Authors: Peter Akinti
M
Y FATHER'S STUDY WAS
a small igloo stuffed with books, lit by a cluster of candles and had a single block of wood for a desk. There were two overturned Coca-Cola crates for chairs. The only sign of the modern times was his minidisk player that had 'Property of the New York Times' stamped across the face. I remember sitting with Ashvin outside the study that night, listening to our father asking questions. My father didn't encourage us exactly, but he knew we were there. By that time the two men were more like family than friends. The interview went on long after Ashvin and I had gone to sleep, until dawn. My father's two thousand scathing words appeared in the international pages of the
New York Times
, my mother showed it to me. I didn't understand it very much. It was something about the issue of skyrocketing food and fuel prices in Somalia which he linked to China's expansion and its influence on world trade; the way the West used green politics to slow down the pace of economies in the Third World; the way the West had been ravaging the world with impunity since the beginning of the Industrial Revolution.
Two weeks after the publication of my father's article he was invited to speak in Mogadishu at a protest rally over high food prices. He took Ash and me with him despite our mother's disapproval. It was peaceful to begin with; the crowd cheered his speech. Then something happened and people started hurling rocks at cars, shops and buses. Some people were wounded, others began looting the restaurants and shops, and fighting broke out in Baraka market. As people thundered past I fell and lost a sandal. I felt an odd sensation, it was as if my leg muscles had turned to water and my heart thudded out of control. I thought I would be lost to the clamour of feet and the swirling clouds. I felt foolish when Ashvin found me. He raised an eyebrow when I mumbled something ridiculous about retrieving my sandal. He held my hand tightly as he led me back to my father. He was a small boy and had to keep turning his back to zigzag through the throng. 'Don't let go,' he said frowning with concentration, his head bent down. If I close my eyes I can still smell the sweat from all the rushing bodies and feel the chaos all around. But everything became still when my father, the sunlight behind him, hugged us and told us to remain close as we walked back to safety.
Soon after that the Ethiopian men came wearing uniforms supplied by the Transitional Government and murdered my mother and father. It rained early the next morning. I could see the trees outside bending in the high wind. I called Mr Bloom for help and sat waiting with Ashvin for a long time beside the open window. It felt like all the promises that had ever been made had been broken.
It wasn't the first time the soldiers had been to our house. Three of them had come once before. They wanted to warn us of the danger we were in because of what they had overheard their officers saying. My father had to give them protection money. It was one of the few times I ever heard my parents arguing. My mother said the soldiers' visit would become routine. She begged him to sell up and buy a house in another village but my father refused. 'Abandon my house? All I'm doing is telling the truth. I left my country once before, I'm tired of running. This is my house.' When my father got something in his mind that was that. Their raised voices didn't bother me until I realised how frightened my mother was – she sat up at night staring out of the window, listening to the distant sound of gunfire around Baidoa. I watched her one night for a while, not wanting to disturb her thoughts. She had a habit of gently rubbing the right palm of her hand against the back of her left. Looking back, it didn't seem like she was expecting anybody. She looked more like she was preparing for the worst. The next morning my mother cooked a large breakfast and seemed herself again. We ate together and laughed and my father took Ashvin fishing while my mother read aloud from one of her books,
Mariama Ba
, I think. Shortly after that – perhaps a week – both of my parents were dead.
I remember it was late morning by the time I called Mr Bloom. Ash didn't want me to. I tried my best to speak clearly and calmly over the telephone. He had worked all night and was preparing to enjoy a newlyweds' party with his then girlfriend, Sossina. He came to our house alone through the back. We were washing our parents' feet when he arrived. Nobody spoke. Mr Bloom let out a deep sigh. He closed his eyes, tilted his head and stood there, one hand holding the gun, the other clutching his ponytail, teetering on the edge of saying something but he seemed to have swallowed his words. Ashvin glanced at him and then sat by the window. I remember Mr Bloom wore a grey T-shirt that was wet in patches with sweat. When I first noticed him he looked like he was holding up the wall with his back. I saw him lower his gun and take my father's hand, check his pulse. My father was covered in blood, his throat had been cut and he had been shot several times. I remember Mr Bloom tried to wipe blood from my father's mouth and nose. He didn't see me see him do it; he made the sign of the cross and he kissed my father. That was when I knew he was my father's true friend. Nobody else I called came, at least not when it mattered – that's the point about the black/white thing. Mostly it's character that counts. You never really know people until something happens in life. Nobody teaches you that. Ashvin did not cry, he looked weak and feverish. He only spoke once. 'Why do you think this has happened? To us?' I had nothing to say and Ash just sat in silence, looking out of the window.
