Authors: Beverley Naidoo
“You’ve met my friend Cynthie Wallace, haven’t you, Sade? Your daddy’s colleague. Small world, isn’t it?”
The two women were old journalist friends, Aunt Hannah explained, from the time when she had left Lagos for Freetown. Mrs. Wallace stepped forward with an amused smile. In a tailored cream suit, she looked as stylish as when Papa had brought her to their flat. Sade tried to hide her irritation and disappointment. She had known Papa was coming to get news, so why should she be surprised if a colleague from the Refugee Center was there as well? Especially if that person was Mrs. Wallace. She had let herself be carried away by her private fantasy.
As Papa and Mrs. Wallace settled down on the sofa, Aunt Hannah turned to Sade.
“Will you help me lay the table, please, Sade?” Her voice had a light, friendly lilt. “Lunch first, work later.”
Sade avoided looking at the sofa as she followed Aunt Hannah into the kitchen.
“Do you like singing as much as your mother, Sade?” Aunt Hannah asked the question as simply as if she was asking whether Sade liked ham or cheese. She was opening a door to talk about Mama. But instead of saying, “Yes, I love singing!” and asking Aunt Hannah what she remembered Mama singing, Sade lowered her eyes and shrugged. As soon as she had made the gesture, she regretted it. It was a clear put-down, a sign that she didn’t want to talk about Mama, that she found it too upsetting. Before she had time to retract, Aunt Hannah sensitively changed the subject to what they needed to put on the table.
Over lunch the conversation revolved around “old times.” It was mostly about the cat-and-mouse games played between the military government and journalists. Sade listened in silence as the adults shared tales of police raids, newspapers being closed down, publishing “underground,” writers fleeing or being thrown into jail.
After lunch, when the conversation turned to the war in Sierra Leone, Sade slipped through the plate-glass doors outside on to the balcony. She leaned over the railings, staring at the patio far below, dotted with ornamental palm trees, then at the river and beyond, over the rooftops of south London. Occasionally a tug, a barge, or a boat full of sightseers sailed past. The water had looked silver from a distance, but closer up it looked muddy and dirty. Appearances were deceptive. It was like that with people, too. Could people ever really understand one another? Even in the same family? She turned to go back inside.
Through the plate-glass door, Sade saw the three adults focused on the television screen. As she stepped into the living room, Aunt Hannah paused the video. Horizontal lines blurred over the face of a young black boy.
“I hope you won’t find this too disturbing, Sade. I was interviewing child soldiers in Sierra Leone. Would you rather go to my study?” Aunt Hannah offered. She wasn’t being patronizing. Just offering an alternative.
“I’ll watch,” said Sade. Her mood could hardly get worse.
Mrs. Wallace edged closer to Papa to make space for Sade on the sofa.
“I prefer this.” Sade pulled up a stool near her father.
The boy on the screen emerged with a shaved head and dark vacant eyes—like empty gun barrels. The camera didn’t show Aunt Hannah, but Sade recognized her voice.
“What did the rebels tell you to do?”
A young man standing next to the boy translated the question and the boy’s answer. Both their voices were matter-of-fact.
“They gave me matches. They told me to put my house on fire. My father was inside. I said, ‘No! I can’t burn my father.’ Then one of them put a knife here.”
The boy ran his forefinger under his chin.
“I made the fire. I wanted to pull my father out of the house, but they held me. My father was crying for help. Then I couldn’t hear his voice anymore. Only the fire eating up the house.”
“What happened to your mother?” Aunt Hannah asked gently.
“They took her—into the bush. She was screaming. They killed her.”
The boy buried his head in his hands and remained silent.
The camera moved back and showed a group of four boys with Aunt Hannah.
“Can you tell me what you did when you lived with the rebels?”
“Yes,” said a boy in a faded red T-shirt with a hole under one armpit. “They showed us how to cut off people’s arms—with a machete—like so.” He demonstrated a quick movement with his hand across his opposite arm. If they didn’t obey, their own arms would have been chopped off. Each time, before an attack, the rebels made them take drugs. That way, they didn’t feel so scared.
