— Excuse me, I said. I was here first.
She picked up a box of cereal, ignoring me.
— I’m talking to you, madam, I said in a hoarsened voice. My chest was tight, and I felt like reaching forward to grab the woman’s shoulders, to shake the neatness out of her primped hair. If nothing else, that would force her to look at me.
— Don’t raise your voice here, she said in a firm, quiet tone, as if speaking to a child. Then she picked up another item, a jar of yogurt.
A lifetime in a country of a hundred and fifty million black people was the worst preparation for what I was faced with. Shame, incredulity, emotions too fresh to label, washed over me. But the inflammable, anger, rose higher fastest. I drew in breath to bellow, but caught myself when a hand fell on my shoulder.
— What’s going on, babes?
Sandwiched between the urge to vent my anger and the burden of explaining, I spluttered, swung my face back and forth, glared at Leo and the cashier.
The mother had stopped tallying the items; she stared up at Leo with tight-lipped haughtiness. Then her eyes shifted to my face. Saw me for the first time.
— I’m sorry, there’s been a mistake, the grandmother said. She had risen from her seat, and now she hurried forward, grabbed my basket handle. Please come this way, I will attend to you.
— No, Leo said. Her hand gripping my shoulder tightened, and her voice hardened, unsheathed its steel. Let this bitch do it. I saw everything. So what’s the problem, his money ain’t good enough for you?
— Now, now, the grandmother said, wheedling. No need to be abusive.
— Fuck you too, old woman, Leo said in a high, quivering voice. You bloody coolies fucking disgust me. You do this pussyfooting apartheid shit all the time, everywhere you go you take your shitty caste mentality. You picked the wrong bitch to try it on this time, I can tell you.
Leo was so angry I felt my own anger dissipate. I felt protected, and proud to be so fiercely defended, and, at that moment, watching the rage rise crimson to her thin-boned face, I felt my chest expand with something close to love. But I also felt a shiver of pity for the three generations of women watching dumbstruck from behind the counter.
I faced Leo, placed my hands carefully round her waist, and drew her tensed frame against my chest. Then I spoke in a whisper, lips brushing her ear:
— You’re sweet. And that’s so fucking sexy. Let’s go home.
She sank against me, purring without sound, and her hands crept up my back, rubbing, tugging my shirt. Her arms were stronger than they looked; they squeezed the breath out of me, tightened vicelike until I felt her heartbeats against my chest, matching my wild heart blow for blow.
And then we left.
Because I said I loved her. I did, at that instant, coming in her. But love does not mean marriage, a baby, forever. Love means you make me happy until you don’t.
Acknowledgments
Acknowledgment is due to the following publications, where stories from this collection originally appeared, some differently titled or in slightly different form: AGNI, Black Renaissance Noire, Eclectica, Guernica, Happano-no-Kofu, Internazionale, Kwani? Kweli Journal, the Drum, and TQR.
I’m grateful to the Chinua Achebe Center for African Writers and Artists, the Ebedi International Writers Residency, the Norman Mailer Center and Writers Colony, the Rockefeller Foundation Bellagio Center, Storymoja Publishers, and Farafina Trust for their support.
To many I owe enormous thanks, especially Anwuli Ojogwu for friendship, and Doreen Baingana for reading, never pulling punches, always challenging. Michela Wrong, Binyavanga Wainaina, David Kaiza, Eghosa Imasuen, Jeffery Renard Allen, my editors Fiona McCrae and Parisa Ebrahimi, all the good folks at the Wylie Agency, and not least my family, Barretts and Oruwaris — appreciations.
About the Author
A. Igoni Barrett was born in Port Harcourt, Nigeria, in 1979. He won the 2005 BBC World Service short story competition, and his short fiction has appeared in Kwani? Guernica, Black Renaissance Noire, and AGNI. He lives in Lagos.