could not see their part of the house, because the stairs

curved to the right before opening on to their own landing.

Unwittingly, she went down the doorsteps on to the pave-
ment and looked at their window. She smiled. 'June-June

161
change the curtain, and maybe them dey school. Lawd, wish
me take me key wid me.'
She saw a silver-haired woman coming up the street and
waited to find out the time. Three o'clock,' the woman
snapped without looking at Sonia. People get so offended
here, she [Link] only asked for de time! Lawd ha'
mussy. June-June soon come back. She sat by the steps and
waited.
She saw schoolchildren passing. But no Gwendolen, no
Ronald and Marcus or even Cheryl. She thought of her Cheryl
baby and smiled. She be big girl nuh, a big 'oman at school
nuh. Sonia was getting chillier and chillier and knew that she
needed a shelter. She could not just go to the next-door
neighbour and say, 'Please could I sit until my children return
from school?' No, this is Englan' she's arrived. She not in
Granville nuh. This is Englan', where eberybody mind dem
business.
She must go somewhere though. Her feet ached badly now.
But an inexplicable sense of unease was enveloping her. For
no reason whatsoever, she started to worry. Where were her
family? Reluctantly she dragged her heavy suitcase to Mrs
Odowis's flat.
It was one thing pulling a heavy suitcase along the pave-

ment, but when one had to carry it up several flights of stairs

to get to a third-floor flat, it was killing. Sonia almost collapsed
at Gladys Odowis's door.
Mrs Odowis's little girl Ijeoma opened the door. And instead
back inside excitedly and shouted,
of inviting her in, she ran
'Mum, Mum, Ronald's Mum
is back. She's here. She is

standing outside by the door and she has a suitcase with

her.'
Gladys Odowis ran out welcoming. 'Ah, Sonia, woman
from Jamaica, welcome back. We thought you have forgotten
all about us in that sunshine. Welcome. Come in.'

'Lawd Almighty, Mrs Odowis, me tired, man. Me so tired.'

162
Sonia groaned, feeling the weight of all her thirty-eight years.
'I am not surprised. When did you arrive? Welcome.'
'Since eleben o'clock dis mawning me reach airport.'
No sooner was she seated than Gladys cried, 'Well, have a
cup of tea.'

Sonia smiled. The corners of her eyes made little wrinkles.

Yeah, back to the cup of tea routine, she thought. And aloud
she said, 'Me wait fe me door, but nobody don return from
school yet.'
Gladys got out her proper teapot and put two tea-bags in
[Link] set out the cups and saucers, milk jug and sugar bowl,
all on a posh Marks & Spencer's tray. She was trying to
impress Sonia. One look at Sonia told Gladys that she had
slipped back a little. Her white straw hat was too beautiful
and quite unnecessary for that slightly tight dress she was
wearing. As as for those stockings Gladys always hated
. . .

tights and stockings, and she never acquired the habit of

wearing them all the time. She found them sticky and un-
comfortable. But the few occasions circumstances forced her
to wear them she made sure they were worn properly and
without any ladders. But Sonia's were badly worn and had
laddered in places due to the long journey.
'Sugar?' she asked solicitously.
me take three, you know.'
'Yeah,
T remember, Sonia, and you didn't put on an ounce of
weight. I don't know how you do it. You're even slimmer
now. I think it is the sunshine at home. It burns all the
fat.'

'The food too. Not much frying, not much meat. A lotta
boiling.'
The tea was refreshing and so were the Woolworths bis-

cuits.
When Gladys saw that her friend was getting her breath
back, she said gently, 'Sonia, I'm sorry about your mother's
death. Winston told me. It must have been very upsetting

163
and in the condition in which you were. What happened to
the ba - '

The eyes Sonia focused on her were sad eyes. '

Tm die too,
die quick, quick, just like that.' And she flipped her thumb
and her middle finger.
'Sorry, Sonia.'
They munched the biscuits in silence for a while, Sonia
wondering whether something terrible had happened to her
family.
'Winston and the kids, dem all right?'
'Oh yeah, they are fine. I saw them only a week ago.
They've all grown. But my husband, the children's father,
he's gone back to Nigeria. He's married another woman. They
had a white wedding. I saw it in a Nigerian paper.'
'No, Mrs Odowis! But you no divorce him, how 'im marry
again?'
'Hmm, our men they I am happier now.
don't care. But
Free to do anything Her eyes went to the suitcase
I like.'

Sonia dragged in with her and she remarked, 'Your case is

very heavy. We black women, we never travel light. Did you
see any African women at the airport? We are like tortoises,
we carry all our worldly goods on our backs.'
They both laughed. Again Sonia felt closer to Gladys than
she was to Roza. They were like lost children. They had stayed
away from their countries of birth too long. It would have
been nice if they could feel their beating heart each time the
British national anthem was sung. But no, they could not do
that either. Because even if they had stayed all their lives
here, they would be perpetually marginalized and that would
always make them suffer a kind of religious, social and politi-
cal paralysis.
'You know,' Gladys volunteered, 'you'll have to go home
and ask Gwendolen to come and pick up this case. It is too
heavy.'
'But dem still dey school.'

164
 Gladys laughed again. 'I have good news for you. Your
family have moved into a beautiful council flat, in St Pancras
Way, not too far from here. That's why there was no answer
to your knocks.'
'When dem move?' Sonia asked aghast. 'Where to? Me no
know, you know.' All these questions tumbled out from
Sonia's lips. She was almost childlike in her curiosity. 'The
house big? Lawd ha' mussy! Nice, eh?'
Gladys wanted to ask if she and her husband never wrote
each other. But remembering her position as a husbandless
and one-parent family, she kept her mouth shut. That was
the trouble of being a one-parent family. You never felt
confident enough when confronted with women with hus-
bands even though you knew they were having a rotten
time. And when one of them came to visit, you tended to
over-entertain, to show that you did not lack much, despite
the fact that the family had only one adult instead of two.
What would she have done if her husband Tunde had treated
her that way? Moved from their address without writing her
about it? She would have raised hell. But it would have come
to nothing. But Sonia was more excited and surprised than
angry. She'd seen her own council flat and knew that the
accommodation would be much better than they had when
they were living with Mr Aliyu.
'You mean to say Winston gotta council house fe we? De
man no 'tupid, you know. Tm no 'tupid at all,' Sonia cried,
shaking her head.
Gladys wanted to ask, 'Aren't you angry with him?' But
she restrained herself from doing so. Maybe that is why Sonia
ishaving a perfect marriage. Maybe I am too sensitive. I

should have learned to turn a blind eye to such things. If

Gladys suspected that the lost contact was due to the couple's
each other, she did not think that was
inability to write
enough reason. But look at what Tunde had done - going
home without any provision for her and the kids and
165
marrying another wife. She and Sonia had their crosses to
bear. The crosses might be of a different colour of wood, but
they were crosses all the same.
Marcus answered the door-bell as Gladys Odowis pressed
it on that wet June evening. He let out a scream of joy on

seeing his mother. The kids dragged Sonia in. They were
hugging and shouting and as for Ronald, he was trying to say
so many things at once, that neither Gladys nor Sonia could
make him out.
Gwendolen stood by the kitchen door, a wooden ladle in
her hand, smiling nervously. Behind her stood a white boy
of about eighteen or nineteen, with black hair and a red face,
who was abstractedly biting his lips.

'Who dat?' Sonia barked.

'Gwen's sweetheart,' Marcus said laughing.
Sonia's face clouded immediately. The white boy was
visibly shrinking.
'Whey your Daddy?'
'Gone to work, Mum,' Gwendolen said weakly.
'Dis time of night? Hmm, that man Winston, 'im done go
crazy,' Sonia remarked.
Gladys Odowis said something about her not being too
keen on leaving her children alone. So she had to dash. She
refused tea and told Gwendolen to come and collect her
mother's things in the morning.
Til go in the morning,' Ronald announced enthusiastically.
Gladys looked at him and smiled. How
grow, she fast kids

noted mentally.
When she said, 'Good night all,' and closed the door, it
sounded as if she was cutting through a thick and suffocating
air. Presently, she was in the streets with her thoughts.

Gosh, that girl Gwendolen! Her skin looked so fair and her
bosom so full. How our girls grow so fast in this chilly country.
But could the tightness of that skin be all due to growth? God
have pity on us. I hope rainclouds are not gathering in Sonia's

166
family. What a trick of Providence! Sonia did not deserve
[Link] that why Gwendolen was always in the bath when-
ever she called? And where did Winston go this time of night,
leaving that white boy there? Some fathers! Gladys allowed
her imagination to have its full sway.
A car hooted past her. A huge tree in the middle of the
sidewalk had its roots joining its trunk like legs twisted in
agony. Itwas June, yet a biting wind told her she could
expect no mercy from the darkening summer evening.
Providence was unfair and had dealt Sonia a double blow.
Could she have done anything to prevent it? No, nothing.
This heavy blow was unjust and savage!
The clarity oi the bell ringing from Christ Church on the
hill told her she was near her home. Her thoughts were that

abstracted. Poor, poor Sonia.

167
 14

Institutionalized

The social worker was puzzled. She was a trained worker,

one of those half-castes who used every available cosmetic
to emphasize their whiteness. Her mother was from Trench
Town and her father white. She did not say white from
where. Having established her whiteness, she went into a
beautiful studied Jamaican accent. This was the part that was
called for in this case. She spoke the patois so well, because
she had been 'home' so many times, she told the gaping
Brilliantons.
Gwendolen was somehow not deceived. She had mixed
through school into this society more than her parents and
had learned from Amanda and the other 'Yellow Niggers'
what it was like to fake black when the occasion called. What
was bad in their just being themselves instead of being white
one day and black the other? Anyway she would not trust this
one, not one bit. She was too beautiful and too artificial.
The social worker wanted to know how come Winston al-
lowed a white boy to sleep with his daughter inside their house.
But nobody was giving her any sensible answer.
'Na lie, me tell you.A lie,' Sonia screamed. 'Dat gal, roll
'im waist so, see me nuh, see me nuh.' She went on to
demonstrate. 'Na man 'im want. Me go back home for me
mudder, two minutes, she hitch up with a dirty white.'
Sonia's actions were fierce. One could easily have confused
her anger with hatred. Could a mother hate her daughter?
Impossible. She carried her for nine whole months, after all.
Had a mother any right to suspect her daughter? Unimagin-
able. Not even when the daughter had become a separate

169
person for over fifteen years. Good mothers were not permit-
ted to think that way. So, since it was not morally right to
voice what she feared, Sonia sheltered behind bad language,
exaggerated actions and uncontrollable anger.
The young social worker, who could not see beyond the
facts presented her, asked, 'But wait, Mrs Brillianton, does
Gwendolen roll her waist inside or outside the house?'
'She done roll it in 'ere, me tell you. Me no know for who.
But she did it 'ere. So imagine what she done do outside to
bring that poor white boy in 'ere. Me no wan' she in dis
'ouse. Tink of the church huh? We good Christians, you
know. Me 'usband a preacher too.'
The social worker looked at Winston Brillianton, who sat,
with feet wide apart, in his deep grey trousers. His dark brown
eyes sank deeper into his head, his skin shining from good
health, but his looks were neither here nor there. He opened
his two hands and closed them again - a gesture he was wont
to use when preaching. He was very uneasy and all could see
that he would rather the earth open up and swallow him.
'What do you think of all this, Mr Brillianton?' the social
worker asked.
For one split moment, he felt like jumping up and chanting
the obscene song Ilochina told him the man in his African
moonlight story sang when confronted with a similar situ-
ation. No, he would not do Gwendolen had not said
that.
anything against him. That closeness between African mother
and daughter had been lost during the slave passage. So
Gwendolen had said nothing to her mother. He could see
that. 'Oman, me no know. Ah no fit say nutting.'
'

The man go a work, me tell you. How he for know wharr

happened, when he go a work?' Sonia screamed again.
Gwendolen refused to say a word. She just stood there by
the door, whimpering from fear of what her mother would
do to her in her present mood. What was she to say? From
where was she to start? She peered closely at the social

170
worker and suspected that the woman would march her
father to prison if she hinted to her what actually happened.
Emmanuel was the only friend she'd made in recent months,
now this would ruin everything. But she was determined to
let him know the truth as soon as things quietened a little.
This was not the right time.
Sonia had rushed to Emmanuel's house to tell his father
that his son had made Gwendolen pregnant. The father
simply called his son and told him to move out of his house.
If he was old enough to sleep with a girl and make her

pregnant, then he was old enough to maintain her. He was

a good Greek and the less said about it the better. He was a
busy man with other children to look after.
Emmanuel looked at Gwendolen and just wondered how
he could have made her pregnant in such a short time. But
then he remembered from the biology lessons at school that
it could happen easily, even the very first time. Well, he had
never made a girl pregnant before, so he could not say with
authority. Astonishment spread over his face and he kept
saying inside himself, 'Me a father, me a father?'
Gwendolen kept telling herself that it was not right. She
was pregnant before Emmanuel came into her life. She
breathed in, and just as she was about to shout and say, 'Me
Daddy gave me the baby,' her eyes caught her father's,
deep-set inside his head as if they were about to disappear

inside his very skull. But though those eyes were sunk into
his black face surround, there was a pleading glint that stood
out reminding Gwendolen of the eyes of black cats at night.
That glint seemed strong and capable of knowing what she
was thinking. She knew that if she spoke out now, her Daddy
would suffer more. Emmanuel somehow became stronger
and was shouting back at his father. He was free to do what
he liked. He made that perfectly clear to his father. But the
adults were busy squabbling and had not given them time to
sit and talk.

171
 Gwendolen looked at her mother. Sonia was blacker with
anger against her and, she suspected, against her Daddy for
not condemning her in the presence of all these people.
Gwendolen knew her mother by now and knew that she was
one of those women who would do anything to have a man
by their side. And she would not have enough courage to
accuse her husband in public. The social worker should be
able to guess when her mother was saying that she was
shaking her waist whenever she walked, even in her own
home. All these adults probably were suspecting in the corner
of their hearts what they thought could have happened, but
were too scared to even ask her. But then Emmanuel was
using this opportunity to hurt his father more. He did not
make it to medical school and he had now added salt to the
injury by making a girl from a council estate pregnant, and
a black girl for that matter, him being such a good Greek.
And her mother saying that she was the daughter of such a
good preacher.
Then Gwendolen's mind went back to Granville. To that
time when she was a child and had told the truth to Granny
Naomi. People had blamed Uncle Johnny but she would
never forget the hatred that followed. Granny Naomi first
hated her for not telling at the time, and then for driving an
old and very helpful friend away. If she had shouted in time,
she would have scared Uncle Johnny away. There was no
need taking him to court, he was an old family friend. But
he stopped coming to their shack and no longer helped
Granny Naomi on her bee farm. They became poorer as a
result and Granny never allowed her to forget that. And to
cap it all, people started to stare at her whenever they saw
her pass. Some good mothers always called their daughters
in whenever they saw her playing with them. Only Shivorn
was faithful because her Mammy and Sonia grew up together
in the same road. Could she go through all that again here
in England, and here where they say they could put a man

172
away for doing it to his own daughter? No, I won't let them
put my Daddy away.
Unable to stand the argument any longer, Gwendolen ran
into her room and banged the door shut.
'You see what Ah mean,' Sonia cried. 'She no care, no care
at aal. Na man she wan'.' Glaring at Emmanuel she said flatly,

'You have to take 'er away. You have to marry 'er. Me fed
up.'
'Eh, nobody is talking of marriage here. She's your
daughter after all. Why do you want to send her away so
soon?' Emmanuel's father protested half-heartedly. He
might not have approved of his son's behaviour, but he
could not imagine a black girl like Gwendolen as a daughter-
in-law.
'Den you teach your son not to go about bloating innocent
schoolgirls,'Sonia spat in her perfect London English.
Gwendolen blocked her ears and cried with her mouth
shut. What was she to do? She did not need an outsider
to tell her that the woman standing there meant law and
authority. She was not that dim not to know from her
experiences at school that black people were not particularly
sought after. Marriage? She'd never given that a thought but
would be nice to have a home of her own away from her
it

Mammy and Daddy. Good Lord, what was she to do?

Dry-eyed, she listened intently to the voices of the adults
talking in the room down the corridor. She heard Emman-
uel's father's voice still raised, then she heard her Daddy's
voice swearing by the Bible to his daughter's innocence. She
smiled wryly. Daddy can talk when I am not there. Outside
a bus swooshed past and then a white laundry van. It was a
damp evening and the leaves on the trees were green and
hung low, letting water drip down.
She must have slept. She woke and the streets were quieter.
Her parents were still talking. Then they stopped. Her mother
was murmuring now. Her parents were making love. Her

173
Daddy was grunting on her mother as he used to on her in
thisvery room and on this very bed. Her mind reeled. Too
much to carry - too much, too much. She stuffed her ears
and felt betrayed. Another car swooshed past. Gwendolen
slipped her feet into her brown, still wearable school shoes
and went out. It was a humid summer night with rainclouds.
The air was almost pure, fresh and wet. The gentle wind
fanned her from all sides. But she kept walking. She did not
know where she was going. All she knew was that she left
home around two in the early morning, and she had to keep
on walking in her school raincoat. She was walking against
the traffic, and thinking of everything and of nothing. Just
walking to the end of nowhere.
The sun came out and she knew it was morning. She did
not know where she was and did not care. She could not tell
whether she wanted to die or not. One thing was sure, she
was not going to let that woman take her Daddy away. Then
she remembered her Daddy's grunt in the other room with
her mother, and her mind became confused again. Which
god would tell her if her Daddy was right in doing what he
was doing and if she had to keep quiet and behave as if he
did not do it to her? Another confusion, and she felt like
tearing her soul away from her body. She wished her mind
could run away from her body so that they would not see
her again. But her body refused to let her mind go. They were
together, body and mind. She knew because she was feeling
the ache of walking. Another night came and another day.
Was there no end to London, to England? The walk was
endless, and she had not reached the end of the world yet.
The end of the world, where there would be no Uncle Johnny,
where there would be a nice and loving and loyal Daddy like
those on television and where a mother could talk to her
daughter gently, and believe her daughter when she told her
things. Her body was weighing the mind down now. She saw
a small park, and the temptation to lie on the bench was too

174
much. The body won. She lay on the bench and she slept.
And it was a dreamless sleep.

Gwendolen was in one of those tiny parks on the fringes

of Hertfordshire which still had keepers who shut the gates
in the evenings. The keeper woke Gwendolen and told her
it was time to go home. She opened her mouth to speak, but

it was jammed. She tried to stand straight and firm, but her

feet wobbled. She stared at the man for a while, again not
trusting what she might say. This man did not even look
dangerous, he was white, not coloured or yellow, and he was
looking at her with concern. Was the concern real, or was it
as faked as Uncle Johnny's concern? She decided to ignore
him and lay down on the bench again.
The park-keeper noticed her muddy shoes, her dirty school
raincoat, and decided that this was not a case he could
cope with. He did not wish to be accused of anything,
especially as she was a black girl, and he decided to call the
police.
Gwendolen was taken to a cell in a local police station.
They could not charge her with anything because she did
not speak. After a face wash and toast and tea in the morn-
ing, she was asked to go. She stood there looking round
vacantly.
'What is your name, girl?' asked a rather unexpectedly
sympathetic policeman. Gwendolen was really lucky. She fell

into the hands of a rare breed of police officers: those who

were trying to police the community, rather than make names
for themselves.
'You have to tell us who you are, love. You know, why
you left home.'
Gwendolen simply stood and stared. She was not fright-
ened. It was just that she did not feel anything. Her brain and
mind were blank. Her look was glazed and vacant.
'We'll have to ask you to go then and warn you not to
sleep in open places again. It can be very dangerous. You

175
were lucky Mr Close found you. It is not a good place for a
young girl to lie alone late in the evening.'
'It is not even a safe place in the daytime these days.' A
woman police officer, who stood behind the desk with arms
folded, joined in. 'So you have to go home.'
Home? Gwendolen thought. She would never feel at home
in the flatany more. Not with her Daddy nervously watching
her, not with her mother so angry and Ronald and Marcus
making insinuating remarks. She was not going back there,
not any more.
The policewoman left her place behind the counter. Gwen-
dolen watched her approach with the corner of her eye. A
method she knew her observers failed to notice. She did not
know what to do and she did not know the right thing to
say. But she was not going back there, and she was not going
to tell them where her home was.
The policewoman touched her shoulder and showed her
the way out.
Gwendolen screamed. Something that had been bottled
inside her for so long seemed to escape, and her mouth gave
vent to a jumble of Jamaican patois and London school
cockney. Her voice was raised and she talked and kept talking
and kept saying in different pitches, 'Me no wan' go 'ome.'
She talked of Granny Naomi, who sounded to her listeners
like a kind of witch who lived somewhere in North London,
in Granville Road or somewhere. Then she said her home
was Granville Road in Jamaica, then she changed her mind,
it was not in Jamaica but off Mornington Crescent. They

allowed her to talk. She stopped shouting because she was

exhausted, and her voice went so low that they could not
hear what she was saying. Then with no warning at all, she
became violently sick. It was too late to run to the toilet she
knew was behind the counter just there in the cell where
she spent the night. Her mind became clear enough to feel
shame. It could not control her body. Her humiliation was

176
total. She dragged herself outside and sat exhausted by the
steps outside the police station. And she was still talking to
the wind. But the wind had no answer.
She heard the telephone ringing. It was ringing all the time
at that place. She watched with the corner of her eyes the
policewoman watching her. Eventually the policewoman
came out and gentled her inside. A cleaner was mopping up
her sick. She looked away, not wanting to see her shame.
The sight of it made her feel sick again inside.
When a police car came to take her away, she followed
without seeing, without saying a single word, and without
resistance. She did not know where they were taking her and
she was too tired to want to know. Her mind told her that
she must have been stinking, because though the police-
woman who was to sit next to her managed a professional
smile, she sat well away from her. Good thing, because her
body was too tired to do anything about it, and she needed
space to lay her head.
Open roads edged by neat houses sped by. Then came
London and the rain. Bored with watching
factories outside
the rain, Gwendolen slept. She did not know for how long.
But the policewoman woke her in front of this huge house
that at first looked as if it was standing in a cemetery. But
there were no gravestones. Maybe it was a courthouse. But
Gwendolen followed the woman officer.
They went through a long corridor with rooms only on
one side. The other side had windows high above their heads.
Those windows opened into the huge garden. The garden
had very high walls and beyond the walls she could hear the
sounds of a bus passing.
A young man in a navy-blue suit and white shirt with
a Tommy Cooper hat came by. He bowed low and said,
'Good morning.' He said 'Good morning' to everybody as
he walked lightly like a dancer. He must be mad, thought
Gwendolen. How can you bow and say 'Good morning' to

177
everybody? It was all right in Jamaica but if you behave like
that here people will think you're mad. The policewoman
answered the young man with a pitying smile. Gwendolen
did not bother. You don't say 'Good morning' to people like
her.
They then got into a small office and two black women in
nurses' uniform took her particulars from the policewoman.
How did they know who she was, that her name was Gwen-
dolen Brillianton? She had never said things like that to them.
Then she saw a middle-aged woman with one breast hanging
out feeding a big doll like a real baby. Then it dawned on her.
This must be a hospital for the mentally sick. She was not
going to stay though. She was not mad, she only needed a
place to stay.
The black nurse called her. And she was asked to take off
her clothes and have a bath. Then Gwendolen panicked.
'Why am I staying here?'
'Just for a little while until things are sorted out,' the nurse
said in a reassuring voice.
T don't want to stay, not here. Look, this is a nut-house, I

don't want to stay. I'm not mad, just pregnant. I don't want
to stay.'
There was a little struggle, but she was overcome expertly
with a gentle force rendered by another nurse and an injec-
tion from a man in a white coat.
Gwendolen was put in a clean but out-of-fashion crimplene
dress, the type worn by the likes of Granny Naomi. She was
by then past caring and again drifted into sleep. She was
aware that she was shouting intermittently, she was saying,
'Leave my Daddy alone, I don't want him to be locked away,
no, no . .
.'

The faces of the nurses swam around her. So did the face
of the doctor. Again she went to sleep, in a bed with bars like
the ones her parents had for Cheryl when she was very little.
In between sleep, she wondered if the outside world was

178
 What would Emmanuel be thinking?
going on without her.
What would her mother be thinking? What would people
say in the church? Were they praying for her? Did they
remember who she was?
A woman was singing not too far from her. Her bed was
screened from the other patients. And the woman with
off
the doll was padding about in bedroom slippers cooing to her
'baby'. Gwendolen touched her belly. She was having a baby
too. She'd missed four or five periods now and her mother
had found out. Older women had a way of knowing. Look
at those in the church. They knew. Something started to
tickle her stomach. What was it? The baby? No, not only the
baby but also her future and her reason for being alive? The
only thing she could call her own. She saw again the woman
with the hanging breast. Her own baby would be a real one
just like her sister Cheryl had been when she first arrived in
England. The baby would look like Cheryl. Then they would
all know that Emmanuel was not the father, because her

baby was going to be a real black baby and not a yellow

one.
Because of the baby she decided not to make any more
trouble. Her thoughts started to clear. The nurse had told her
not to fight, because if she did they would go on giving her
the injection that could harm the baby. So if she wanted to
keep the baby, she would have to obey.
T don't want to go back to my Mum, that's what. I don't
hate my parents, it's just that I want to go away from them,
to be on my own, in my own room.'
Probably Gwendolen had guessed that the nurse who
if

looked so small and unsophisticated was at least ten years

her senior, and that befriending her was part of her treatment,
she would have clamped her mouth shut. But maybe not.
Childbirth is a great leveller for women. Even women prime
ministers had babies! She started to think herself lucky to
meet a down-to-earth African nurse who had pitied her and

179
started to tell her things her mother would have told her if

she had not gone to Granville when she did.

The nurse was an actress too, or maybe working in
a bit of
a hospital like this was making her behave like an actress.
She looked this way and that, adjusted her cap and said, 'I
love having babies. It can be the most beautiful experience a
woman can ever have. At home in Ghana, my mother went
through it six times. But me
have three, three only and no
I

more. You know why? In this society you

look after your child
yourself, right from the day you return from the hospital. So
you may not have many. My advice is, enjoy it just as if this
is the only one you'll ever have. If you don't give them any

trouble here, they may arrange for you to have a flat soon.
You see, none of the other patients here is pregnant and
you're so young.'
'But, nurse, what's your name?'
The nurse smiled. Gwendolen is getting better. She should
be completely cured. She is so young. The doctors would be
pleased. Aloud she said, 'Ama.'
'Nice short name, Ama. It means something, don't it? What
does it mean? A princess?'
The nurse laughed out. 'Something like that.' And immedi-
ately Gwendolen detected the professionalism in her voice.
'Who is your baby's father, Gwen?'
For the first time, the gravity of all that had happened to
her weighed down on her shoulders. If she said that she was
being locked up in a ward for the mentally sick so that her
Daddy would not be put away in a jailhouse, this woman
might not understand. She would tell someone one day. She
must talk to Emmanuel about it first. She could not bottle it
up in herself though, otherwise it would kill her. She knew
she had been shouting and saying nonsense, the woman who
kept singing next to her bed had told her so. Had she told
them about her Daddy then? But why wouldn't her Daddy
stand up and tell the world that he did it? Why wouldn't he

180
stand by her? Instead he went to thatroom and to her mother.
She wanted to hate the two of them. But if she did, then she'd
have nobody to love. She had to love people around her. She
had been brought up that way. To disperse love, although very
thinly, to all your aunties and uncles. She sighed. She
suddenly felt so old. Her childhood had been stolen from her.
'I am not mad, you know. I just wanted to leave home and

I was so tired.'
Nurse Ama nodded in sympathy, but went on talking.
Things are different here. If my mother had been in this
society, they would have locked her up. She used to shout at
us to wake up, eat our food, wash our clothes, and she beat
us if we refused. Good thing she was in Ghana. Here they
have these "civilized" rules. And if you don't obey them,
they'll either put you in jail or if you're lucky they'll put you
here.'
'But I've done nothing wrong!'Gwendolen cried.
policewoman asked you to move from their
'Well, that
office, didn't she? And you did not move. Well, if you'd been

a black boy, it's jail for you, my girl. They probably would
have sent you to jail for resisting arrest, but thought better
about it.'

'How did you know who 1 am? I never said nothing.'

'Your parents reported you missing, I should think.'

Her parents, her parents, could they do such a thing - go

to a police station to report her missing? No, it must be
Mrs Odowis or her Daddy's friend, that African man Mr
What's-his-name. Her Daddy would be too scared to report
it.

They can come and see you, you know. Whenever you
want. You know, when you're nice and ready for them. You
kept saying you did not wish to go back home, so they - I

mean us, well, the doctors, don't want to push things. And
one thing, you can still abort the child. If you don't want it.'

'Abort? What is abort? Of course I want the child. I've

181
never had anything of my own. Can they take the baby from
me by force?'
'No, they won't. But, Gwen, babies are not dolls, you know.
They grow and cry and demand much of your time. If you
don't want it, you can either abort, you know, flush it down
the toilet, or if it's too late for that, you can send it away for
adoption.'
Gwendolen looked at Ama closely. These last few months
had matured her.
really
'Did they send you to tell me all this? I thought we were
just having a good chat. Well, tell them that I want my baby.
It is not going for any adoption to no white family with

money. I want to take care of my baby. What did my Mum

say?What did my Daddy say to all that? I'd like to talk to my
Mum.'
'Yes, they can come any time. Your mother is very worried.'
Gwendolen's heart melted. Her mother, her Mammy
worried about her. She would like her to know that she was
keen on keeping the baby, that she and the baby would not
be a burden to her. She would educate herself and get a good
job. She could work in nurseries, since she was good at
looking after babies. She could even work as a dinner lady
or, like Ama, work as a nurse for mentally sick people.
Because after living with them for several weeks, she knew
that most of them were harmless. T suppose everybody's
peculiarity is madness to the next person.' The woman with
the breast hanging out had lost two babies in a fire at the
same time. The young black man walking up and down had
failed his exams and disappointed his parents. And she herself
would not tell them the whole truth, so that they would not
jail her Daddy. Maybe she would talk to her mother one day,

woman to woman. She thought: my Mammy coming to see

me? I must tell her all. Especially, if she comes alone. I must
tell her. But suppose she hates me like Granny Naomi?

For the first time in many months, Gwendolen actually

182
smiled. Life might not be that bad after all. NurseAma had
said, 'I should enjoy my baby.' There, in Africa where she
came from, babies are a woman's greatest achievement. She
was not going to be a woman baby machine though. One or
two would do. It would be nice if she could have a man to
help her. But that would be asking God too much. 'Count
your blessings one by one' she quoted mentally. She had a
mother who showed signs of standing by her, a baby of her
own and maybe if her Daddy could face her, a Daddy as well,
and Marcus and Ronald and Cheryl. Oh, she was rich in
people.
But what of Emmanuel? That young man had given her
so much happiness the last few months. Would she lose him
if she told him that the baby was not his? He was so stunned

at being called a father that he had not bothered to ask her

how advanced the pregnancy was. He would have to know
anyway, because she was sure her baby was going to be a
very black child, like herself, like her Daddy and like Cheryl
used to be when she first saw her years ago. Would that drive
Emmanuel away? At the moment, I have his friendship and
that is all that matters. The future will take care of itself.
Gwendolen smiled, as the thing inside her tickled her again
in agreement to her thoughts.

183
 15

Sonia's Intuition

For three consecutive Sundays, Sonia noticed that her hus-

band, Brother Winston Brillianton, had neither preached nor
given out any announcements as he used to before she went
home to Jamaica. She tried to find out from Sister Esmee,
but her answer was so evasive that she realized it was not

accidental. They must have decided that Winston was no

longer good enough to preach.
Did Winston allow himself to go to church dirty, when she
was away? Did he go to church late? Did he preach a sermon
to upset anybody? What could he have done? She was becom-
ing restlessly uneasy. Her intuition was telling her that some-
thing was wrong. Even Brother Simon somehow became
distant. When she asked Winston, he said that it was due to
his stammer.
'But you stammer before, yet you managed to preach the
Word of the Lord?'
'Me, me, no fit [Link] know dat, Ah preach from me 'ead.'
'Den, your head dry up nuh?'
'Sonia, look, look, me tire, me pay no mind, anyhow.'
She had to hold herself tight not to go into hysteria. Roza
had told her not to worry too much, otherwise her illness
would start all over again. And that was the part of her
Winston did not know fully. They all knew she had lost the
baby she was carrying and everybody was sorry. But they did
not know how deeply the shock had affected her mentally.
Not that it would have bothered Winston. It was only that as
things stood in her family, revealing the fact would help no
one.

185
 Least of all her daughter who they said was now in a mental
home. Good job she did not tell people all that happened at
home. They would have said that madness was hereditary.
No, she was not mad. But was Gwendolen mad? Were all her
Christian friends avoiding her because she looked mad? Sonia
looked furtively around herself, first pulling her skirt into
place, then adjusting her hat and then holding her handbag
a little away from her body, the way she thought proper
ladies did. Then she looked up and saw Marcus running in
circles with the tail of his shirt showing under his Sunday
jacket.
'Marcus, Marrrcus, your shirt-tail showing. Tuck it into
your pants!'
Marcus ignored her. He went on running with another
boy. They had been cooped inside the church for so long that
the end of the service was like being let out of prison. They
were enjoying themselves and sweating profusely into the
bargain.
Sonia looked around her, turning her head as she did so,
very unlike her daughter who could watch people without
moving her head. A trick Gwendolen learned in Granville. A
trick that enabled her towatch unnoticed what Granny
Naomi and Uncle Johnny were up to.
Sonia wondered how come rainclouds gathered around
her so heavily? Why was she now determined to go and see
June-June, and make it up with the child of her youth? And
after the disgrace she had brought to the family by allowing
herself to be made pregnant by a rootless boy who did not
know what the inside of a place of worship looked like! She
was angry with her. Angry with her carelessness, angry at
her youth, angry at the way she could now speak English
better than her own mother did, angry at her confidence.
Yet somehow she was dreaming of something better for
June-June. She did not have the faintest idea how her chil-
dren were going to make good. But she wanted them to. She

186
had dreamed that maybe June-June would marry well, a
good hard-working black man from Jamaica. She had prayed
hard for this secretly. Prayers could move mountains.
Why was worker asking if June-June rolled her
that social
bottom inside or outside the house? Who would she roll her
bottom inside for? Marcus, Ronald, or Winston? Those people
did ask silly questions. They would not even let her see her
daughter when she wanted because they said June-June
might not want to see her yet. That did annoy and surprise
her not a little. But the greatest astonishment she had was
that her husband was taking all these nonsense laws calmly.
He kept telling her that here you did not fool with officials.
And that they knew what they were doing. She must go
and see Gwendolen though. After all, she was carrying her
grandchild. The child would be half-caste - 'Yellow Nigger'.
That would be fun. She did not care which colour her grand-
child was as long as the baby and June-June were all right.
Sister Esmee invited her for tea in the church hall. But
there was something in her voice which chilled Sonia's soul
and she declined the invitation. Why were the sisters being
so strange to the members of her family and herself too? They
could keep their tea. She was not going to drink it for sure.
She told them that Gwendolen was ill in hospital, but did not
say which hospital. Sister Esmee and Sister Dorcas asked
perfunctorily what the illness was. Sister Esmee's pencilled-in
brow arched like a fisherman's hook and her mouth twisted
to one side like that of a dying fish. But before Sonia could
answer, Winston materialized from behind her and asked,
'How she know? She a doctor?'
'No, of course not. How can she possibly know? These
children, they pick up all manner of diseases these days, don't
they, Sister Esmee?' Sister Dorcas, who had been in England
most of her life and who had served in the Women's Auxiliary
as a cook in the Second World War added in her uppish
English voice.

187
 So, they knew
of June-June's pregnancy, Sonia thought.
That was Her whole family was to be stigmatized because
it.

June-June fooled around with her boy-friend when she was

away in Jamaica. So that was it. She was a bit tempted to tell
them exactly where June-June was. But something inside
her told her that these women were too 'Christian', too
perfect and maybe too close to understand her plight. She
herself did not know the dimension of her plight, but she
was not even going to try to describe it or give it a name.
She smacked her lips together and made for the bus stop in
front of Mornington Crescent station. It was only two stops
to their new flat in St Pancras Way but her shoes were not
made for walking. They were probably dancing shoes, yet
Sonia could not resist the bright silver colour, the thin heels
and double buckle. The shoes were very lovely to look at,
because they were not cheap. But they were not practical.
Winston was late in returning from work the following
day. Sonia had waited with bated breath, thanking God that
at least the social workers now said they could go and see
June-June. She bought a packet of chocolate and some
flowers, and then decided against the flowers. She bought a
bottle of orange juice instead.
By the time they found out where the hospital was in
Friern Barnet, it was getting dark. The street lamps were
yellow and that made the streets ghostlier still. They did not
talk at all. Winston was breathing heavily and she panting
behind him. After jumping in and out of several buses, they
got to the huge gate. A man who looked like a gardener told
them where to go. They went along this one-sided corridor
to some dark, narrow, cemented stairs and knocked at a
yellow door that had Ward 12 written on it. It was locked.
A nurse soon opened the door, the inside of which was
painted red like the door of a room in a children's nursery
school. They were led through another corridor, this time a
shorter one, and along which they could see some patients

188
lying on beds. A young black man of about eighteen or
nineteen was shuffling up and down with saliva dripping
down mouth. A bib was tied around his neck like a baby's.
his
Sonia's heart was pounding. She wanted to hold her hus-
band and cry out, but one look at his face told her that not
only was he shaken, but that he was not going to give her
any sympathy.
Then abruptly they entered into a large sunny living-room,
in which chairs were arranged militarily against the walls. At
one end was a huge television. It was showing a chat show
which none of the people sitting was watching.
Gwendolen saw them and looked away.
'Gwendolen, you Mum and Dad are here,' shouted the
Ghanaian nurse unnecessarily.
One patient politely gave up her seat and asked them to sit
down, next to Gwendolen. Sonia, still shaken, accepted the
seat. She was surprised at the politeness. But she noticed that
all the others were sitting down and staring vacantly. Apart

from the young man who kept walking up and down, with
saliva dripping from his mouth, and dragging his feet noisily,
they all looked at first like people waiting for death. Sonia
took her eyes off them and asked Gwendolen in a low voice,
'Are you all right?'
Gwendolen nodded.
'Look, me bring orange juice and chocolate.'
Gwendolen took the packet of chocolate, opened it and
started to hand it to all those sitting around. As everybody
took a piece, their individuality which heretofore had been
asleep wakened. One woman who had a green half-knitted
piece on her lap picked it up and started to knit furiously and
asked again and again, 'Gwendolen, is that your father and
mother? Is it your birthday?' The repetition of these questions
made her look like a talking parrot. Others just ignored her.
Gwendolen sat down again and left the remaining choc-
olate on her lap. Her eyes did not stare into vacancy like those

189
of the others, but they were staring at the hands she folded
on top of the chocolate box.
How was she going to tell her mother who the father of

her baby was? Itwas wrong, she had been naive, and did not
bargain for pregnancy. She had thought that it would just be
like her experience with Uncle Johnny. She did not realize
that it would be different now that she had grown into a

young healthy woman. Her mother would understand. Her

mother would not tell anyone. Her mother would not allow
them to put her Daddy away. If they did put him away, who
would pay their rent and bring the food money? Yes, her
mother would understand.
She looked up once and saw her father standing as solid as
an oak by the window. His standing there radiated depend-
ability and solidity all rolled into one. A father any girl should
be proud of. But he did not even come near to her. She did
not look into his eyes for fear of what she would see.
'Medicine, medicine!' shouted a nurse, wheeling in the
medicine trolley. Everybody's name was called and they were
given different pills to swallow. Gwendolen had only one
type, thank God. The others had to swallow so many different
colours that they looked as if they were popping Smarties
into their mouths.
'What medicine be dat?' Sonia asked in an attempt to make
conversation.
'Sleeping tablets,' Gwendolen replied, knowingly.
It was good thing the nurse told her what it was. She
a
thought that that was really grand of them, explaining each
tablet to the patients. But she noticed that most of the other
patients were told their pills were just 'to make them better'.
What exactly the pills were, no one knew. Anyway, she was
not going to stay there long. She would like to leave the
place.
She looked at her mother again. Was she crying? Her
mother crying for her? If only people like her mother and

190
Granny Naomi had taken the trouble to tell her how much
she was valued, she would have estimated herself a little
higher. She would have been able to stand up to her Daddy
and say, 'Don't, Daddy, me tell me Mum when she comes
back.' But how was she to know that her being in a mental
hospitalwould affect her parents this way? She gave in to
her father because she did not wish to cause trouble for
anybody. And if she could bear it with that stupid Uncle
Johnny who forced himself on her, what of the Daddy she
loved? It was a lot to give, but then could your own father
hurt you? All was so complicated.
Her father saw Sonia's tearful eyes and boomed, 'Come
on, Sonia, come on.' Gwen stood up abruptly, wanting to
say, 'But look, Dad, am carrying your baby.' Though the
I

words were formed in her mouth, yet she could not voice
them out. Would her mother believe her? Would all these
people believe her? She sat down again dejectedly. Maybe
Emmanuel would believe her.
'Mammy, tell Emmanuel to come and sec me.' It was akin
to the voice of a child whose mother was going to the market
and who did not want her to go. Sonia noted the tone of the
voice. The voice of that June-June of not so long ago, who
used to trot along with her to the post office to collect the
money Winston had sent from England. Now her daughter
was in a mad-house. But she was not mad. She was all right.
Why did they have to put her here? Because she was a black
girl?
Sonia nodded. 'Me tell him.'
Winston led his wife away. All that Gwendolen planned to
say melted in her throat and formed a big lump of hatred
all men. It was like magic. One
against her father, against
minute she was innocent, the next she was full of vindictive
hatred. What game was her Daddy playing? The same game
as Uncle Johnny played? She got up and wanted to scream,
but pulled herself down again. She had to be very careful.

191
This was not a place where you were allowed to give in to
emotion. But she was not going to say anything. So it was
her fault now. So she had brought disgrace to her family. Her
father had taken his wife away and they had left her in a
would have the baby, she would not
loony-bin. All right, she
tell on her Daddy unless it was absolutely necessary and she

was going out of here into a place of her own. If they had no
place for her, she would rather stay there because if she
stayed under the same roof only God knew what she could
do to him.
And her mother crying all those stupid tears? Could she
not guess that she wanted to talk to her? How could she be
so blind? So busy playing thelittle wife, when even the social

worker who did not live with them had almost guessed the
truth. Maybe her mother knew, but did not want to accept
it. Well good luck to them.

With her head up, she smiled at her friends and marched
to her bed. She lay down and fell asleep.
Outside, Sonia wanted to know why Winston did not say
a word to his daughter.
'What you wan' me to say in dat loony place?' he cried in
righteous anger.
Yeah, it was eerie, those vacant eyes, those pouchy faces
and those shuffling feet. Yeah, it was unnerving. But they
were leaving their daughter there. Did that not worry him?
Winston did not answer. He was deep in his own thoughts.
Sonia sniffed all the way home. It was late and very dark
by the time they got to St Pancras Way.
But the thought kept nagging at Sonia: why Winston na
taak to June-June?
At night, Winston came towards her in his usual clumsy
way, but a kind of inspired energy came into her and she
pushed him neatly out of their bed and he landed on the
floor. She got herself ready for a fight. She protected her face
just in case he decided to box her ears.

192
 But Winston did neither. Instead he picked himself up,
took one of the blankets and went to the front room.
Something was very wrong. She did not know where. She
had treated Winston the way she had never done before in
all their married life and he had slunk away like those white

men do on the telly. Those men who have no courage to face

their wives because they have a guilt to hide.
But Winston was not going to keep quiet any more. She
was going to make him talk. No, the man must talk and talk
himself dry. Why did he allow a white boy to stay in their
house with their unmarried daughter anyhow? Gwendolen
was supposed to be at school. Winston would have to explain
all that to her, to the church where he preached every Sunday

and to their friends; why he allowed such a horrible thing to

happen to their daughter June-June.
Tomorrow evening Sonia would call the church elders to
hear what Winston had to say for himself.

193
 16

Winston's Death

It was not necessary for Sonia to get up too early this morning
because the kids were on holidays. She noticed too that they
had acquired a kind of independence which was not there
before she left her family for Granville. They had now learned
to get their breakfast without bothering her. None the less,
she still got up, because she feared the mess left in the kitchen
and the sight of her little daughter holding the frying pan in
the air was wont to make her stomach go into a tangled twist.
Yeah, she would get up early this very morning because she
had to tell Winston to return straight home after work, in
order to have a word or two with Sister Esmec and Brother
Simon. She was not going to tell Winston what they were
going to ask him, she would keep that till the evening. She
knew that it was not a morning with
good thing to start the
an argument, especially for a man that did the type of job
Winston said he was doing these days. To climb ladders to
the fifteenth floor of a half-finished building to decorate it

was enough to send anyone dizzy. No, she was not going to
let him go to work with a family argument on his mind.

A crash came from the kitchen and Marcus's raised voice

reverberated all over the flat. That decided her. She jumped
out of bed, calling Winston to stop his children from yelling
the place down. Oh yeah, Winston had not slept in their bed.
He must be in the living-room. So many rooms in this flat.
They needed getting used to.
'Naw, what's de trouble, eh, Marcus? Whey your Daddy?'
'He's gone to work,' Cheryl whined. 'Marcus struck me on
the head and .'
. .

195
 Sonia was not listening. Absent-mindedly, she took the
milk pan from Marcus and started making breakfast. So
Winston had rushed off to work before she had time to talk
to him. That man must be trying to avoid early morning
arguments.
She pacified her children and peace descended as they ate
their breakfast.
Sonia went to the room where Winston had slept and she
saw her pink blanket nicely folded on the settee. He had been
into their bedroom and taken his work-clothes whilst she
slept.

Suddenly her body felt so heavy, as if she had been carrying

the whole world on her shoulders. Thiswas not the home-
coming she had dreamed of in Granville. Since her return,
everybody had become so strange and tactful. Even Mrs
Odowis, that bubbling African friend of hers, started thinking
before she opened her mouth to say a word to her. As for the
church people, she had felt let down because they now
seemed to talk in riddles. Well, not to worry, maybe they
were all blaming her for going away in the first place. And

maybe she shouldn't have stayed away this long. She would
make it up with everybody this evening. She would invite
them to talk it all over; bring it all into the open. She hoped
Winston would not choose this day to go and drink with that
African friend of his, Mr Mechima or whatever his name was.
Those African people, they have so many long names.
Gwendolen, Lawd ha' mussy. The poor gal in dat damn
crazy place! No, her daughter must return home. Why was
it Winston did not press those nurses to release June-June?

After all, she was not mad. Only sick. The type of sickness
Sonia herself had had. In Granville, she was taken to a church
haven where everybody prayed for her and where all the
church prophets laid hands on her head and fasted over her.
Here, they put a till chile in a crazy-house just because she
ran away from home. Good Lawd.

196
 She must hurry and fix the house before going to invite
Esmee. And on her way back, she must get them a little
Sister
something to eat. Would it be right to ask Mrs Odowis? Yeah,
if she's free, she could come too.
She picked up and went to the small balcony and
a rug
started to beat the dust from it. A black man and a police
officer came into the estate, peering at the numbers of houses.
Poor man, fancy being arrested on such a fine morning. They
passed the front of the flat again: it looked as if they were
looking for a flat on their part of the estate. She watched
their movements with the corner of her eyes, looking like
her daughter Gwendolen. She folded the rug she was beating
and went in. Now why was she keen on getting rid of the
dust in that rug? After all it was for Cheryl's room. And her
evening were not going to come into the little
visitors that
room. She was at sixes and sevens this morning.
girl's

The door-bell rang. The black man and the police officer
were there. She could see their outline through the net
curtain. Now why were they knocking at her door? She
looked closely now. That man, she'd seen him before. Win-
ston's African friend.
'Yeah, come in, come in. Wharr happen?' she cried, her
heart fluttering like the feathers of a bird in the wind. Her
mouth was dry. The eel of fear that was wriggling in
her stomach was growing bigger and bigger every second. It

felt asany minute now, it would grow so big and explode

if

inside her. Winston was in trouble. She knew it. Or maybe it

was Gwendolen. It never rained with her, it always poured.
No, they did not want tea. No, they did not want juice.
Yeah, they had seen Winston at work that morning.
Mr Ilochina, the African man, started to talk in his posh
African voice. Sonia wondered why they had come in mid-
morning just to talk about what life was about. She knew all
about that. What was the man trying to say? She understood
only part of what he was talking about anyhow.

197
 The policeman did not know what to do with his hat. Then
he decided to remove it. Then he stood at attention; then
he put his hand on his heart and announced, while Mr
Whaf's-his-name was still talking, 'Your husband passed
away, Marm.'
'What? Wait a minute, wharr you two talking about?' was
all Sonia could say.
The policeman nodded. 'Your husband, Marm, Mr Winston
Brillianton there was an accident at work. There was a
. . .

gas explosion and he fell into a drum of tar he stood no . . .

chance
Sonia stood up, walked to the policeman: 'Who you talking
about, me ask you?'
'He suffered no pain,' the poor policeman went on, deter-
mined to do his duty down to the last letter.
crumpled into a chair. Everything went
'No! No! No!' Sonia
into a daze. She had brought ill luck into her family. Three
weeks ago, they were happy until she returned from Jamaica
with her bad luck. Her mind had killed Winston. She'd refused
him sex last night. The last night of his life. And she who was
supposed to be his missus, she'd done that to him. And all
because of June-June. No, that daughter of hers was evil.
Since they brought her from Jamaica, she'd been evil. And
she, Sonia, was defending her only to kill her husband and
bread-winner. That child had worried her father sick.
Winston did not know what he was doing. His colleague said
they had told him to wait until the gas had been tested,
but he said he would go and test it himself. 'Just as if he
wanted to die,' Mr Ilochina the African friend had said.
Good Lord, what was she to do now? With three young
children and Gwendolen and her baby! Where would she
go?
Days passed. Mrs Odowis kept coming and going.
Emmanuel's father forgot his anger and visited frequently.
His wife took a liking to Sonia's spontaneity.

198
 When Brother Simon and the Sisters of the church came
the following evening, they started to pray about hell and
brimstone. They insinuated that it was better to die than
wallow in the mire of sin. Sonia felt again that they were
talking in riddles and swore at them. They were not grateful
for all the good preaching Winston had done in that church
andall the other contributions he had made. Was there any

human being who had no sin? So what great sin had Winston
committed that warranted their referring to his death as God's
vengeance? They should leave her house. She never wanted
to see them again. Brother Simon was sure she was over-
wrought and prayed God to calm her. They left. They had
promised to come to the funeral.
'Mrs Odowis, you see what people are? You see how these
church people ralk 'bout Winston. The man go a work and
him daughter get pregnant. So why send him go to hell for
that? It was not his fault. Children raised here different, you
know.'
'Me wan' church funeral for Winston, but our church
Me no know why,' Sonia sobbed to Mr
people funny to him.
Ilochina.
'Don't worry, Mrs Brillianton. You buy everything here,
even beautiful funerals. This is not like African people. In my
town, our people will not bury your husband, I'm sorry to
say. But here in England, money buys honour.' This was the
nearest Mr Ilochina could trust himself to go in hinting to
Sonia what he suspected happened between Winston and his
daughter. He knew that Sonia might not speak the English
language well, but then who did? Yet she was a shrewd
woman.
Sonia kept quiet for a very, very long time. She absent-
mindedly twisted the ring on her finger, looking down on
her lap and not straight at Winston's friend. The big wall
clock in the room boomed the hour.
'You see, we are an extremely superstitious race, we
199
Africans. But those superstitions are arrived at after gener-
ations of watching the forces of nature. Gas and electricity
are Earth forces we call Ani. They have their way of meting
out vengeance.'
Funnily enough, Sonia laughed. The corners of her eyes
crinkled in amusement. Her dentures which she rarely
showed in public, were visible. This woman is not stupid,
Ilochina thought.
'What of people who die knocked down by lorry and them
who die in the air?'
Mr Ilochina sighed. He had done his duty. This woman and
her daughter should now get together and plan their lives
anew. If she could forgive her husband, to the extent of not
wanting to talk about it, then she must have already forgiven
her daughter.
Gladys Odowis came in and Sonia plunged into the funeral
arrangements.
'Will there be a vicar?' Mrs Odowis wanted to know.
Mr Ilochina nodded.
'You mean a vicar will be present even if the dead person
did not belong to his church?'
'Easy. In fact there are churches inside the cemetery.'
Winston rode home like an emperor in a huge American-
designed coffin decked with flowers. Mrs Odowis, Mr
Ilochina, some of Winston's distant relatives in London, Mr
Papaloizou and his wife, Emmanuel, Marcus, Ronald and
Cheryl and most of their neighbours in St Pancras Way went
to the cemetery with Sonia.
They sang a beautiful song Sonia did not understand. They
read prayers from a book and she poured sand on Winston's
coffin. The world seemed empty. What was she to do now?
The social worker brought a lawyer and they told her she
was entitled to a huge sum of money because her husband
died at work. The building firm begged the solicitor to settle
it out of court, but the barrister refused. Mrs Brillianton had

200
her family toraise. They should have made sure the machines

were safe, the man maintained.

The guv'nor was very sorry about this, but gave Sonia a
couple of thousand pounds to help her through the immedi-
ate expenses.
The excitement of the promised money and the money she
had in hand almost drove Sonia crazy. She made so many
wild schemes. She bought new sets of net curtains for her
flat. She never liked the idea of using the nets from their old

flat for this new one.

Then another thought struck her. She called on her friend
Mrs Odowis and said, 'Mrs Odowis, Ah go back to Jamaica
on holidays, you know. Take Cheryl with me.'
'But, Sonia, you've only just returned. Who will look after
the boys?'
'Gwendolen will. She so good with them, you know.'
'But she's expecting a child of her own. And you said only
yesterday that you did not want to speak to her again. You
have not even been to see her. I noticed she was not at the
funeral.'
'Ah know. Me know. Me no tell her yet. She no well
enough, you know.'
'Then how can she look after Marcus and Ronald? Sonia,
you have to calm down. It looks a lot of money now, but
when you start spending it at random, you'll find it won't go
very far.'