“Were there girls as well?”
The red-shirt boy nodded.
“They did cooking. Cleaning. The leaders took girls to sleep with them.”
“What happened if a girl said no?”
“They killed her.”
“What do you want to do, now you are free?”
Three boys said that they wanted to find their parents, to see if they were still alive. The boy with the gun-hole eyes said nothing until the others looked at him, waiting.
“I want to go to school,” he said.
The screen flickered and was blank. No one said a word. When Sade glanced up, she saw that Mrs. Wallace’s cheeks were wet. Her eyes were closed, but tears were trickling down. Papa pulled out a handkerchief from his
jacket pocket and pushed it into her hands. Mrs. Wallace began to dab her cheeks. Her hands were trembling. Embarrassed, Sade rose from the stool.
“Those boys,” Mrs. Wallace whispered, “they look the same age as my Edward.”
Sade saw Papa’s arm encircle Mrs. Wallace and hold her tight. Without a word, she fled back to the balcony.
S
ATURDAY
4
TH
O
CTOBER
10
P.M
.
If the sun shines when you enter the forest, don’t be sure it will shine when you leave.
—one of Mama’s proverbs
Today turned upside down. I felt so happy this morning, going with Papa to see Aunt Hannah. My head was like a hive of bees, full of questions. But then I saw that
someone else
was there. Yes, Mrs. Wallace. My questions vanished, and I messed up my chance of talking about Mama. Aunt Hannah showed us her video of child soldiers and Mrs. Wallace got into such a state that Papa insisted she come home with us! He kept saying, “We can’t let you go back to your lonely room while you are like this!” How did Papa know it was a “lonely room”? Who did he mean by “we”? I didn’t say anything.
Femi was already in bed when we came
home. He told us he had a headache from concentrating so hard at football. He said he had eaten a sandwich and wanted to go to sleep early. Papa said, “Good boy!” and left him alone. Afterward I bumped into Femi by the bathroom. His breath smelled funny, but he skipped off like a rabbit before I got another whiff.
Papa has now spent the
whole
evening with Mrs. Wallace. He cooked one of his stews and she helped him. I said I wasn’t hungry, but I could tell that Papa was going to make a fuss if I didn’t eat with them. It was unfair because he let Femi off. All the time they kept talking about Sierra Leone and what articles they would write about child soldiers. Papa was getting very steamed up, like when he wrote his articles at home. But at least Mama knew how to calm him down, not stir him up even more. They were perfect together, weren’t they, Iyawo? They balanced each other. If something was wrong with Femi or me and if Papa didn’t notice, Mama always talked to him and then he would understand. But Mrs. Wallace and Papa just keep talking about the war as if it’s the only thing going on. It’s almost eleven o’clock and I can still hear them. When is she going home?
Femi unfolded and smoothed the creases out of his new T-shirt. Even without the Arsenal logo, it looked smart. If he didn’t come up with a good story soon about where it had come from, he would outgrow it, and it would be wasted! A knock at his door and Sade’s voice made him hurriedly stuff it back in the drawer under his bed.
“Why do you wake me up so early?” He stretched his arms, pretending to yawn, as Sade entered.
“You’re up. I heard you!” She closed the door behind her.
“Are you spying on me?”
“No! Have you something to hide?”
“Go away, Sade! I didn’t say you could come in!” Femi said irritably. He folded his arms, kneeling near the drawer.
“Okay, okay, I’m only teasing!” Sade sat down on his
bed. “Listen, Papa has a girlfriend. He’s been talking and carrying on with Mrs. Wallace like he used to with Mama!”
Femi frowned.
“So what?”
Sade stared at him.
“He’s beginning to forget Mama, that’s what! You should have seen him yesterday—getting carried away with this war in Sierra Leone and all the bad things there. Mrs. Wallace is taking advantage of him.”
Femi shrugged. “You can’t tell Papa what to do.”
