is almost parental, the way Deola considers what she can bring up about her experiences as a Nigerian in England. Tessa would probably feel guilty, without realizing that Nigerians are as prejudiced as the English, and more snobbish. Nigerians, given any excuse, are ready to snub. Without provocation and even remorse. They snub one another, snub other Africans, other blacks and other races. Nigerians would snub aliens if they encountered them.
The first time she was ever aware her race mattered, she was in Nigeria. She was in primary school and must have been about eight. She was taking ballet classes at another school for expatriate children. The girls in the class were mostly English, but there were Chinese, Lebanese and Indian girls as well. Deola was one of a few Nigerian girls. The ballet teacher was English. She walked around clapping in time to the music, and ordering, ‘Tuck your tails in,’ as girls practised pliés. She would pass the Nigerian girls and say, ‘I know it’s hard for some of you.’ She would pass the other girls and say, ‘Good work!’
The next time, Deola was fourteen and in a summer camp in Switzerland. She shared a room with a blonde girl from Connecticut who was always getting into trouble with counselors and calling her parents in tears. Deola was combing her hair with an Afro pick one night when the girl pointed at her and laughed. This surprised her because during the day the same girl was constantly throwing her arms around a boy who looked like the youngest Jackson 5 brother, until he said she was so fat that if she jumped in the swimming pool, half the water would splash out. He was from Chicago. Deola, too, was infatuated with him. But one afternoon, they were at horseback-riding when he started dancing around her with his knees bent, flapping his arms like chicken wings and chanting, ‘Ooga shaka ooga shaka.’
She went to boarding school in England a year later. In English class, she sat next to a boy who was forever cracking jokes. She noticed how her classmates called him ‘Jacob’, wrinkling their noses, as if his surname were a cough syrup. She knew he was picked on for a reason neither he nor they may have been conscious of. Then one day, they were taking turns reading Look Back in Anger out loud, and he asked a question about ‘wogs’ that she didn’t catch. ‘Now, now,’ their English teacher said, with a smile. ‘We don’t say “wogs” here. We say “Western Oriental gentlemen”.’
None of these experiences are worth mentioning, Deola decides. They are laughable.
‘Want another scone?’ she asks. ‘I think I’ll have another danish.’
Tessa’s thirteen-year-old niece is a Dára fan. She is a fan of hip-hop in general and she does the hand signals and calls girls she doesn’t like ‘biatches’.
‘She is such a silly sweetheart,’ Tessa says. ‘You just want to give her a clip around the ear. She says to me, “Can you ask your Nigerian friend to get me Dára’s autograph?” So I ask her, “What do you see in him?” And she says, “He’s gangsta.” My brother and his wife are going spare. I told them not to worry. It’s like rock and roll, really, this whole hip-hop thing.’
‘Dára is not gangsta,’ Deola says. ‘He’s just a college dropout.’
‘How funny. I can see what she sees in him, though.’
‘You can?’
‘Mm. There’s something about him. Something … very noble about his looks.’
Deola doesn’t know what to say to this. The man at the next table with the bulbous nose looks noble to her, like a Roman emperor.
‘How’s your dad?’ she asks.
Tessa’s father is much older than her mother and he has Alzheimer’s. He can no longer play the cello.
‘Dad’s not doing well,’ Tessa says. ‘That’s one reason why I have to make a decision about this wedding soon. Mum’s doing her best. It’s something to witness, something to aspire to, the love between them. I just hope Pete will be there for me if anything like that happens.’
‘He will,’ Deola says, sincerely.
One night that week, she catches the end of a television interview with Dára and studies his face. He is not beautiful, but he may have crossover appeal: big eyes, a well-proportioned chin and a nose that doesn’t change shape when he speaks. His face is still as a mask. Could that be seen as nobility? He is talking about his debut CD.
‘The response,’ he says, ‘’as been amazing.’
His chest is pumped up and the watch on his wrist is as thick as a handcuff. His interviewer, Abi Okome, is also well known. How he resists looking at her breasts is a mystery. They are propped up like bread rolls on a platter.
‘In what way?’ she asks, smiling.
‘What way?’ Dára says.
‘Yes,’ she says. ‘Tell us how exactly.’
‘Well,’ Dára says. ‘People recognize you. You can’t just walk down the street any more. They call your name. At first, I was not sure ’ow to react, but I mean, I am sort of getting used to it now.’
His accent is a mixture of Cockney and Yoruba. He looks self-assured, but his smile ends and there is a moment when he lets out a giggle, as if he still can’t understand what the fuss is about.
‘So is England home for you now?’ Abi asks. ‘Because you’re originally from Nigeria and my family is originally from Nigeria.’
Her hair weave barely shifts when she tosses it back. She is an attractive woman and she has that essential smile, that big smile that shows a lot of personality.
‘Sure,’ Dára says. ‘England is ’ome for me now.’
Abi faces the camera. ‘And Sir Paul said it wouldn’t last! Give it up for hip-hop sensation Dára!’
Deola changes channels as the audience gives it up and woo-woos. England has changed. It’s a long way from finding her way to the only record shop in Soho that sold soul imports. It’s not just Nigerians; Black culture is everywhere now, but she is not satisfied. She turns off her television, mistaking her boredom and sense of unbelonging for an uncontrollable urge to sleep.
On her overnight flight from Heathrow Airport to Lagos, she sits next to a woman who is reading a Bible. The woman started before the plane took off, mumbling psalms to herself. When the plane is about to land, the woman brings out a white rosary from her handbag and begins to pray out loud. The engine drowns out her voice. Passengers unclasp their seatbelts as the plane taxis. They grab their hand luggage from the overhead compartments. A flight attendant, who has not bothered to dye her hair in a while, ambles down the aisle saying, ‘Please remain seated.’ No one pays her any attention.
Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.
Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».
Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив
