to a wonderful man called Freddy
Bummi felt fireworks going off in her brain (Catherine wheels and rockets)
what is this? she thought, this girl tells me she is going to marry a man she has not yet even introduced to her mama? how long has this been going on? Bummi asked, unable to swallow the lump of porridge in her mouth that really did feel like warm cement
a while, Carol replied, oh and he’s white, English, she mumbled, we’ve been dating for ages and I’m really in love with him, so there you have it
so there you have it
Carole stared directly at Bummi with an expression that said, and there’s nothing you can do to stop me, Mother
Bummi tried to count to ten, she only got to 9.2 before jumping off her chair so fast Carole sprang up too
why you like to dey like cause so much wahala for me, eh? na play you dey play, abi? you don spit ontop your papa life! you don spit ontop your people! which kain shame you wan bring on this family? you don disgrace me! I no sabi you at all, at all at all
Bummi paced up and down the tiny kitchen forcing Carole to squeeze herself into a corner
she resisted the urge to slap her daughter about the head, because no matter how naughty she was, even as a small girl, she could never beat the only person in the world who had come into creation for nine months inside her very own womb
the child who was delivered perfectly formed and crying for her mama’s comforting milk at Guy’s Hospital
Great Maze Pond
Waterloo
London, SE1
United Kingdom of Great Britain
Bummi wished Augustine was still alive to talk sense into their girl
she was not meant to raise a child alone in a high-rise building in a foreign country
she felt as helpless now as she had when Carole went through her sulky period at thirteen years of age and started skipping school, her high grades plummeted to low ones, and she shut herself in her bedroom for entire weekends except to come out and wash, eat and go to the toilet
what are you doing in there?
sleeping, I’m tired, Mama, she’d reply through the door
why are you tired all the time when all you have to do is go to school and work your brain, whereas I have to be on my hands and knees cleaning every day? who should be tired? you or me?
when Bummi asked the women at church for advice, they reassured her it was teenage hormone problems that would pass
which it did
a year or so later
her clever little girl was no longer sleeping her childhood away and had returned to the top of the class in most subjects
one of her teachers, Mrs King, a very considerate lady who took a special interest in helping her daughter, said Carole had the ability to go far if she sustains her current work ethic, Mrs Williams
Bummi was so proud when Carole got into the famous university for rich people that she photocopied her university acceptance letter not once, not twice, but thrice
framed and mounted them – one on the wall in the hallway, one on the door inside the toilet and one above the television where she herself could glance up at it while watching the box
she could not have predicted it would lead to Carole rejecting her true culture
Bummy regarded her daughter standing in the corner of the kitchen like a trapped animal who did not think it was safe to move
she did not want her child to fear her
Carole, she said, sitting back down, come, listen to me, you hardly know this Freddy-come-lately character whereas I have known you your entire life, who is he to you when you are everything to me? there is no point getting on in this country if you lose who you really are, you are not English or did you give birth to yourself?
you are a Nigerian, first, foremost and last-most
Carole you must marry a Nigerian for your poor papa’s sake, abi?
when that did not produce the required results, Bummi decided to henceforth ignore Carole, starting that very evening when Carole came into the kitchen hoping to prepare their Sunday dinner together as usual
the fridge was empty, with not even bread, milk or margarine, all of which Bummi had thrown into a garbage bag
Bummi continued to ignore her daughter
on the three-seater settee in the sitting room where they usually jostled up against each other while commenting raucously on whatever Nollywood DVD with shaky camerawork was playing on the flat-screen TV in the corner, she refused to let Carole massage her tired feet with cocoa butter as usual, and played deaf when she gingerly asked if she could make her a hot mug of Milo, Mother?
Bummi sat at the other end of the sofa in stony-faced silence, sniffing at regular intervals and wiping her eyes until the girl left the room
thereafter Carole stayed out of her way and when she shouted out good night through the door when she came home late, Bummi did not reply, kept on reading The Joys of Motherhood by her countrywoman, Buchi Emecheta, a novel Sister Flora, her friend from church, had recommended when Bummi had unburdened her woes to her
Sister Flora told her that the mother in the novel, Nnu Ego, was a sufferer too, read it and you will feel better about yourself, Sister Bummi
later, she heard Carole’s feet pad out of the kitchen into the bathroom and then into her own bedroom, shutting the door noiselessly
Bummi hoped she was crying herself to sleep every night
then one morning
as Bummi sat in the kitchen plucking out the bad grains from a supersize sack of Basmati rice she’d bought in the Bangladeshi minimart on the high street that was twenty times cheaper than the small-small packets of rice sold in the rich people’s supermarket at the corner
Carole came in before going to work looking all English, as usual, her navy blue raincoat tied tightly to show off her reduced waist, her hair slicked back into a bun, pearls around her neck
you’ll be pleased to hear I’m moving out and in with Freddy, Mother, you’ll never have to see me again
she stood there, expecting Bummi to ignore her, except something shifted in that moment and Bummi felt it was right to give her a ticket back from Coventry, it had been hard not talking to her, as the weeks progressed into two months and nearly three, her hurt had deepened and she was afraid of what might come out of her mouth
I dey vex so tey I no fit talk
and she did not want to disown her daughter
the only person left in her life who she loved
you see here, Bummi said, gesturing at the sack of rice, English people like to waste their money in expensive supermarkets on overpriced goods in fancy packaging, and then dare to complain in the bus queue about the economy going down the drain while giving me filthy looks, when it is them, yes, them who are going down the drain with their susceptibility to fancy advertising that causes a slump in their personal finances as a consequence
you English people, I want to tell those dirty-lookers, should ask me how to shop in this country because we immigrants are much cleverer at it than you, we refuse to pay ridiculous amounts for spices simply because they are in pretty little glass jars with ‘a scattering of cardamom pods’ or ‘fine strands of saffron’ on the label
what is a ‘scattering’? tell me now? or ‘a generous pinch’? is it a pound or a kilo? no, it is a pinch, you fools, then they have the cheek to turn their noses up at our good-quality money-saving immigrant shops into which they dare not venture in case they are kidnapped by terrorists or catch malaria
moreover, we people know how to haggle for a good price in the market instead of paying the extortionate amounts on display with ‘rob me, I am a fool’ written across our foreheads
why pay a pound for a pound of apples when you can get them for less if you stand your ground and out-talk the market trader until they are so vanquished they will practically give them to you for free just to get rid of you?