The Infinite. Patience Agbabi

       Chapter 04:00

       OOPS

      It’s Thursday. I’m not going to school today. I’m tongue- tied.

      Tongue-tied’s not the same as not talking. Tongue-tied feels like someone’s tied up your tongue so you can’t talk. Not talking’s when you could talk but choose to stay silent.

      This might SOUND like talking but it’s thoughts in my head.

      Sometimes I think like I talk and things make sense.

      Sometimes I talk like I think and my teachers say, ‘Elle, have you swallowed a dictionary?’ and I feel embarrassed.

      And sometimes when my feelings get jumbled up my words get jumbled up too.

      Or words come out in the wrong order or on top of each other.

      Or I don’t talk at all.

      That’s when under the table is the best place to be.

      Today, I’m living under the table.

      Though the table’s higher than average, I have to bend my head down, so after a while my neck gets sore. It’s hard to sit still under the table for long. Sometimes I lie down just to stretch out. I used to like living in my bed when I felt too many emotions at once, and noises went louder and smells went stronger and I needed somewhere quiet and calm to make the panic go away, but it was difficult to keep the sheet over my head. The table is better; the white cloth hangs right down to the floor all the way round. Like being in a tent. I love that. Last year I went camping with the school and it was perfect having my own tent to sleep in. It felt like my own little house. I was SO happy.

      But today I’m angry and sad. I can cope with being sad, angry and scared, although I don’t like it. But sometimes they get mixed up, like being happy and sad and scared at the same time. Yesterday I felt happy because leaping was like doing the long jump but ten times more exciting; sad because I leapt by mistake and if I had done it on purpose I would have gone backwards to make the bad thing unhappen, NOT forwards; scared because it’s illegal to leap solo before you’re 3-leap so I might get arrested and sent to a Young Offenders Unit.

      Today I’m even tongue-tied with Grandma. I cooked her pepper soup for breakfast with yam and fish because she’s Nigerian and her leg is paining her. She has rheumatoid arthritis. I looked it up on the internet. I don’t think you can die from it but some mornings she’s in so much pain she can’t talk.

      She wasn’t talking this morning and she ate her pepper soup sitting up in bed. She wrapped a white cardigan round her head as a headtie so she could bless the food in silence. When she prays over food she looks like she’s warming her hands and she closes her eyes so tight they look like belly buttons. This morning I let Grandma squeeze my hand, which shows she liked the pepper soup. Sometimes she complains I didn’t season it well, but today was the hand squeeze.

      I ate mine at the table. I enjoyed it because it was a white meal. Yam is white unless it’s yellow. Yellow yam is much more expensive so we never buy it. I like yam, even though it doesn’t taste of anything. It has a creamy, grainy texture. Texture is the best part of food. Fish is white unless it’s red. We only buy white fish. The fish is nice and flaky in my mouth.

      The Pastor’s wife smuggles yam from Nigeria in her suitcase and sells it on the Black Market. I used to think the Black Market was a market for black people, because white people eat potatoes and black people eat yam. Last time the Pastor’s wife visited, the handle came off her suitcase walking up the stairs because yam is much heavier than potato. It looks like tree bark. I cut off the skin, which is tough work, and washed it in salt water to get rid of the starch. Then I boiled it and added it to the pepper soup at the last minute to soak up the flavour. I always take my yam out of the pepper soup and put coconut oil on it and mash it up. You’re supposed to add palm oil but that’s red or orange and messes up the rainforest. I take the fish out, too. Mashed yam and white fish is my favourite breakfast.

      Afterwards, I cleared the table and collected Grandma’s tray, washed the dishes and sat under the table. I’ve got my tablet and my mobile phone if I want to watch something or look something up. It’s not very comfortable under the table but my hair is spongey, so it stops me banging my head on the wood. Today it’s in bunches like ears on each side of my head. If I spend the whole morning here, when I come out to make lunch I’ll feel happy.