'They say more to come, when the solicitor man finish the
case. No bad, eh?'
Sonia almost made Gladys Odowis jealous. My friend is

going to get all this money. Ilochina said it could be anything

from £30,000 to £60,000 because the insurance was going to
pay it. Gosh, that would be enough to buy a house, she
thought. But the woman was so excited and near hysteria.
Well, she would work at her own education and that would
compensate for the fact that her husband left her and went

201
back to Nigeria after battering her and leaving her with two
children.
'You know, I think we should make a date to go and see
Gwendolen soon. She's entitled to some of the money, you
know.'
'No, God died for the truth. I want the money in me hand,'
Sonia declared flatly.

202
 17

Gwendolen Alone

It was when Gwendolen was in a sheltered home, High Cross,

inTottenham, that Emmanuel told her of her father's death.
'Death, but how?' Gwendolen asked unbelievingly. She
had never seen a dead person. She could understand the
death of a relative who lived far away. Like Granny Naomi.
But her father? He was very much alive in her mind. She
had been planning how she would stage the showdown with
him. And after that, how she was going to forgive him because
she would keep her child and try to find a job, build a career.
Death meant all these plans would not come to fruition.
She felt cheated. Death meant finality. She looked up at
Emmanuel to give her a further explanation, as if he had
caused the death.
Emmanuel shrugged. 'An accidental death at work. Gwen,
look am sorry. He's been buried, we all went, but the doctors
I

say not to trouble you in your condition. That was why he

could not come to see you again.'
T know that, a dead father can't come to see his daughter,
even I know that.' Gwendolen was silent. She wanted to cry,
but tears would not come. What would Emmanuel think?
What would people say when they learned that she did not
shed tears for her father? She started to sweat though.
'You like a cup of tea?' Leslie, one of the patients, asked
solicitously.
Gwendolen nodded.
He went to get her the The kitchen was open-plan; it
tea.
opened into They were allowed to make
their sitting-area.
their own breakfasts and lunches, but the cook came in the
203
evening and prepared hot suppers. Everybody had to clean
out his or her own room - an institutionalized way of readying
them for the outside world.
Did she kill her father? Did she will him dead? 'What of
my Mum, how is she taking it?'

'Oh, she's OK, I guess. When she feels better, she'll come
and see you.'
'You can cry if you like,' put in Leslie, who, though sitting
a little away from Gwen and Emmanuel, was listening to
what they were saying.
Gwendolen faced him squarely and challenged, 'Why
should I cry? Because little girls are supposed to cry when
their fathers die. Well, I am not a little girl any more, I am a
woman carrying a child.'
Leslie shrugged his shoulders, collected the tea-things and
shuffled to the kitchen. Though he had fully recovered from
his briefmental exhaustion, he was still taking some medi-
cation which slowed him down. He normally was a strong-
willed young man who could master his physical weakness
with sheer determination. He'd told Gwendolen a few days
ago that he used to work in the City before his illness.
Gwendolen had wanted to know what people did in the City.
And Leslie did not bother to explain. Now he was butting
his nose into her affairs. Shuffle, shuffle, shuffle, Leslie the
shuffler. Why could he not wear proper shoes instead of those
ragged slippers?
Gwendolen decided to change the conversation. 'My flat

is almost ready. It is in a block, but it is a nice quiet area. I've

been to see it. Can you imagine, me a flat of my own.'
Emmanuel grinned, relieved to know that she, too, did not
like to dwell on death in a clean but depressing place like
this. 'Do you want me to come and help you furnish it?'

'Yeah, if you like.'

The Social Security gave Gwendolen money to put a modest

carpet on her floor. Emmanuel found a broken table on a
204
skip and put it into shape. With the carpet and table and an
old bed which the social worker brought from somewhere,
she felt well off. But for her window curtain, she had to undo
the seams of an old flowered dress which no longer fitted
her.
Gwendolen enjoyed her new freedom. There was not
enough money and she had to budget carefully all the time,
but she was not going to be dependent. She wanted to see
her mother, though, but the social worker and Emmanuel
kept telling her to wait. She very much hoped her mother
had not died too. Things were changing so rapidly. One
minute she was a schoolgirl, the next she was a young woman
expecting her first child. A young woman who had lost her
father into the bargain. Losing a parent aged her. She thought
she must look like those old people who sounded funny any
time they mentioned that they too had parents once. Old
people like Granny Naomi seemed to be born old, like they'd
dropped from the sky. While your parents were alive, you
always felt young. What she felt now was protectiveness
towards her brothers, her sister and her new baby. Her
mother? Well, she was now a widow, who probably, like
most widows Gwendolen knew, had developed strange vague
ways of moving and talking. To her, widows always looked
into the distance when talking to you, as if their eyes were
searching the world for the husbands they had buried. And
some of them ceased to care about the way they looked. She
would like to see her mother. She would like to help her.
She had been told to call the woman upstairs if she felt any
pain. How bad did the pain have to be before she asked for
help? Running for help at the slightest pain made you look
stupid. She had been having some niggling pains and heavi-
ness at the top of her legs, as if she had lingering indigestion,
but they soon went away. Imagine what would have hap-
pened if she had kept running upstairs for help every time
she had felt uncomfortable. She knew that you could only

205
afford to say things like that to the father of the child or to
your parents. Well, at the moment she had neither. And she
must look for a good opportunity to tell Emmanuel that he
was not the father of the child. Or should she keep quiet?
Any person over twelve years of age knew that it took at least
nine months for a baby to be born. But Emmanuel had never
asked her when the child was due. She could say it was
premature. But to what purpose? So that she and Emmanuel
would live like husband and wife, pretending to love one
another, when they would be doing was trying to live
all

cheaply and to give the child a home. Her mother and father
lived happily ever after. But was that what they called love?
No, she did not want any of that. She would tell him the
truth. If he still wanted to be her friend after that, it was up
to him. If not, it was up to him too. Meanwhile, she needed
his occasional visits, his humour, and she felt he needed her
too. So what harm was in that?
A few days later, something seemed to open inside her as
if she was having a huge period. But this time, instead of

blood it was water. And with each spout of water that ran
down her legs, she felt lighter. The pain became prolonged
and intensified. She was scared. Why wouldn't they let her see
her mother?
It was four o'clock in the late afternoon and luckily Moya

Duffy, another one-parent woman living upstairs, was just

getting tea for her children. She quickly telephoned the
hospital and came down to Gwendolen's flat.
'Have you got your suitcase packed?'
'No, I was meaning to do it sometime.'
'Well, you haven't got much time now. Where is it?'
Gwendolen held her tummy and started to laugh. 'I have
no suitcase, but I have plenty of carrier bags. What's the
suitcase for? To bring the baby in?'
Moya and Gwendolen laughed through the next rather
minor contractions.

206
 'When you return from hospital, you must ask them for a
special allowance. You need your clothes in.'
a case to put
She ran upstairs and brought a battered one which they had
to hold together with string. Into it they flung Gwendolen's
new nightdress and housecoat. Her school shoes and a head-
scarf.

'You crazy, you know that,' Moya said.

'I know, I bet I became crazier after they sent me to that

loony-bin. Haw, haw, haw. Lawd ha' mussy. That was a hot
one.'
T it's not a bloody holiday, you know. But you'll
told you,
be keep your chin up.'
fine. Just
Then Moya asked, 'Is what's-his-name coming to see yer?
He comes almost every week, don't he?'
'When he comes, tell him I'm in hospital.'
Moya nodded. 'Good luck.' She gave Gwendolen a peck
on her cheek.
The ambulance took Gwendolen away. Fear had made her
grow up. Why wouldn't her mother see her anyhow? The
nurses at the admission desk asked her for particulars and
she gave her mother's name and address as that of her next
of kin, and then was admitted.
A new kind of awareness was coming into her life. In
Granville, one had to love all the uncles, cousins and aunties,
because they were all related. She had tried to continue that
kind of loving here. But for the past five months, she had
been making new kinds of friends. Friends who were not
related to her at all. Friends she could like or even love,
without her wanting to live their lives for them and them
wanting to do the same to her. It was a kind of relationship
that did not choke. Was that a good thing? She did not know.
But one thing she knew, in Granville no way was a single
girl going to find herself alone in hospital having her first

baby by herself, especially when she had a mother living.

Emmanuel was as rootless as she was. Moya, the Irish girl
207
upstairs, had talked to her often and Gwendolen baby-sat for
her a couple of nights. Ama from the hospital popped in once
in a while on her way from work and so did her new social
worker. Maybe her Mum
suspected what happened between
her and her Daddy. Well, she did not mind her rejecting Mum
her, but Sonia must hear her side of the story. Was that why
she did not go to see her Mum herself, when it became clear
that she was not coming to see her? But she felt so guilty.
She was not proud of what had happened, and her Daddy
dying so soon after. Did he kill himself? Was her Mum
blaming her for that too? Her mother had no right to condemn
her!
For the first time in many months hot tears clouded
Gwendolen's eyes. The contractions were getting fiercer too.
'It's not a bloody holiday,' Moya had said a while ago.

At eight o'clock, they told her she had a visitor. It was

Emmanuel. She had never seen anyone looking so lost and
confused. She had to smile and said, 'After all, when you
came to see me in that sheltered place, you did not look so
frightened.'
'This is he said hoarsely, looking this way and
different,'
that, as he was going to take off, and make a run for it at
if

any minute. He studiously lowered his eyes, not knowing

how to look at the bloated women dragging their feet up and
down the corridors. There were nurses dashing in and out
like souls [Link] wanted to know when she
was going have the baby. He wanted to know if she was
to
in any pain. She said no, she was not in any pain. And that
was a cue for Emmanuel to start his banter about what he
did that day, and how his woodwork was progressing.
Suddenly Gwendolen let out one scream, and Emmanuel
was by the door. The scream was more a heart-rending howl
like that made by a hound about to be strangled. Emmanuel
took just one look from the doorway and fled down the
corridor screaming for the nurse and doctors.

208
 Gwendolen was wheeled into the labour room and was
then asked if she would like Emmanuel to be present at the

birth.
'Can't I have the baby without him?'
'Of course, it's up to you,' came the muffled reply from trie

obstetrician.
'The baby's father then?'
'He's dead.' Gwendolen's voice was flat and final.

The little girl was very small, just a little over five pounds,
but she was perfect.
Gwendolen experienced what millions of
Like magic,
women had years and years before she was born and
felt for

what they will always go on experiencing. She could no

longer recall the pain and the sleepless nights she had been
having the last weeks. The bundle in her arms could grow to
be another disappointment; she could grow to be a princess
or just another ordinary woman; but in that moment when
a baby first appears in the world, the heart of any new mother
warms to the new flesh of her flesh and blood of her blood.
In the morning Ama came. 'She's cute, just like a black
Cindy doll. She's beautiful and tiny. She won't have a weight
problem,' Ama declared, with her African woman know-all
certainty.
'Really? If my child looks like my Daddy, what should I

call her in Ghanaian language?'

'Why Ghana? You're not a Ghanaian. And you can't give
a girl thename of your father. You can give her the name of
his mother, if she looks like her.'
Gwendolen could not see much likeness between this baby
and Granny Elinor, but yes, she could call her 'Father's
mother's come back,' or something like that.
But more than anything she wanted a special name that
could portray what this child meant to her. How could she
explain her feelings to Ama? One thing she was sure of, her
daughter was not going to be given a foreign name which

209
she could not pronounce. The image of her mother Sonia still

struggling to get 'Gwendolen' right loomed in her mind's eye,

and she giggled. When she told Ama what was amusing her,
both of them laughed. Then Ama stopped and was serious.
'Look, you're too young to give your child a name. What of
Emmanuel's people. What of your people?'
Gwendolen smiled like an old lady. 'Does she look like
Emmanuel? She's a little black princess and not a half-caste.
She's a pure Mandingo lady. Look, my friend, I have no
people. I have a few friends; you are one of them. But I want
a name that will show that this baby is my friend, my mother,
my sister, my hope, all in one.'
T know the Yorubas of Nigeria and the Ibos use the word
"Mother" to mean best woman friend, a woman's saviour.
Of course, a mother and even a husband can call a woman
"Mother", but never "Baby" like they do in the West. If a
man called me "Baby" I'd kill him.'
'So, I'll say "my mother, my friend, my sister is here". How
do you say that? Or is it not possible?'
'Of course it is. I think the name is not a Ghanaian one. It

is a Yoruba one. It is "Iyamide". My mother, my female

friend, my female saviour, my anything-nice-you-can-
think-of-in-a-woman's-form, is here. Iyamide.'
'Iyamide. Thank you very much. When I become
I like that.
rich, Ghana and Nigeria and take Iyamide with me.
I'll visit

"Iyamide." You see, I can pronounce it. It has music too. You
play with the "m", don't you? "Iyamide".'
'But your mother is still alive though. I don't understand
you.'
T know she is. But this is my pet mother. Please write it

out for me.'

Emmanuel came in the evening with a bottle of orange
juice. He was laughing.
'You scared the living daylights out of me last night. All
that screaming.'

210
 'Yeah, I was going
have a baby, that was why.'
to
'Corrr, she's so tiny. What
are you going to do with her? I
mean, can you take care of her? Babies are dependent, you
know. Heh, is she going to look like me later? Does she look
like me now?'
Gwendolen chuckled, so much so that her sore stomach
ached. 'You're crazy, you know that, Emmanuel. How can
you be a father of a full-term baby in five months! You're
just a baby yourself, Emmanuel.'
'What? I wondered about that, but I thought maybe it was
[Link] mean .?' . .

Gwendolen nodded. That's right, Iyamide is not your

daughter. She's mine, you see.'
Emmanuel's face went a shade darker. Gwendolen mo-
mentarily blamed herself for speaking the truth, but she knew
that she could not live with such a lie hanging over Iyamide,
who was an innocent. No, it was better so.
'Who is her father then?' Emmanuel asked, looking sud-
denly older. He was very angry, and was trying very hard not
to show it in this open ward, where relatives and new mothers
were aahing and cooing over their new arrivals.
'He's dead!' replied Gwendolen looking away.
'Cor, you surely could do better than that. Where did he
die, in Vietnam?' Cynicism was written all over his face.
'Yeah, in World War One.'
'You're really mad, you know that, Gwendolen. I don't get
.'
it . .