“Don’t you care? Don’t you understand what I’m saying?” Her voice was rising.
“You’re just jealous, Sade. Typical woman!” Femi grinned. “Papa’s a man. He can do what he likes, you know.”
The words were out before he even thought about them. His sister’s face wrinkled in disgust.
“I don’t know where you’ve been picking up this sexist stuff, Femi Solaja! You think that if Papa is busy with a girlfriend, he won’t see what you get up to! But I smelt your breath last night. You—”
“You smelt nothing!”
“I know what I smelt, and I can tell Papa what I know.”
“Well, go ahead, Miss Know-It-All. Leave me alone. Get out!”
As soon as Sade left the room, a cloud descended on Femi. He punched his fists into his mattress. He should have been more careful not to get into a stupid spat with his
sister. James was expecting him to come to Errol’s house this morning. They were going to sort it out for Errol before his mum returned. James had said that Errol would “appreciate the gesture” if Femi came along. Last night his brain had been too fuzzy to work out what reason he could give Papa. But now, after Sade’s threat to speak to Papa, anything he said would be too risky.
Femi resigned himself to a day indoors. There was nothing to do except watch television. However bored he was, he wasn’t going to ask Sade if she wanted to play Ayo or anything else with him. Mrs. Wallace arrived mid-morning, and she and Papa busied themselves at the computer in Papa’s bedroom, working on an article. Sade’s door remained closed until Femi heard Papa asking her if she would make them all some lunch.
He detected his sister’s mood from the banging and rattling in the kitchen. It didn’t sound good. He waited for her to tell him to set the table, but she didn’t. Instead, he heard more clattering of plates and cutlery. In this mood she could say anything to Papa. It would be wise to make up to her.
Sade put her head around the kitchen door.
“Tell Papa lunch is ready,” she said stiffly. She didn’t mention Mrs. Wallace.
The small kitchen table had to be pulled away from the wall to fit in the fourth chair. His sister had not pulled it out very far.
“Will you be able to squeeze in there, Sade?” Papa asked.
Sade didn’t answer. She turned away to pick up the pan with scrambled eggs as if she hadn’t heard. Instead of repeating himself, Papa joked.
“Perhaps I am slim enough myself! If I don’t fit, it means I need to diet!”
But before Papa could try, Femi slid into the seat.
“Good child.” Mrs. Wallace gently pressed his shoulder. “You won’t let your daddy show himself up, will you?”
Only Sade didn’t smile. She dished out in silence, not even responding when Mrs. Wallace thanked her. Papa frowned, and Femi wondered if he would say something.
“So, Femi, how is football?” Mrs. Wallace turned to him, breaking the silence.
“It’s good.”
“Your daddy says you will soon be on the school team! Is that so?” Her dark eyes squarely invited him to carry on. He began to talk about how he and Gary wanted to get onto the team together. Then Mrs. Wallace asked what else he liked at school.
“Science. Gary and I like experiments. Gary never gives up! He’s mad!” Femi shook his head, smiling as if at a private joke. “One day he nearly exploded a television set! He was trying to fix it….”
Femi surprised himself. Once he got started, he could go on! He was enjoying spinning out the story. He wasn’t going to spoil it by saying that it had actually happened way back in primary school. Mrs. Wallace seemed amused, and Papa was beaming. Only Sade looked unimpressed.
“How do you find your schoolwork here, Sade?” Mrs. Wallace was obviously not one to give up easily.
“Fine.” One short, sharp word. That was all. Sade did not lift her eyes from the table. An electric current seemed to pass across Papa’s face. Femi held his breath. Serve Sade right if Papa told her off! Then Papa’s face relaxed again.
“Femi is a first-class storyteller, isn’t he, Mami Cynthie? I’ve always thought Sade would make a good journalist, but maybe my son will follow in my footsteps!” Papa stretched out his hand and patted Femi.
“Now, pardon us. Mami Cynthie and I don’t have much time.”
