creatur clears da kichen.
Doz he not see? Jonah bilding his own works—toy cash register, Play-Doh, packets a Hula Hoops, plastic nife: cutting a pece of playdo an puting it into a packet, shuffling Hula Hoops into another, wayhing it on da scale...
The agate eyes of da Noble Scrybe they see.
Dere was a text in dred capitals:
BAILIFFS due to remove your GOODS. Call NEWKEY on 01604 100341 to stop this. Quote ref 1928150. Do not text.
Just da capitals got his body flooding angwish agen.
But what dett is this? Hes almost pissed enuf to call them.
And he goos in the bedroom to pick out a prosthetic shell. One of his collecsion of prosthetic legs for his plans to help da limmless. To help da limmless in Peshawar n Kabul.
And he packs da score bags in a leg.
Dat creture hears her key—Aleshas key in th door—and jumps to stick a spoon a mush in da child. And her Protector’s Wings dey riffle in da hall. Her Protectors wrap dere wings round Leesha’s bump as she bends down to pick up letters.
And Alif and Hamza shear across her Followers, an put dere faces in Leesha’s bump. And say to da Angel of da Womb, Ya Rabbi, a drop of seed? Ya Rabbi, a clot? Ya Rabbi, a morsel of flesh? And as far as dey look da canopy sways, and protectors twitching in da solid sea. Dat pulses now wif baraka.
And our creture doznt know about her woom.
She smells him pengin up da flat, and throws down unregenerat letters, and looks at da mess.
And Yor creture:
—I tryd to get him to vacuum but he wudnt have it.
—For Godsake, Naseeb. You havnt changd him.
Dat servant drops th demands on th table. (His debt collecsions gather in a shoebox. Dose at da bottom she must never see).
And as she screws, de Followers mimic to de babby: We shud talk, this isnt going anywere, hav yu got a job, blah blah...
Yor creatur teks a zoot from his ear:
—*Eat, eat, boy. Take a long drag. Why dont you eat?
Say, wat does Jonah want in da kichen?
—Thats alriht, Jonah. You’ll haf to make do with me. Uncle Naseeb has got more important things. Never mind yore going to get nappy rash. What do you want, Jonah? You cant have that! Yes yes, Im th horrible one. I keep th flat going. I keep th car on th rode. I arrange the daycare while he flys off somwere. Probbly to visit his child bride.
And as shes screwing at him Yor creature mimics to da babby:
—We shud talk, this isnt going anywhere, have you got a job, blah blah...
And she swept up her child to change him, change him in da bedroom.
—She can com over here if she likes. Do som laundry. Id like a holiday... Wud you lik to stay with him wile I vizit his other wives? You cudnt call him Dad thoh. Coz he doznt relly want to be with us. Some men, they just need a base. Somone stupid they can tap when they like.
—Yes dear. Thats riht.
She kisses her babby fiercly as he whinges.
—Im sorry, Jonah. You dezerve better. An yuve seen too much. Mummy gets too... She doznt give you enuf priority.
And sweeping in an out of rooms to hang out cloze and put another load in. And da scribeless child gone back to his dealers game: cutting his stash o Mini Cheddars wiv Playdo an weyhing da packets on his scale.
(And Noble Atid: By no means can he be distracted!)
And Yor creture feels her:
Wots da beeyatch screwing at now?
And da slave finds her wif da green baby bag.
—I bowht it for Jonah.
Ah, she feels him—taking it from her hands and into da bedroom. Were he scwirrels it behind da wardrob.
Ah, she feels him. Do ye see her scoping da kichen? And th scales. Yea, and in da swing bin: a ball o black plastic taped tihte. A razor blade.
Dat servant feels her stomak fall sume place. (Da Followers for da Mother fan balm into her nose.) Ach! She hears dat slave cum back. But she didnt speak. For if she asked him he wud lie. (Wud he not lie?) And it wud come out in da spitting confrontasion. And cud she throw him out agen?
And da Mother went in da bedroom. And Yor creture felt her. An da child came into th living room wiv his scales.
And he herd her: I dont want this!
Dat mutha come in with artificial limms in ech hand, in ech hand a limb dat she threw at him!
Yor creturs hart contracts. And Alif & Hamza block wiv silat moves—as if they cud deflect an atom!
—I dont want this s__t arond Jonah!
Dat slave cud smack her up da head.
The Scribes of da Left Hands note thir words as they screw at ech other.
Do you see Naseeb baling on her now? And smuggling out his collecsion o limbs? Smuggling his legs & hands into her carboot, to salvige som tokens of his dreme. Look at him chasing his dreme... Can I rite som attribute of goodnes clings to these gifts to da poor an orphaned? And dat, somewere, his intenshion is pure?
(Esha: 1945 GMT)
Da creture thowt about driving Leeshas whip to Fat Tone’s, but hes bare shook about da kilo in Leeshas boot. And he calls his spar Zak, he called his spar to pick him up.
And he brings out da last leg to jam into her boot.
By the silver Audi dat parks at Leeshas. And da sodium street lite. And dat servant Zak, his Angels hugging da shaved lines in his hed.
And sez Naseeb:
—I need you with me, geez.
—Deres baggamans screwin you done a runner Naz.
—Wot you chattin? Dat s__t is all rinsed. What they sayin?
—Gonna murkalise you bruv.
Yor creture stares a bit. (Jam, brah, we got your back, sez Hamza). Then he fishes in da boot and beckons da servant Zak.
—Yeah? You wanna see my protector? Deyr gonna think twice befor they mess wiv dis s__t.
—Yor what?
Yor creture scoping arond.
—Dis ting is mint! Old scool, bway, old scool.
—Nah man.
—Com