'Shush. Don't raise your voice. But listen, this may not
make sense to you, but just listen. At least of all the people I

know, you used to listen to me. Please don't go away, at least

not yet. I didn't mean to deceive you or anything like that. I
tried to when that row was going
speak out several times,
on, but was never allowed to speak. And since I've left home,
you're the only one I've got. I didn't want to chase you away.'
Gwendolen was tempted to add that if she had spoken the

211
truth then, she would have ruined her father. And now that
he was dead, she would tell no one. Let them keep guessing.
She looked sideways away from the hands she was twisting
as if she was wringing water out of a dishcloth, and noticed
that Emmanuel was watching her, waiting for her to con-
tinue.
'Does that make sense to you?' Gwendolen's voice was full

of despair. In her recent fast growth, she had learned how

hurtful it could be when you suddenly realized that you were
being used. But she wanted his company and affection and
someone to laugh with. Her parents became remote. Emman-
uel was the only one available. Surely there should be some-
thing good about it somewhere.
'Yeah, and if that baby had been light-skinned, you would
have pinned her on me, wouldn't you?'
'No, Emmanuel, I would not have. And don't turn nasty.
I can't say that 1 wouldn't have been tempted to do that when

I was living with my parents. But now I have learned that I

can work for my salvation by myself. This place is not like

Jamaica. If I was tempted, it's not that wanted you to support
I

us, it would have been because of your company. We only

met four and half months ago. Even I know that no baby
could be made in such a short time. Please know that I

was not scared of my parents, but I was scared you'd stop

caring.'
Emmanuel started to stare at his sneakers. 'Sorry, Gwen.'
Gwendolen sat up straighter, determined to say all that
was in her mind. 'But, Emmanuel, thank you for being such
a [Link]'ve taught me how to read the evening paper,
you've even made each of our trips to the fish and chip shops
an adventure. Now I have read a whole book written by a
black woman. And I will read a lot more.' She giggled because
Emmanuel was smiling. 'You know, you deserve to go to
heaven for all that. You are a saint. Saint Emmanuel.'
The smile evaporated from his face as he said, 'Maybe if I

212
had known you were carrying another person's child, I would
not have done it. Who is the father anyway?"
Gwendolen ignored his question and smiled. 'I don't know
if you would not have cared. You were nice. You were my

friend when I needed one. This baby allowed you to show

the goodness in you. You have to thank Iyamide for that.
She's so good.'
'How come you become all of a sudden?'
so wise
'I am a mother now, and
have read a book from cover to
I

cover. This woman told all her life's story in her book. It was
like seeing a whole life's span rolling out before you, you
follow her going to places she's been, experiencing the agony
she went through in a bad marriage, and her coming out of
it, to raise her children and open a new life for herself. Oh,

Emmanuel, I'm so glad I can now read. I am like that person

that was blind who became suddenly sighted when Jesus
touched his eyes. I can now share the thoughts of other men
and women who lived outside Granville. You now make me
see.'
Emmanuel was confused. He could not cope with adu-
lation. Moreover, he was not aware he was doing something
particularly nice. In fact he had no idea what they were going
to do after the birth of the child. He had heard his father
mention adoption once or twice. But he enjoyed visiting
Gwendolen and laughing with her, teaching her how to read
the Sun. He had given her the book A Black Person's Story
because he knew it was written by a black woman. And with
Gwendolen, he did not need to be anybody but himself. So
telling him now that he was an angel for doing things that
gave him a purpose in life, was confusing. How was he going
to cope? How would he tell his parents that after all the
bally-hoo the child was somebody else's? And that
Gwendolen had kept quiet because she valued his friend-
ship? He could understand her, but his father would not.
How could he? He did not see the joy that was radiating
213
through Gwendolen simply because she could read and
finish a [Link] his father ever been so needed and appreci-
ated?A good thing Mr Brillianion had died. Because he did
not know what his father would have done. But Gwendolen
had made him stick to his new trade. He had to, because that
was the first thing she always asked when they met. 'Now
what happened at work?' Even his stepmother had observed
some months ago, and had said, 'Black girls are sometimes
this
so ambitious, they can be a great steadying force to the men
in their life.' Yes, Gwendolen had steadied him. But for the
moment, he was still confused.
Emmanuel walked out of the room like someone in a daze.
Who was the baby's father? When did he die? Why were
there suddenly so many deaths? Her father and the father of
her child? He stopped and looked back at Gwendolen who
was still watching him. No, they could not be one and the
same person. Never! Fancy his thinking such terrible
thoughts. Was it biologically possible? He was not sure. Then
he realized that he was still clutching the flowers he'd bought.
He returned to the bedside, gave Gwendolen a kiss on her
forehead, left the bunch by the side table and left really
slowly.
Gwendolen stretched into the sheets. She cried, but not
too much. Like an old woman she said to herself, T don't
think he'll blame himself in the future, when he learns, as I

have now done, that nothing is meaningless that is given for

the love of another person.'

214
 18

The Settlement

Marcus, who was fast becoming more like his father every
day, ran to the door on hearing the knock one early Sunday
evening in February. It was now over six months since
Winston's death. Sonia and her friend Gladys were in the
living-room arguing as usual over what was to be done about
Gwendolen.
A man in his fifties, with a rather big head, came
well-built
in. He 'Good evening' to Gladys and to Sonia. Gladys
said
thought she heard the man call Sonia 'Baby' but was not
quite sure. She was engrossed in Gwendolen's affairs. She
normally was a woman who minded her own business and
one of those Africans who did not wish to get involved in the
happenings immediately around them in England, because
they would be going home someday. Winston's death
changed that. They all remembered too clearly him talking
about his retirement and how he was going to live in peace
and luxury in his birthplace in Jamaica. He did not even
make it to a pensionable age to say nothing of retiring home
and living in peace and luxury. The death of someone so
close, made them all the wiser.
Gladys waited for Sonia to introduce the new visitor, but
she did not. She simply carried on as if the man wasn't there.
Ronald which was
politely left the centre of the settee,
directly opposite the new man. He
television set, for the
smiled at Ronald and sat down. He took off his grey hat and
placed it on the side table, with a practised air, which betrayed
his familiarity with his surroundings. Gladys did not know
much about men's clothes since her former husband did not

215
believe in buying many. But if this man's clothes were not
of the very best, then they were well cared for. He exuded
class without being stuffy. He knew Sonia and Gladys were
talking about Gwendolen, but he simply focused his attention
on EastEnders, playing on the box. Before he came in, the
soap had been going on as background to the conversation.
But now he made Gladys aware of it. Sonia continued to
ignore it anyway.
That child disgraced 'er Daddy, you know. Him a preacher
too. My back turn only two minutes, she get sheself hitch up
by a poor whitey. Dem not white, you know. Demjust Greek.'
'What does that matter anyway? It's done now. She's your
daughter. You know something, why don't the two of us go
and visit her? I would have done so, but I don't know where
she lives. The social worker wouldn't give me her address
because I am not the next of kin. And who told you that
Greeks are poor people? They're not poor, you know.'
'You know we church, the black one, Brother Simon's
church, dem forbid me give 'usband big, big funeral; dem
blame 'im for letting June-June get a sweet'eart. But that gal
too like men. Just men. Ah tell you, 'snot Winston's fault,'
replied Sonia, completely ignoring Gladys's comment about
the Greeks.
'A church that can condemn a father just for that is not a
good church, I'm sorry to say. But you gave him a big
Christian burial. The only difference was that a white man
said the prayers instead of Brother Simon. Winston's gone to
heaven. God is not going to ask him the colour of his funeral
prayers, is he? Oh, what a muddle.'
Sonia laughed. And Gladys glanced at the solid person who
satwatching EastEnders to see whether he would laugh too.
But he did not. What an arrogant big-headed Mr So and So,
thought Gladys.
'Oh, dat gal vex me so. And Winston's money, dem never
pay it, you know.'

216
 'Ah, so why did you buy all this new furniture and that
music-centre, must have cost you a fortune.'
'Ah pay deposit, you know. Ah show dem the solicitor's
letter and dem let me take the goods. Come, come and see
my new bedroom.'
Gladys Odowis could hardly believe what she was seeing.
It looked as if a whole floor of a furniture shop had been

lifted and placed in Sonia's bedroom. The four-poster bed had

a lacy canopy, the type seen in glossy films and television

dramas. The bedside tables which matched the new ward-
robes were out of this world. How did her friend Sonia come
to know about this high-quality furniture? It was not the
type seen along their local broadway. This was all upmarket.

She did not know that Sonia had such high taste. And that
was not all. The children's rooms now had new beds, ward-
robes and even matching curtains.
Surprisingly enough, what annoyed Gladys Odowis most
were the curtains. Because she knew that Sonia made beauti-
ful curtains, she knew that Sonia enjoyed making things like
curtains for herself. Something told Gladys that there was a
new person working on Sonia, and she did not like it.
Gladys managed to control her voice when she said: 'Sonia,
this must have cost a bomb.'
'Ah know. But me get £60,000, you know. The solicitor
man tole me. Look, look.' Sonia dashed to her new writing-
desk and brought out the claims letter.
Gladys opened her mouth and closed it. Then she said, 'If
I ever get this kind of money, I would put down on a house.'

Sonia laughed. 'Ah thought so too. But my man said rates

high. Rates high, man.'
Gladys narrowed her eyes. 'What man, Sonia? So soon
after Winston died.'
'It's past six months now. Him
say 'im wan' marry me, you
know,' Sonia added, lowering her voice to a funny kind of
whisper.

217
 Gladys's first reaction was to feel cheated. She could not

get any maintenance from her husband and look at Winston

leaving all this money for his family. Yeah, her husband
Tunde had a better education, but all he used the education
for was to protect himself and be able to convince the auth-
orities that he could not afford to maintain his family. And
yeah, she had a better education than Sonia, but see how
hard she'd had to work at her studies to make the education
give her a subsistence salary. She could never get all this
beautiful furniture even if she had pledged her next ten years'
income. And look at Sonia. Why was it Sonia did not consult
her? Because she sensed she would be envious as she was
now? Or because she knew she would have stopped her?
Now which of these two sentiments was true? The battle that
was going on in her mind must have shown on her face.
Sonia saw it, and said, 'Me tink of you, you know. Two
good chillun and your husband leave nutting for you. Mr
Odowis's a bad man. Look at me nuh. And the security done
give me the weekly book, more than Winston's pay. They
pay me rent too.'
Gladys felt like crying and telling her to visit her daughter
alone.
Gladys caught herself in time before she actually said what
was in her mind. A voice inside her reminded her that she
was now working as a leader in a mothers' and toddlers'
place. It was a secure job in which her children could play
whilst she worked. The pay was not bad, only she would
never get the type of furniture Sonia got. But then what
would she do with it? She knew she did not like heavy and
expensive things around her. So what was she being jealous
about?
'You know, me old blue sports radio, you can have it, Mrs
Odowis. You can have some of the chairs too. Ah pack them
in the store at the back.'
'No, thank you, Sonia. But they are new, the chairs and

218
the radio. Your husband bought them just a while ago. They
are still perfect.'
'Ah know, but me no
like them. Winston 'tupid. Dem too
dark. Ah ones with glass tops.'
like these
Sonia led Gladys back into the living-room. The solid man
was still watching the television. Something told Gladys that
they wanted her to leave.
As she picked up her coat and adjusted her knitted beret,
who was aware
she said in a rather loud voice, like someone
of having wasted the time of another, 'We'll go and see
Gwendolen next week. It would be nice to know how she's
doing.'
Sonia saw Gladys out. She felt compelled to talk and talk
about this new man called James. This James called Sonia
'Baby' and she thought that was nice. But Gladys Odowis,
whose culture revered the older woman, felt like throwing
up. Who wanted to be called 'Baby'? If a man should be mad
enough to call her 'Baby' she knew what she would tell that
person. In this she was like Ama, Gwendolen's friend.
This new man could drive a car but Winston could not
have read the road signs to save his life. Winston was so
much at a disadvantage in Sonia's mind that Gladys cried,
'You sound as you hate the man. As if you are looking for
if

reasons to erase his memory from your life. You sound as if

Winston did something really terrible to you. Because if you
are talking about the Winston I knew, then I'll say you're
wrong. He was a good provider. He was the father to your
children. Why do you denigrate him like this? You may want
to be called "Baby", but I don't, because I am a full woman
in my prime. I am proud to be so and I have my own babies.
So why should I feel flattered for a man to reduce me to a
state of dependency like a baby? I think some white women
like it. But I've never yet met a black woman who would not
box the ears of a man who called her "Baby". Baby indeed!
Just grow up, will you, Sonia.'

219
 With that she marched busily into the darkening night.
Sonia stood there in the cold February night looking into
thin air. Winston was everything Gladys said why
he was, so
did she feel this eel of distrust coiled about the memory of
the man she'd been married to for over ten years? Aloud she
said, 'Ah stillwonder why he died the day he did and the
way 'im did. Ah just wonder sometimes.'

220
 19

James

Sonia's new man, James Allen, was a higher-class Caribbean

than Winston. He worked in the hospital morgue. One of his
reasons for keeping quiet in polite company was that all his
jokes were about dead bodies. He told Sonia's children about
a man who kept opening his eyes and smiling at him each
time he tried to put him on the slab for the doctor. And when
he was with Sonia, he talked about how people lookwhen
dead. And Sonia, who was at first frightened, learned to
laugh at his grim jokes. At James could talk without
least
stammering, at least James could crack jokes, albeit grim
ones. She was up with Winston's silences.
fed
When Sonia met James, he was very sympathetic. It
first

was the day they told Sonia to go and identify Winston.