I
T WAS COLD THE
next morning. When James came into the living room I stopped talking. He asked me if I wouldn't mind turning up the central heating.
I stood and gave him a hug. He felt warm.
'I cooked breakfast,' I said.
Immediately, I could tell, by the way he looked at Mr Bloom, that James was going be hostile. Mr Bloom wore a black sweater over an expensive white shirt. His dark rheumy eyes were set deep in his leathery face and he had long silver hair, which was thinning. He swirled his coffee for a moment, stared at James the way he might look at a dog, not hatefully but as if at a completely different species – as though he was telling James he could never walk or talk in the same way as him. I don't know what he was looking at him like that for. I watched James try to square up to him. Mr Bloom smiled, as if he was laughing at him.
James told me later he thought Bloom was a 'proper wanker'.
'I'm Larry Bloom.' He half stood and extended his right hand.
James shook his hand and sat in the chair facing him.
'How are you feeling?'
'How are
you
feeling?' James said.
He didn't want him to think they were friends.
'I'm Meina's guardian,' Mr Bloom said. 'Forgive me, I don't mean to pry, but I've heard so much about you. You were very close to Ashvin, I know, and you must have been under a lot of stress to do what you did. Those feelings don't just go away like that.' He snapped his fingers. 'Believe me. Go easy on yourself. I know you think you can take care of yourself but everyone needs help sometimes, even old white men like me.' Mr Bloom stopped speaking when he saw the icy expression on James's face.
I made a show of glancing out the window. 'It's raining outside,' I said.
They continued to watch each other.
'Look,' Mr Bloom said, 'the only reason I'm here is to make sure Armeina is all right. I know this may be somewhat awkward but she told me what you told her yesterday and I think the best thing is for you to get away for a bit. At least until things quieten down. We were thinking about where you could go. We haven't come up with anywhere suitable yet.' He spoke with a casual authority.
'I'm not going anywhere,' James said.
There was silence. I heard a trickle of water from the shower. James had probably not turned it off properly.
'You a policeman or what?'
'James,' I said, 'what's wrong?'
'No, it's OK,' said Mr Bloom. 'Let him speak. I'd feel a bit strange too if I woke up to find a complete stranger in my home.'
'So are you a policeman?' James asked again.
'In a manner of speaking I guess you could say that, but lucky for you, James, I'm on your side.' Mr Bloom smiled unconvincingly, and then he walked across the room and began to fumble in his well-travelled leather satchel. He pulled out a blue Manila folder just as I gave James a hot plate of scrambled eggs, beans and sausages. I could tell James was hungry but I knew he wouldn't eat if Mr Bloom stared at him the way he had been doing.
Mr Bloom unclasped the file clip and then he slid away his plate and put the folder on the table. The cover read:
Morrisons – Operation Facilitate
1, 2, 3, 4 and 5
28 Kimberley Way
(Mandela Estate)
Special Enforcement Unit
Mr Bloom began to leaf through the pages. 'This is a copy of the police file on your family. It's as long as your arm. Frankly, and I have already told Meina, I don't like the idea of you living with her. But as long as you keep her happy, I am prepared to see how things go . . .' He looked up from the file for a moment to see James's reaction. Saw none.
'I think we understand each other,' said Mr Bloom. 'I don't think they can connect you to the murder of Nalma, but that won't stop them harassing you because of your family. I need to speak with –' he turned another sheet, searching for a name – 'Inspector Whittaker to sort this situation out as best I can. If you went away, you'd be doing me a favour.'
'My brothers are the dealers, Mr Bloom. Not me.'
James looked up at me and I blushed.
I was wearing a wrapper over my nightdress. One of the straps slipped off my shoulder and James gave me a smile and I felt open for living in that moment, wide awake as though anything could happen. It was like the way I felt whenever I woke up too early, when I got to see the most brilliant sunlight spreading evenly over the world.
James finally started eating his food. There was no juice left in the fridge so I gave him a Diet Coke.
Mr Bloom looked at my bare shoulder and then followed my gaze over to James.
'Do you have any other family you could look up?' he asked.
'I have a half-sister. But we've haven't seen each other in years. She lives in Cornwall with her mother but she sends me birthday cards so I do have her address.'
'Very good,' Bloom said, 'perfect. You should go there while I sort this out.'
'I told you, I'm not going anywhere. Besides, I've done nothing wrong,' protested James.
'No one is saying you've done anything wrong. Sometimes it's just a good way of allowing things to blow over. You'll love Cornwall. Where does your sister live?'
'In Cornwall.'
'
Where
in Cornwall?'
