when my mother died from an overdose
my brother and I didn’t talk at the funeral
or since
Dominique sat there listening to the extraordinary vision before her, a woman who’d risen above the tragedy of her terrible childhood to become so magnificent, who exuded such warmth and experience
people saw Dominique as tough and self-sufficient, yet compared to Nzinga, she wasn’t, Nzinga was powerful, unconquerable, her presence and energy dominated the café, her voice suffused a grey Monday afternoon with an exotic sensuous drawl
she was a zami, a sexy sistah, an inspiration, a phenomenon
Dominique wanted to curl into this woman and be looked after by her
it was a new feeling because she’d been fully independent since leaving home, and here she was, feeling, what? excited? definitely
perhaps falling in love with a complete stranger
I think you might be right, Dominique replied later that day as they sat in Cranks wholefood restaurant in Leicester Square after Nzinga had suggested her relationship history of blonde girlfriends might be a sign of self-loathing; you have to ask yourself if you’ve been brainwashed by the white beauty ideal, sister, you have to work a lot harder on your black feminist politics, you know
Dominique wondered if she had a point, why did she go for stereotypical blondes? Amma had teased her about it without judging her, she herself was a product of various mixtures and often had partners of all colours
in contrast, Nzinga had grown up in the segregated South, although shouldn’t that make her pro-integration rather than against it?
Dominique wondered if she really was still being brainwashed by white society, and whether she really was failing at the identity she most cherished – the black feminist one
she decided that Nzinga was a fairy angel sent to help her become a better version of herself
she became Nzinga’s personal guide around the city, keen to show off how well she knew its history and hotspots, hopping on and off buses, taking shortcuts through the labyrinthine tunnels of the underground, slipping down ancient alleyways in the city’s oldest parts, showing her the remnants of the Roman wall from nearly two thousand years ago, taking her on to the pebbly Thames beaches when the tide was out, where mud-larkers trawled for buried archaeological relics, through the numerous parks, greens, public gardens and wilder commons, on canal walks that lasted hours from Little Venice to the marshes of Walthamstow, on river cruises to Greenwich and Kew
at night, they slipped into tucked-away women’s clubs
where they made out in darkened corners
they slept together the day they met and every night thereafter
it’s so sublime, it’s spiritual, Dominique raved at Amma when she turned up for work a fortnight later to a desk-full of incomplete tasks
I’ve fallen in love properly for the first time in my life with the most wonderful woman I’ve ever met, who desires me from a position of inner strength, Amma, and it might sound odd but that’s so new to me and darned sexy, like she can rip my clothes off whenever she wants to (which she does) and I feel helpless and dominated (which I like), whereas my previous lovers desired me from a position of weakness, of adoration, which just isn’t interesting to me any more
the tension between us is electrostatic, Ams, it’s like I’m being charged up with electric volts, we can’t bear to be apart, not even for five minutes, Nzinga is so wise and knowledgeable about how to be a liberated black woman in an oppressive white world that she’s opening my eyes to, well, everything, it’s like she’s Alice and Audre and Angela and Aretha rolled into one, seriously, Ams
Amma replied that this Nzinga must be something else to turn the coolest dyke of us all into a lovestruck teenager, so when do I get to meet Alice-Audre-Angela-Aretha? what’s her real name, by the way?
Cindy, if you must know, don’t ever tell her I told you
Dominique agreed to bring her to lunch at the King’s Cross squat, on Nzinga’s strict proviso that only women of colour were invited, and the food had to be completely vegan, organic and fresh
or she couldn’t be in the same room as it.
2
Nzinga really did look spectacular when she walked in the door of Amma’s room in Freedomia
she was at least six foot tall with ornamented dreadlocks, large wooden Akuaba fertility doll earrings, red trousers, a cream embroidered caftan and strappy Roman sandals
she was somewhat older than them, yet somehow appeared ageless
Amma noted how the force of her presence had the effect of diminishing everyone else’s
before she arrived, her guests wanted to like Nzinga because they liked Dominique, now she was here, they wanted to impress her
Amma wanted Nzinga to prove herself worthy of Dominique’s love
Nzinga sat cross-legged in the circle of women on the floor where the meal was to take place (Amma found the idea of a dining table too suburban)
vegetable casserole with sweet potato, salads and brown loaves were spread out before them on a plastic tablecloth
(everything was from the budget supermarket, nothing was organic or fresh, who could tell once vegetables were cooked or chopped, and how dare Nzinga demand everyone eat according to her preferences)
the conversation was lively, everybody wanted to talk to Nzinga who’d been afforded a gravitas she hadn’t earned, Amma thought, simply by looking like a swamp-diva-voodoo-queen
Nzinga lapped up the attention, was friendly, no magnanimous, with everyone, until she ruined it by exclaiming, somewhat scornfully, how weird it was to hear so many black women sounding so Britissshhh
Amma thought she was accusing them of being too white or at best, in-authentically black, she’d come across it before, foreigners equating an English accent with whiteness, she always felt the need to speak up when it was implied that black Brits were inferior to African-Americans or Africans or West Indians
in any case, it might explain why Dominique had adopted an American lilt in the short period of time she’d been with Nzinga (oh Dominique!)
that’s because we are, Amma replied, British, all of us are, right? yet she was instinctively aware that to challenge Nzinga wasn’t wise
Nzinga didn’t miss a beat in replying that black women need to identify racism wherever we find it, especially our own internalized racism, when we’re filled with such a deep self-loathing we turn against our own
it struck Amma that this woman could be a formidable opponent, the energy that had hitherto radiated warmth had quickly turned radioactive
Dominique, usually an opinionated loudmouth, was oblivious to the bilateral tensions in the room – two alpha females about to go nuclear
she sat purring at her beloved’s side
we have to be vigilant, Nzinga said to the gathered women who seemed hypnotized by her, we must be careful who we allow into our lives, she said, now staring at Amma with open hostility, there are women among us who’ve been sent to destroy us, internalized racism is everywhere, my friends (her friends?)
we have to be vigilant about everything, and everyone
point made, she then proceeded to ignore Amma
we have to be vigilant with our language, too, she continued, have you noticed that the word black, for example, always has negative connotations?
heads nodded, to Amma’s dismay, what was the matter with them?
Nzinga then launched into the racial implications of stepping on a black doormat rather than over it, of not wearing black socks (why would you step on your own people?), and don’t ever use black garbage bags, she instructed, as for blackmail, blackball, black mood, black magic, black sheep, black-hearted, I never wear black underpants, for example, why crap on myself? I’m surprised you all don’t know this already