Winston did not look beautiful in death. His face was burned
almost beyond recognition and his body was broken. The
nails were square and cut neatly across. Sonia knew it was
Winston because of those fingernails. They remained perfect,
still pinkish white. Those signs were enough for her. That

blackened face with its eternal lipless grin was not the face
of the Winston she knew. She did not realize that she was
howling until James came in, dressed in a white suit like a
nurse or a doctor - Sonia did not know which - and offered
to take her back to her address. The fact that she had been
sitting next to a black man who knew the right thing to say
and who was what looked like his own car intrigued
driving
Sonia. She invited him to take a mouthful of Jamaican rum,
even though both of them did not drink that much. She
learned later that James too was shaken. Winston looked

221
terrible in death; that ghostly grin. His lips were gone and his
ears too. Lawd ha' mussy.
James's job in the morgue was secure with a real pension,
unlike Winston's seasonal work in the building trade. And
he was a Yellow Nigger, big and handsome. He had a wife
but 'me tired of her, you know,' he had assured Sonia. The
wife had no children and as the marriage was almost twenty
years old, there was no hope of their having any.
Sonia, with her scatterbrained attitude to life, and still
suffering from shock, unwittingly encouraged James. She
very much wanted someone to depend on, especially as the
church in which she worshipped was failing her. She did not
feel like reaching out to God on her own. She could not. She
did not know how. Church-going and praying were things
people did in groups. You spread your prayers for everybody
present, and they prayed for you too. But the English Chris-
tianity in which people are taught to pray individually was
alien to her. Sonia wouldn't know what to say to God. James
filled an important vacuum in her life. He prevented that thin

thread between sanity and insanity from snapping.

And James, whose wife had grown hard out of familiarity
and disappointment with life and whose flat was always neat
and quiet, welcomed the noisy domesticity of the Brilliantons'
home. His ego was boosted when he found that he could still
attract women with his car. Winston did not have enough
education to go to a driving school, to say nothing of buying
a car. And knowing a black man, even though he was a
Yellow Nigger, who drove his own car, impressed Sonia not
a little.

With a new man, she felt she needed a new bedroom.

James did not push her into furnishing her flat, but he did
not discourage her either. After all, she was not spending his
money. He went with her to the big furniture shops to explain
to them that Sonia's big money would soon be paid. He
showed them the court's estimate, and the shops saw a good

222
business. Sonia spent a little over £5,000 doing up her new
bedroom.
Every evening, after work, James would come to St Pancras
Way instead of going to his home in Grafton Road. Hearing
some of his most favourite tunes played on the modern
synchrome system was bliss. Sonia excelled in cooking. She'd
stopped cooking tripe but could now afford good fish and
steak. As James loved desserts, Sonia also reactivated her
sweet tooth. So Sonia, that very skinny woman, was becom-
ing quite tubby. The children were happy because their
mother was happy. And their schoolwork, which nobody
bothered to check, surprisingly improved. Ronald, by being
sharp, outgoing and charming, found himself in the A-stream
in his comprehensive school.
Ronald had no idea what he was going to do when he left
school but he planned to study for 'O' levels because that was
what everybody in his class wanted to do. He read all the
letters written to the Brilliantons and sometimes told Marcus
off for being slow.
James, the fifty-nine-year-old morgue worker, loved this
full family atmosphere, though he could not be bothered
with school reports. Ronald did not press them upon him
either. His father had never asked for them, so why give them
to this new man simply because he could read the newspaper?
And James actually bought the Sun newspaper!
He was reading the Sun when Sonia returned with a frown
on her face. Mrs Odowis had made her feel slightly guilty for
having some fun.
'All right, Baby?' James sang out, without taking his eyes
off the paper he was reading.
Sonia's face broke intolittle wrinkles around the corners

of her [Link] see her man really reading a newspaper! She

was lucky. And outside was parked his ten-year-old car. Of
course Sonia did not know it was ten years old, all she knew
was that James could take her to the local pubs in his car,

223
once or twice a week. And next to his job James Allen
worshipped his car. It gleamed and was fully stocked with
the latest tapes of different kinds of music. From gospel to
the latest reggae, and even some old classics.
Sonia had noticed that for the past weeks, James did not
bother to go home first. He came to her flat straight from
work. Consequently she busied herself in the kitchen whilst
her man read the newspaper. Ronald was writing in his school
books, Marcus watching a taped repeat of an episode of The
'A' Team on their rather huge, 27-inch telly. Somehow that
television seemed to have taken over the whole room. The
children called it their cinema, because they rightly felt as if
they were in a movie house given the size of this new TV.
Cheryl was playing with a doll, combing and recombing its
blonde hair. Bob Marley's plaintive voice wailed, 'No woman,
no cry' from the music-centre.
Then Sonia's voice called above the noise, 'Cheryl, come
to the kitchen and help Mummy. You big 'oman now.'
'Yes, Mum,' replied Cheryl as she slowly put away her doll
and made for the kitchen.
To Sonia, life must go on. Winston was dead. Somehow it
seemed as if he wanted to die. Sonia did not know why for
sure and it was not right to suspect what she did not know.
She piled a plate high with potato chips, chips which she
cut really fat and plump, man-size chips. She did not like to
feed James on those skinny dry ones. By the side of the chips,
she wedged in huge spoonfuls of minced meat fried with
onions, and on another plate was a heap of green plantain
cooked with black-eye beans. The aroma of the food wafted
into the television room. James purred. He could hardly wait
to be served properly on the new dining-table, before he
started to tuck into the steaming well-cooked supper. After
the meal, Sonia brought a bowl of cream which they all used
to top the apple pie she bought from the local baker's shop.
Of course, life must go on.

224
 When James purred and called her 'Baby' she
later in bed,
felt She could not answer. She blamed herself for
stupid.
being so weak, for allowing Mrs Odowis to influence her.
After all, Mrs Odowis was an uncivilized African with all her
taboos and superstition. Yet she did not answer when James
called again, 'Baby, are you all right?'
James instantly ignored her and went to sleep. His stomach
was too full of minced meat and cream anyhow.

225
 20

Iyamide

When Gladys knocked door leading to the Brilliantons'

at the
flat in St Pancras Way it took an un-
that wintry evening,
usually long time before it was opened. Even Marcus, who
was well known for opening their door to any salesman or
woman who happened to be hawking around that part
of North London, had the slowness of an old man this
evening.
Gladys and Sonia had decided to go and see Gwendolen
that evening. It was to be a surprise visit. They had decided

to choose an evening because Gladys worked during the day.

Gladys did not have much time for herself, what with her
family, her job and her studies. But she felt that Sonia was a
friend, a friend who stood by her when she was having her
own marital troubles. Also an instinct was telling her that
Sonia needed a close friend. She could tell that she had not
fully recovered from Winston's death. Winston, though a
quiet person, was a man with a presence. Such people are
not easily forgotten. Gladys could see beyond the veneer of
Sonia's present forced cheerfulness. Her laughter was too
hollow to be real. She had bought four pairs of shoes the
other day, not paying her rent because she knew that Win-
ston's money, the £60,000 she had not yet received, would
pay all her debts. She told Gladys she needed some new shoes
to go to court in. They wear suits to dem court places, you
know.'
Gladys tried to tell her that £60,000 was a lot of money,
but could she not wait and see whether she could invest it in
something? Sonia even declared that she did not want the

227
money cheques or bank drafts. 'I wan' me money in me
in
hand.' She was wont to emphasize this by pointing one finger
into the palm of the other hand. This gesture never stopped
provoking laughter. Mr Ilochina had said once that Sonia
would need a bigger hand than the one she'd got to hold
such a large sum. But Sonia was adamant. T wan' me money
in me hand.'
All was quiet this evening. As Gladys stepped inside, James
Allen called out, 'Ah, good evening, Mrs Odowis.' Gladys
never trusted that man, not even when he was trying to be
nice like now. He was trying too much to be real.
'Good evening, Mr Allen. How's the family?'
'This is the family,' he said lightly.
Gladys ignored him. She went straight into the sitting-room
and James shut the door and went out. They all heard him
start his car.

They've had a fight, Gladys thought.

were swollen, not from a beating, but from
Sonia's eyes
crying. The story quickly poured out of her: she had not
wanted to bother Gladys about coming to the court with her
that day. When her case was heard, she found the insurance
company refused to pay all Winston's money. He had been
warned not to go to the top of the construction site because
it was too dangerous, the others were not ready and the job

could be done later in the day. But he had insisted that

dismantling the machine would not take him any time at all.
Even his friend Mr Ilochina had tried to pull him back but he'd
broken free. And when he was halfway up the ladder, his
helmet had slipped and fallen off his head, because in his
hurry he had not fastened it properly under his chin. So
when the machine exploded and threw him burning like a
torch down the fifteen-storey building, the impact of his fall

broke his brain open. As a result they advised her to settle out
of court.
'And what did your lawyer say?'

228
 'The man 'tupid. He just agree with them. 'Im say many
witnesses dey dere.'
They had led Sonia into another chamber and decided they
would give her only £10,000. But half of it was to be put
away in trust for the younger children. Of the remaining
£5,000 half was for Gwendolen and the other half for herself.
Sonia screamed, 'You understand dat? Injustice. You see me
nuh. Dat gal. That me daatar! God died for the truth. Ah kill

her, you know. Me go kill her. And the solicitor man, me

have to pay him too!'
'Good Lord, what do they want you to live on?'
'Dat, dat book dem give me. Dat all.'
Gladys looked at the Widowed Mother's Allowance book
and noticed that the amount allocated her was quite substan-
tial, because Winston always worked. He had worked
throughout his stay in the UK. But that was not the point at
the moment. The thing was that Soma's hopes had been
raised too high. This was far from fair, thought Gladys.
Sonia started to cry again and Cheryl cried too.
Money was not everything, Gladys tried to imply in conso-
lation. After all, she was managing on a smaller income when
Winston was alive.
'Why did I bring dat debil, proper satan to me home?
Winston jumped to die because church people blamed him
for allowing June-June to stick up with a whitey. And nuh
she more share of Winston's money than me. Me kill her,
you know. She not my pikney. God died for the truth.'
'Mum, Mum, when I leave school I can get a job in the
Civil Service. I'm going to study for "O" Mrs Odowis.'
levels,

'Ronald, "O" levels! You're a good Keep it up. You

lad.

don't have to leave school if you don't want to. Your mother
can manage all right. We all do eventually. If you're this
good, then you must go to a university.'
'Where is a university? They pay them better dere?'
'No, Mum, it's a place for more education. After three or

229
four years, I'll get a degree. But I must get my "A" levels
first.'

'You mean like dem Africans carrying briefcases about the

place? Mrs Odowis, why you telling them all dat for? No
money, there's no money. Me no like such talk.'
'I do paper round,' Marcus, who like his father would do

anything for peace and quiet, added in his father's gentle

women.
voice. His deeply set eyes bored into the souls of both
He was fast growing into a solid quiet man. Whilst Ronald
was slight like Sonia, the two boys looked so different and
yet so alike, especially as both carried their father's deep-set
eyes.
Gladys had never seen so much distress in one human
being as she saw in Sonia that evening. For some reason she
could cope with her husband's sudden death, but not with
this. This seemed to be taking from her all the hopes she had
entertained for the future, and she rightlyfelt she could not

cope with life without hope.

Gladys talked some more. She tried to tell Sonia that she
had a brilliant son, who could get a good job even if he did
not go to a university. She reminded her that her Widowed
Mother's Allowances were more than what she herself got
from her full-time work. She begged her to look at Cheryl
who was crying her heart out, just because her mother was
sad. At length, she left the family, praying that God would
comfort them for the night. Because it felt as if Winston had
just died.
But God works in a mysterious way. Fancy Sonia and
Winston having such bright and promising boys like Ronald
and Marcus. And they are both positive thinkers. Pity Sonia
cannot see these qualities for what they are, she thought. She
must remind her friend of them again some other time.

Sonia was still dazed from shock and disappointment when

the following Saturday she walked into the London

230
Emporium in Stroud Green to buy meat. Stroud Green near
Finsbury Park on Saturdays looked like an African market.
One could buy anything from bitter leaf to cocoyam and
negro yam, from kolanut to sugar cane; from guava to mango.
Next to Brixton market in South London, Stroud Green was
the Mecca for the Caribbean, the African and some Indians.
The irony of it was that all the shops were owned by Indians.
Apart from New Beacon's bookshop on the other side of the
road, the shop owners were Indians. There were one or two
white men's shops, but they looked out of place as if on alien
ground. Sonia knew where to get her tripe, her offal, her
salted fish and her negro yam. She was not in a mood for
fancy foreign food of cakes and frozen vegetables. She wanted
solid African-Caribbean food inside her. The way she was
feeling after the crushing disappointment of the court, made
her wish to spend as little time as possible in the kitchen
frying endless chipped potatoes.
She was engrossed in her problems and looking pathetic
when a woman came up from behind and hit her on both
her cheeks. Her loosely fitted dentures flew out on top of the
Indian butcher's glass case and would have gone straight into
the meat if it hadn't been for the glass top. The Indian butcher

man might then have found it difficult to decide whether the

teeth came from the goats' or pigs' heads lined up inside the
glass case. But neither Sonia nor the Indian man was given
the time to think of them. Sonia was temporarily blinded.
'Wharr . .she tried to say as she spun round. Her attacker,
.
'

however, had not quite finished. She was about to hit her
again, when the butcher's assistant caught her arms and
parted the two women, saying, 'Not here, pleeze, not here.'
'You bitch,' spat the otherwoman. 'Taking my husband.
She wan' James, you know. Look at she hm she has
. . . . . .

paws. Your husband not cold in his grave, you wan' another
man. You can't wait for your man to be buried. If James late
to come home tomorrow, I know where you live. So hands

231
off my husband.' With that she kicked Sonia's shopping
trolley and trampled on it. 'Bitch, bitch!'
She left with another woman who dragged her off. Sonia
could fight if she knew the fight was coming. But this was so
sudden, so unexpected, that Mrs Allen had turned off Stroud
Green and was walking towards the bus station at Finsbury
Park, before Sonia recovered. And then she looked at the
people in the queue - some black, some white - and nearly
all the blacks knew her! She was a frequent visitor at Stroud
Green. She picked up her twisted trolley and walk made to
away, to prevent herself from crying right there.
'Here, here, take your teeth,' cried the butcher's assistant.
This was the height of degradation. She knew that all eyes
in the queue were following her, and she did not miss the
burst of laughter that broke out spontaneously seconds after-
wards. It was a terrible experience.
And because of Gwendolen. If Gwendolen had not met
all

Emmanuel, if Winston had not been too soft to drive the boy
away, if the church people had been kinder to him, if this, if

that . . .