I could tell James felt betrayed. I thought of how I could make it up to him. I walked over to the window. Something was brewing in the air, behind the rushing grey clouds, like an electric storm. Raindrops glistened on the leaves and petals of the flowers in the front garden of the pensioner who lived opposite. Birds extended their wings against the force of the wind and mocked the stray cat in the safe distance far below. I watched the cat looking up expectantly at the birds from the base of the oak tree, lured by all his hunter senses – sight, sound, smell. Even the tree bent down to tease him. The cat remained stubbornly patient.
'If you do decide to go to Cornwall I want to come,' I said.
'I don't think that would be a good idea, Meina,' said Mr Bloom.
I could feel the thoughts going through James's mind. He didn't have any friends. He didn't like his family. He was worried that his morbid feelings would reawaken. He decided it would be good to get away but in truth he was scared to because, like me, he knew he couldn't run from his own self. He had to start getting to know people, start to share new experiences if he was going to make a case for life, a fresh start.
'How do you get to Cornwall?' he asked.
T
HERE WAS A LOUD
rapping at the window, the unmistakable jingle of keys. James had gone to pick up the remainder of his belongings, leaving Meina alone in the flat. The unexpected noise frightened her and, dazed, she stood up with surprise. She thought it was Ashvin. The tapping took up again, echoing around the flat. When she stretched her neck and peeked out the window she could make out a tall, distinguished figure standing at the door – it took her just a moment to recognise James's brother, 5. He tapped his keys against the glass impatiently.
'Yo! Yo, sis! Open up, it's me. It's me, the outlaw Jesse James . . . 5,' he said. He was the last person she expected to see.
Meina crossed the hallway, pushing her hair out of her face. She bent over and looked through the spyhole. 'James isn't here. He went to get some stuff at your flat.'
5 smiled, baring all his teeth. 'For Cornwall, I know. I just left him. But I want to speak to you. Open the door, sis.'
Meina unlocked the door and 5, authoritative, breezed in. He considered her a moment, smiled. 'Que passé, baby?' he said.
Meina could only watch.
5 exuded street-manliness, rugged strength outside the law, but there was something charming about him, the way he winked and smiled when he spoke. Meina thought there was something graceful about him too, although she couldn't quite put her finger on it. As he passed her 5 looked bored as if he were thinking of something else to do, or some other place to be. He rubbed his hands together as he surveyed the room. His arms looked bulky in his thick beige woolly cardigan; it had large red buttons and a smiley Japanese face embroidered in red on the back. Meina shivered. She couldn't think what to say.
'Put the kettle on, sis. Coffee. White. Two.' He stopped pacing and flopped down on the sofa, picking up the remote control for the television. 'In your own time, I got plenty.'
He didn't look like a dealer or a murderer. He was not particularly mean-looking, no flash jewellery, just baggy jeans with gold wings painted on both back pockets. But he made the air fizzle with unpredictability. Meina felt uneasy. She wasn't afraid, not exactly, but had the strong feeling he could make her afraid. He didn't look like someone who knew how to take no for an answer. Like a warlord.
'Look,' said 5, 'I've had a hard time dealing with the idea of my little brother leaving home. I'm the oldest. I have to decide what is best for my family whether I like it or not. I thought, as we're neighbours, I'd just show my face, so people round here know the score, nah mean, sis? Now, how about that coffee?' He turned, stretching out on the couch and dangling his feet over the armrest.
Meina sighed and, reluctantly, went to put the kettle on.
'Nice place, sis,' he shouted to her in the kitchen. 'Tip-top.'
When Meina returned with his coffee, 5 was flicking through one of her gossip magazines.
'How can you read this bollocks? These people need a dose of the real world.' He threw the magazine back on the pile. 'You shouldn't read all that dieting shit.'
'I'm a grown woman.'
5 looked at her for a moment, laughed. 'You sound like James.'
'What's this about?' Meina asked. She felt her mouth going dry, crossed her arms over her chest and felt her heart pounding.
'Relax, sis, sit down.' He slurped his coffee. 'Oohh, perfecto. Got any bickies? You'll never keep a Morrison without McVitie's Digestives, I'll tell you that from kick-off.'
'I don't mean to be rude, but I'm getting ready to leave,' said Meina.
He ignored her. 'So you're African, right? Somalian, yeah?'
Meina gritted her teeth. 'Somali, yes, and I don't have Aids if that's what you came here to ask me.'
'Look, I'm sorry about that. It was a stupid thing to say.'
'What's my being African got to do with anything? Both my parents went to school, to college, and I
was
happy sometimes in Somalia . . . for your information.' Meina straightened her back and rolled her eyes.