For the rest of the meal, the adults talked about their article. Afterward, when they had returned to Papa’s computer and Sade to her room, Femi settled back in front of the television. He must have a lucky angel looking after him! He had been very worried that Sade was going to tell tales. Instead, he had managed to charm Mami Cynthie—and Papa! If he had made up a story about going out, Papa might have believed that, too! But it wasn’t worth the risk. He wondered if Errol’s house was already sorted. Papa and Mami Cynthie were writing about children being captured. Sometimes he felt captured. It wasn’t the same, of course. James said he should challenge Papa more. But maybe it was easier to charm him.
Mami Cynthie waved to Femi from the front door before leaving.
“Say good-bye to Sade for me, please.”
Looking up from his cards laid out on the carpet, he lifted his hand and smiled. He wasn’t going to tell her that it would be a crazy thing to do. Papa followed her out of the front door. If Sade was right that she was now Papa’s girlfriend, he was probably kissing her good-bye. Femi couldn’t imagine it. He wondered about creeping up to the window. But if Papa saw him behind the net curtain, it would be asking for trouble.
Papa wasn’t long. As soon as he came back in, Femi saw him enter Sade’s room. Femi levered himself up and tiptoed down the corridor. The door wasn’t completely shut.
“This is not like you, Sade. Why were you so rude to Mami Cynthie?”
There was no reply. Femi bit his thumb.
“Have you nothing to say?”
Silence again.
“I’m used to silence from your brother but not from you, Sade.”
Femi thought he heard Papa sigh.
“Mami Cynthie was too polite to say so, but I could see that you hurt her,” Papa continued in a firm, clear voice. “She was already hurt by the interviews we saw yesterday. She doesn’t tell most people, but I think you should know. She has a son—about Femi’s age—the same age as those boy soldiers. That’s why she was so upset. Her son, Edward, is in boarding school in Sierra Leone. She hasn’t seen him for over six months, and she doesn’t know when she’ll see him next. Try to imagine what that feels like, if you can.”
“He’s in boarding school, so at least she knows he’s safe,” Sade blurted. She sounded very offhand.
Femi pinched his folded arms. His sister didn’t usually talk to Papa like this.
“I am surprised at you, Sade, and deeply disappointed. I thought you were more mature.”
The handle on Sade’s door wobbled and Femi scuttled into the bathroom.
S
UNDAY
5
TH
O
CTOBER
8:30
P.M
.
Papa says he’s disappointed in me! Just because I didn’t want to talk to Mrs. Wallace. It was so
obvious
that Femi was putting on his charm. He even called Mrs. Wallace “Mami Cynthie.” Mama would have seen through him right away. If Papa is too wrapped up in Mrs. Wallace to see anything, why should I bother?
To tell the truth, Iyawo, it’s me who should be disappointed in Papa. Sunday is meant to be our family day. Papa doesn’t know how lucky he is to have a daughter who wants to spend time with her father! Most girls my age in London don’t even want to be
seen
with a parent. Most of them go out with their friends, raving and whatever, every weekend. Some of them are out every night! But me, I stay at home, like Little Miss Perfect, cuddled up with my
homework so I can get all those As that my teachers and Papa expect. I only go out with Mariam or my family. So, I’m still a good Nigerian daughter! I even get called “Miss Daddy’s Girl.” Papa doesn’t appreciate what I go through.
M
ONDAY
6
TH
O
CTOBER
8
P.M
.
I told Mariam about Papa and Mrs. Wallace. I said, “How would you feel if your mother married another man?” I thought she’d understand. But she laughed. She said that if the man was rich enough for her mum not to have to work in her uncle’s shop, it would be good. I told her it wasn’t a joke. She said, “I’m just being practical. Your dad probably likes this lady because he can talk with her about things. Don’t be so jealous, Sade.” I was stunned. If I can’t get even Mariam to understand my point of view, what’s the use of trying to explain myself to anyone? When I’m talking to you, Iyawo, I know I’m only talking to myself.