Sonia went to Gladys's home and sat down even though

Ozi, Mrs Odowis's little boy, told her that his Mum was away
shopping and he did not know when she would be coming
back. She smiled and told the boy to go and play. She would
wait for his mother.
'Do you really want James?' Gladys asked later matter-of-
factly. 'Because if you have to spend all this money just to

impress him
Sonia denied with heat that that was what she was doing.
She was spending the money because the law told her the
money was there to be spent. 'If he wants me like, then of
course Ah want him too.'
'Did he come last night?' Gladys asked tentatively.
'Well, no. Tm came dis morning. Overtime, you know.
Many people done dey die for dat hospital.'

232
 They were both quiet after this. They were not babies. They
knew that so far as James was concerned, there was not going
to be any trouble. Many, many more people did not need to
die to keep him away, he could always invent some other
excuses. Was it not a coincidence that Mrs Allen knew exactly
in which market and at which stall to find Sonia? After all,
they were uppish blacks who did not need to make that long
journey from Kentish Town to Finsbury Park. They could
afford to buy the meat they needed from any butcher's shop.
Their likes did not need the Indians.
Sonia looked up from the tea she was drinking and her
eyes met Gladys's. And they both smiled. Sometimes, some
truths are better not said.
'When will we go and see Gwendolen, Sonia?'
'Ah tole you, when me see that gal, me kill 'er, you know.'
Gladys dropped the subject, but she made sure she took
Gwendolen's address.
As for James, he solved his own problem. He stopped
visiting the Brilliantons because the work in the hospital
became too heavy. Sonia did not bother to tell him about his
wife. He probably knew already.
Winston's case was settled out of court. And after all had
been deducted, Sonia was left with a little over £1,000. The
solicitorwould not let her touch the children's money, not
even pay part of her debts. The kids would decide what
to
they would do with their money when they came of age, not
before. Sonia should make do with her Widowed Mother's
allowance.
Sonia knew she would go back to her church soon, but not
immediately. The curses she had rained on Brother Simon and
Sister Esmee and the rest of them were still too fresh. She would
wait until they had forgiven her. But she would go back. It was

clear they had something against Winston but not against her
and her children. She would go back one day soon.
She changed her name to Jane and took up a cleaning job

233
 There she worked with so many Nigerian
late in the evenings.
women, cleaning libraries around Camden Town. Many of
them had so many names, they could hardly remember which
one they were using at which library. And some of them still
collected the dole. Sonia used to think that all this was
wrong when she and Winston lived together. Now she was
beginning to see why these women were doing what they
were doing. It was very exhausting, but they said that stolen
water is sweet. That kept them all going.
Despite her pleading with the big furniture shops in Totten-
ham Court Road and promising that she would pay, they still
came to collect their stuff. It looked as if her going to tell
them what had happened hastened their decision to repossess
their goods. But the manager with the drooping moustache
and with furrows on his forehead pretended to understand.
They took the desk and the canopied bed, the plush leather
suite and the dolly dressing-table. The latter hurt her most,
because she had called in all her neighbours to see it, the day
it arrived. And now the removal men were making so much

racket taking it away that Sonia thought everybody on the

estate was aware of what was happening. Somehow she

knew people were not laughing at her. She could not imagine
the same situation in Granville. She would have been forced
by shame to leave town. Here people were friendly in a luke-
warm manner, but they were not sufficiently interested in
her affairs to make her worry about them. She was none the
less ready to blast anybody who asked her any silly questions.

But nobody did.

However, a week or so later, the whole world seemed to
have collapsed on top of her. The thought came suddenly to
her that the court must have paid Gwendolen her share of
the money, because the lawyers had said she would need it
now for her child. And here was she, Sonia, Winston's wife,
not knowing how she was going to manage. What would the
world say if they knew that she felt like killing her own
234
daughter? Would theysay she was mad? Would they be able
to understand her? She could bear it if they had not given all
that money to Gwendolen. After all, it was she who had
married Winston, not Gwendolen, not Ronald, not Marcus.
She did not worry so much about all that money being kept
for the younger ones. But Gwendolen! God must have sent
that daughter to destroy her!
How could your daughter be your downfall? Gwendolen
had been brought here to help her mother with the children
and to improve herself, and what did she do? She allowed
that white boy to mess her up. Since then the wrath of God
had descended on her family. Sonia took the kitchen knife
and hid it in her shopping bag. She had two shopping bags.
The one for the big shopping was mounted on a trolley. That
one Mrs Allen had smashed up the other day. Then she had
one she had bought from her local Woolworths in Camden
Town, specially for mid-week shopping. She put the knife at
the bottom of the bag and covered it with a lot of old paper
bags. She looked as if she was going to do her evening
cleaning, but as far as she was concerned, she was going to
have it out with Gwendolen. Something had happened when
she went to Jamaica, something terrible must have happened
to warrant God's anger.
Finding theflat was not so difficult because the social

worker had described it to her several times. She had told her
which station and which turning to take after Seven Sisters
Road. Sonia walked very fast, her suspense and anger lending
lightness to her walk. She did not mind the quiet streets, she
did not care that she was walking alone on a late winter
evening in Tottenham.
She found the number of the house in a very neat street
lined with identical houses. The houses were of red brick, the
area beautiful and even more private than their grey and
white council estate in St Pancras Way.
She rang the bell and Emmanuel opened it.

235
 'Wharr, wharr are you doing here, this time of night? Whey
June-June?' Sonia pushed Emmanuel out of the way and
walked purposefully into this nice flat.
The flat was lovely and yet so different - so much so that
she felt like asking Emmanuel whose flat it was and who
lived there. Baby sounds coming from a white basket placed
in the front room with plastic birds and aeroplanes hanging
from its canopy stopped her thoughts. Sonia went towards
the cot and was transfixed. She opened her mouth and
closed it several times as if she was drowning. Winston's
dark-rimmed eyes seemed to jump from the child's face to
mock her. She saw Winston's round face shrink to the size
of the child's, and the child's face balloon to the size of
Winston's; Winston, the baby, the baby, Winston, in rotation.
Sonia held on tightly to the edge of the basket to stop her
feet from buckling under her. Her eyes wandered to the
square nails, the very shape of the nails by which she ident-

ified Winston's body. Those nails had now shrunk on to the

tips of the baby's fingers. And Winston's square-shaped hands

seen in miniature were now waving a rattle.

Mercifully, there was another ring at the door. Sonia
breathed in deeply when she heard Gladys's voice.
'Oh, so you came at last,' cried the African woman.
'Yeah, me come,' replied the woman from the Caribbean,
in a voice so deep that it was strange and distant even to
herself.
'Mrs Odowis, me blind you know. Me so blind. To think
me think Winston 'tupid.'
'No, Sonia, you're not blind. You refused to see what you
did not wish to see. Who could blame you for that? We do it

all the time.'

'You tink me know all the time?'
'That's right.'
'Oh, Mummy, I knew you'd come one day. I knew you
would.'

236
 Sonia turned from the cot to see Gwendolen standing there,
a grown woman in a white running suit, carrying a tray full
She placed the tray on a plain pine table with
of tea-things.
no runner or antimacassar and ran to her mother. 'Isn't
Iyamide wonderful? She's so good.'
Sonia started grunting like Winston. She did not know
what to say. She found a seat and sat down. She stared at the
cot. 'Is dat her name? Iya mi de?'
. . . . . .

Gwendolen nodded. 'See, you can pronounce it very easily.

It is a Yoruba name.'
That no Christian name. You give the baby uncivilized
African voodoo name?'
Gwendolen looked at Gladys Odowis, and they both tried
to suppress the laughter that was bubbling inside them.
Sonia turned her anger to Emmanuel. 'Wharr you doing
here, eh? You gave her the idea of this heathen name. This
chile not yours, you know.'
Everybody just started to laugh, dispelling the tension.
'Oh, Mum.' Gwendolen moved closer to Sonia on the chair.
'Iyamide means "My mother is here". It is symbolic. It does
not mean my mother, it means everything
you're no longer
I ever wanted, warmth, security, comfort, is all here in a
female form. That is going to be her Christian name. But it is

a name with a meaning, and see, you can pronounce it.'

'I know people who still can't say "Gwendolen" and say
it's "Granada",' Gladys put in with a hint of impatience,
wondering when these Caribbeans would stop calling
Africans uncivilized as if they were civilized themselves!
Whatever that word meant.
Gladys got up. 'Well, Gwendolen, I come to see how you
are coping, and you are doing very well. We'll be going now.
Come on, Sonia.'
Sonia got up stiffly, still clutching her bag. Then she turned
to Emmanuel. 'You come with us? Ah tell you this child not
yours.'

237
 'I know that, Mrs
Brillianton, and it does not matter. Gwen
is my you see. I baby-sit for her so she can go to her
friend,
singing lessons. She sings at a gospel choir now, you know.
And isn't Iyamide adorable?'
'Come on, Sonia, this is not our world.' Gladys was now
gently pulling her friend.
'You'll come again, won't you, Mum?' Gwendolen asked.
And Sonia nodded mutely.
Outside, Sonia cried, 'Lawd ha' mussy, Ah been so blind.
Everything change so fast in this kontry, you know.'
'Come on, grandmother. They are the future now. We
can't hold them back with our fears and prejudices.'
'Me no know nutting no more,' said Sonia suppressing a sob.
'Don't worry, Gwen is a big girl now. She can take care of
herself. She'll find her own identity.'
The two women walked into the street and the biting wind.
Sonia looked this way and that in the darkening night. She
saw huge dustbin in front of a badly lit house and walked
a
towards it. She lifted the lid gently so as not to alert the
occupants of the house; then she took out the kitchen knife
she was carrying. She plunged it fiercely several times into
the rubbish bin, with all her might and with as much anger
and frustration as if she was stabbing a snake that had just
bitten her. At the same time she was muttering to herself.
Then, when she seemed exhaustedly satisfied, she heaved a
sigh as if at a job well done, and used her bare hands to bury
the knife in the bin. At length, she placed the bin lid back

reverently. It was She walked back to her friend,

like a ritual.
who stood on the pavement watching spellbound, not know-
ing what to say or do.
Sonia started walking briskly back to the tube station, with
Gladys following very much shaken. It became clear
silently,
to her that Soniawas not going of her own free will to offer
any explanation, for her face was bent down as if she was
counting the concrete pavement slabs.

238
 Gladys peeped into her face and asked, 'What were you
burying, Sonia?'
Sonia stood rigid. She stood at attention right there in the
middle of the pavement, almost like a puppet whose strings
had suddenly been pulled tight. Her face stared into the dark
night. She looked as if she was talking to the few stars that
dared to twinkle.
'Winston Brillianton!'
There was nothing more to be said.
Sonia's voice had the finality of a closed door.

239
 BOSTON PUBLIC LIBRARY

3 9999 01351 464 9

Boston Public Library

COPLEY S
GENERAL L

The Date Due Card in tl

cates the date on or before which this

book should be returned to the Library.
Please do not remove cards from this
pocket.
 $8.95

Born into poverty in Jamaica, deserted when her parents emigrate, and
raped by an "uncle" at age nine, Gwendolen Brillianton is happy to be
summoned to London to care for the siblings she has never met but —
being reunited with her family does not solve her problems, or theirs.
Not until she has again been the victim of rape and has left home does
Gwendolen begin to understand that she must take control of her own
life. Widely known and respected for her stories of black women strug-

gling with the conflicting demands of tradition and modernity, Buchi

Emecheta has written a painfully engrossing tale of bravery in the face
of familial disintegration.

Praise for the novels of

BUCHI EMECHETA
"Miss Emecheta's prose has a "Buchi Emecheta writes with a
shimmer of originality, of English storyteller's flair. Her prose is

being reinvented. . . . Issues of vivid and simple as a stone carv-

survival lie inherent in her mate- ing." — Houston Chronicle
rial and give her tales weight."
— John Updike, The New Yorker "[Emecheta's novels,] compose the
most exhaustive and moving
"Second Class Citizen is one of the portrayal extant of the African
most informative books about con- woman, an unparalleled portrayal
temporary African life that I have in African fiction and with few
read." —
Alice Walker, Ms. equals in other literatures as
well." — World Literature Today

Buchi Emecheta was born of Ibuza parents in Nigeria, and has been
living in London since 1962. Her eight previous novels with Braziller
include The Joys of Motherhood, Second Class Citizen, The Slave Girl,
The Bride Price, Double Yoke, The Rape ofShavi, The Moonlight Bride,
and The Wrestling Match In 1983, she was selected as one of the Best
.

Young British Writers. She is the winner of several literary prizes.

GEORGE BRAZILLER, INC

60 Madison Avenue
New York! New York 10010

Cover design by Rita 'Pocock

Printed in the United States of America
ISBN: 6-8076-1250-2