'Whoa. OK, I get it. I was just asking. He sighed. 'Look, all of this has been a bit of a head rush for me. It's tragic what happened. I'm sorry about your brother,' he said. 'We all are. James means a lot to me, believe it or not. Could we just start again?' He offered his right hand and grinned; amazingly it was infectious. 'Peace?' he said.
Meina shook his hand. It was soft and warm like a child's but his grip was firm.
'I'm sorry,' said 5.
'OK,' said Meina.
'So you guys are going away to lie low?'
'No. We're just taking a break. A change of scenery.' Meina was surprised at how much like Mr Bloom she sounded.
'A change of scenery? That's exactly what James just said.' He paused, looking at her tits. 'You could do modelling, you know.'
It was so blatant. Meina looked at him, stunned. She gave him what she thought was her hardest, most solemn expression, but there was still a moment before 5 chuckled, waved his arms and averted his eyes. He rubbed his hands together and blew on them as if he was cold.
'So what's the dealio with you and my little brother?' he asked.
'We're going to live together.'
'Why?' He lowered his head, narrowed his eyes at Meina.
Why?
She shrugged. 'Why?'
'Yeah. Why? You look like you could get any man you want. Why do you want to live with my little brother?'
'I don't know. I don't want to live by myself. I think together we might stand a chance.' Meina regretted the words as soon as they left her mouth. They seemed to hang in the air like net curtains caressed by a gust of wind. She expected him to burst out laughing but instead he smiled calmly.
'Fairy Muff. But what happens when you get bored?'
'I'm not going to get bored. What's this about?'
'James is a good kid. If you're loyal to him, take care of him, he could be all right for you. You guys could make a nice little family, like the Waltons. Except you wouldn't have to take no shit.'
The Waltons?
'You were spoiled as a child, I can tell.' He smiled. 'You were, weren't you?'
Meina thought of her father, of bouncing on his knee while Ashvin stretched his arms waiting for his turn. 'You are my first son but she is my first daughter.' And he would kiss her on the nose.
'So you do have a smile,' said 5.
Meina didn't respond. She stood motionless, realising she was becoming less uneasy. A police siren claimed the silence as she rubbed her left palm against the back of her right hand.
'What do you know about my family? Be honest. Go on, say the first thing that comes to your mind,' said 5.
'You're drug dealers.'
5 was silent for a moment. There was menace in his gaze and then he chuckled. 'What d'you know about being a dealer?' He turned to look out of the window. He was glassy-eyed when he took another gulp of coffee. That was when Meina noticed his eyes were bloodshot, as though he needed sleep. He wasn't aggressive towards her but she could tell he was getting more and more restless. 5 couldn't keep his eyes focused on one thing for any length of time. One minute he'd stand up and seem happy, smiling warmly, but then halfway through a sentence he would sit down quickly and say nothing. Meina couldn't keep up with anything he said after a while because he jumped from one subject to the next as though he couldn't concentrate. And if she interrupted him or tried to say anything he became irritated. But at the same time he seemed calm. It reminded Meina of what it was like living with Ashvin when he first started acting out of character, with the mood swings. Sometimes Ash would stand up and sit down five or six times, and then feel guilty about damaging the sofa. He couldn't make any decisions. He would put his jacket on only to take it off again. Whenever Meina asked him about his strange behaviour he would get angry, deny anything was wrong, storm off. She wouldn't see him again for days. Sometimes he would act like that, like 5, for weeks. Meina remembered being afraid of her own brother. She suddenly felt angry at Ash. If he'd spoken to her she was sure she could have helped him, but, she felt, he didn't trust her enough to talk to her.
Meina watched as 5 stood up straight and then bent over and grabbed his ankles. Then he started to stretch his arms out. Then he held on tightly to his waist. She thought he was going to start exercising, doing star jumps or something, but he didn't. He stretched his arms and just grabbed at his ankles a few more times until he began to sweat.
'You OK?' Meina spoke gently.
'I'm just loosening up,' he said, 'don't wanna get fat, like.'
Again, for a second, Meina saw Ashvin in James's brother. He looked nothing like Ash but when he sat down and started talking fast, almost to himself, arched forward in a rather childish manner, 5 called Ash to Meina's mind. She didn't think 5 would hurt her but she definitely felt a bit uneasy when he started pacing the room, going on and on. They didn't discuss much at all; in fact, despite hanging on his every word, Meina wouldn't remember anything he said. Where her brother seemed morbidly depressed and enveloped in gloomy thoughts, 5 had a particular hardness about him, something sinister. His words betrayed a bitterness that he seemed to have allowed to fester. Perhaps it was from years spent in prison or living in this neighbourhood. Meina used to wonder the same thing about the boys at home, those who became soldiers when they were very young. Those who, in time, would be capable of doing anything.