Hold: An Observer New Face of Fiction 2018. Michael Donkor
showing off was totally my thing back then.’
‘Back then?!’
‘We were getting closer to the actual village and I saw all these orange clay or mud or whatever houses next to each other. They had these slits for doors that I thought were really small, and I said to you something, like, about how Ghana was only for skinny people or something equally insensitive, I’m sure …’
Belinda watched Amma stretch the ripped thumb-holes in her jumper.
‘We kept walking, and then this massive queue, like, appeared? Everyone in it was all, like, jostley and impatient. And facing the queue – sort of like everyone had come to see him – there was this little boy and he was crying. I think he was probably about four or five because I wondered if we could be friends. That’s when I noticed his hands and feet. They were tied up. And the dude at the front of the queue, like, whipped off his, his, flip-flop, his – challewate.’
‘We pronounce as cha-la-watt –’
‘And went completely psycho all over the little boy. Laying into him with it. Even when he screamed and shit –’
‘Amma –’
‘And then, like, yeah, I got that everyone else in the line was getting ready to do the same: they were all bending down to take off the one shoe. And we walked past and made small talk when all the uncles arrived, and they said nice things until you handed them cash.’
‘Amma.’
‘So that’s probably the thing I remember most about Ghana. Yeah.’
‘I don’t think that’s a very good story.’
‘No?’
‘Is it necessary, Amma? Eh?’
‘For, for the bofruit, I used a recipe I have known since I was a small girl. My trick is adding the vanilla. Is expensive, that’s why people they don’t like to add, but if you have only one pod, and you use only a few of the small small beans in it, is sufficient. It will give plenty of flavour. In your cupboards I noticed you have many vanillas. So. No problem.’
Outside, the still, white sky seemed to be the sigh Amma released. ‘It doesn’t matter. Really. It doesn’t. None of it does.’
The words travelled lightly from her, along with other, more muttered phrases. Amma stood, walked out, and Belinda’s hands flapped, forgetting how to hide in pockets. Nana’s head was bowed, and she let herself hang like that for a while, as if dragged by the small pendant at her neck, and Belinda reassured herself by looking at the exposed, biscuit-coloured nape, knowing how soft it must be to touch. Belinda wondered if Nana had ever found somewhere quiet and hidden to cry, like she had done in the early days at Aunty and Uncle’s. Crouching in the tool shed, with an oily rag in her mouth and the tears unable to come out was the worst one, on an airless Wednesday. She had ironed and stored Uncle’s handkerchiefs for three hours without stopping. The instructions were that they needed to be folded identically. After attending to at least fifty, it came on her: a falling, falling feeling that had her scuttling around until she found safety, away, breathing fast amongst spanners and wrenches and nails.
It was difficult for Belinda to remember exactly what had brought on that sensation. If it was just the grinding nature of the work. Or a fear that she always had in those early days in Daban, that her dirty, village hands might leave a grimy trace or mark on the fine fabrics she was being asked to handle. Or fear that Aunty would ask her a question about Mother’s life and that Aunty’s clipped voice might make Belinda say too much. Or if the horrible feeling was prompted by the loneliness of being somewhere new, despite the small girl who shadowed her for most of the day. What Belinda could remember clearly was the pressure of the cloth in her mouth; the silencing, muffling force of the fabric on the back of her throat. Painful but comforting at the same time.
Belinda wanted to ask Nana what she should do next but was interrupted by Amma’s return to the room – a swish of loosened plaits, sweep of sleeves, stomp of boots.
‘These are fucking delicious, Be.’
Amma collected three more bofruit and swept away. Belinda’s stirring hands stilled.
Even though Amma found the idea of a ‘black Eve’ trite, and even though she didn’t want to be looked at, Amma had agreed to pose that Wednesday afternoon because it was Helena who had asked. Same old, same old: when they were at Prep School and Helena didn’t want to stand next to that girl in assembly or be the nurse again at playtime, there was a lilt in the enunciation of her requests or elegance in the fiddling of her fine, yellow hair that invariably won. So in Helena’s Dulwich conservatory, amongst arrayed yuccas, a coerced Amma found herself holding a Granny Smith at eye level, all for the sake of Helena’s Art coursework. Amma had never ‘sat’ for a portrait before, and the hot awkwardness as she suppressed fidgety itches was something she had no desire to experience ever again. Opposite, as if in response to Amma’s internalised disdain, Helena squinted. Amma watched her baroquely flourish the brush and dab the painting with finality.
‘And now for that promised hashy hash,’ Helena stopped to change the CD from De La Soul to Bob Dylan, wiped her hands on her faded T-shirt with Babar on it, then reached for the wooden pipe to her left and tapped ash from its bowl. She wrestled with her pockets. ‘The dark cloud hasn’t, like, lifted then, ma petite sœur?’ Helena said, peering into the retrieved baggie.
‘What?’
‘Obviously I’m talking about how you’ve been Lily Long-Face all afternoon.’
‘You told me I should “do pensive”, so I’m doing –’
‘– And what about how dry you were at Max’s? Mmm? I needed you there, man.’
‘I was there.’
‘Come on, Am. Support was required. Lavender needed controlling. She’s becoming a real joke. It’s like she’s forgotten that she’s actually, er, supposed to be a feminist?’
Amma rotated her neck until it clicked, then popped the apple on the nearest bookcase.
‘Yeah. You’re probably right. Definitely. Yeah.’
‘What?’
‘Nothing. Let’s not talk about Max’s. Please.’
‘Fine. That’s totally fine.’ Helena flicked her lighter, took a gulp and let out a luxuriant horn of white. ‘I don’t want you to do or say anything you’d be … uncomfortable with.’
Amma rolled her eyes.
‘Am, I’m trying to be nice. You’re acting like you need someone to be nice to you. Like you want that? So I’m doing my best. OK?’
Helena wiped her tiny mouth with a splattered sleeve and passed the pipe over. Amma inhaled a deeper lungful, then replied through strained exhalation.
‘Really. Let’s chat about something else. As uncharacteristic as it seems, the urge for the ordinary is pressing on me hard, dearest.’
‘That sounds really odd, and … disgusting.’
‘But I didn’t mean it like that.’
The two girls sat in silence, the milky sunlight playing with the air’s bluish haze. Amma rested the pipe by the apple. She wanted to leave, but that would be terrible. She closed her eyes and told herself she could start again. When she opened them, Helena was back at the easel, frowning.
‘What? What’s wrong?’ Amma asked.
‘You’ve really fucked the mood of this painting.’
‘How short-lived kindness and concern are with –’
‘Seriously. You’ve