Three p.m., said the pastor. Let us
reconvene. Let us meet in the street,
march to him and save him. Please be
godly in the respect that three p.m. means
three p.m. No black people’s time please.
Some people found this funny, but
the pastor had been serious.
By four thirty p.m. Benny could make
out the gathering of church people in
the distance. They were singing choruses
and praying for a successful outcome.
The dust on the ground was red and
the skyline was tinted orange. They
were marching towards the house,
singing hymns. Miss Phillips was
leading in song with her haunting
melodic voice and the male voice
choir behind her, backing her up.
Everyone was wearing white.
They marched deliberately,
synchronized at a slow, slow pace
with a nod of the head on each step.
As they drew nearer, Tessa was
calling out for her husband.
Samuel appeared on the porch
behind Benny. She glimpsed the
husband who she was there to save
and saw that he was beautiful.
There were people in the
neighborhood gathering around
mass on Benny’s front yard. The
pastor had begun to preach,
“Repent, dear sons. Repent!” and there
was a ripple of assent in the crowd
and shouts of “Only repenting will
save you, sons.” Onlookers were
joining, pushing in and jostling to
see what was going on. Children were
running, trying to keep up with the
church musicians. Skipping around
the congregation to see what all of
the excitement was about. And there
was dancing. No hips gyrating, of
course. No bottom shaking, naturally.
Waving and clapping, hands and
faces pointing heavenward to Jesus as
the hymns got louder and the
churchgoers excited.
Some people from the area whom
she felt sure did not go to church
were arriving with fire and kerosene.
The churchgoers were singing about
being soldiers. They were singing,
“We are soldiers
in God’s army.
We’re going to fight,
and some will have to die.”
They were singing about holding up a
blood-stained banner and then a fire
arose from the back room of the
house. Not turning around, Benny’s
heart shot out to all the corners of his
body as he felt his life, fabric and
memories burning.
Unruffled and more concerned with
the task in hand, the churchgoers
sang on. These sinners needed to be
saved and a few flames were a small
price to pay. After all, there would be
more fire in the pits of hell.
The pastor continued and the crowd
moved closer towards them. Tessa
was soon pushed out of the way by
others who had joined the gathering.
And on second glance, some of those
who appeared to be dancing were
shaking fists and some who appeared to
be singing were hurling abuse at
the two men. This she hadn’t
prepared for. The rage. The
revulsion. Shouts of that word, that
awful word. This was all wrong.
Wrong and surely not what the
church had intended at all. It had
become dangerous. Disturbing.
People were preventing their children
from running into harm’s way.
The police arrived on the scene with their
beef patties and grape sodas in
enough time to get a good view of
proceedings, smiles on their round
faces.
The two men did not run. The smoke
rose, thick and black.
true story
It’s not that Dad doesn’t love you
or your brother,
said Mum,
greasing up our ashy legs with Vaseline
Or that your Auntie Amy’s a man-
stealing, cheating, back-stabbing bitch
who can’t keep a man so she has to steal
somebody else’s.
We just don’t see eye to eye anymore,
that’s all
nuts in bed.
It’s not that your mum and I
hate each other,
said Dad, pushing a crumpled ten
pound note into my chinos pocket
or that I forgot about your birthday
but I need time to think. I’m moving
in with Amy
and anyway, your mum cooks with
too much salt.
It wasn’t so much an affair, you
understand,
said Auntie Amy, lacing up my
brother’s small Nike trainers
and picking out my knots with the
wooden comb shaped like a fist
but a meeting of minds,
outside of our respective vows.
(And bodies, muttered Mum when
I told her later.
Two-faced tramp. What a joke.
Don’t tell anyone I said that.
Don’t tell anyone I said that.)
It’s not as though
your mum’s exactly an angel, either,
said Dad with bloodred eyes
and a pulsing vein in his forehead
finishing the last of the whisky
and Auntie Amy said, Easy Winston,
you’ve had a lot
and Dad said, Don’t tell me what to
do
not even my wife yet, and you think
you know it all.
Yeah, you think you know it all?
It’s not that your family are going to
hell, necessarily,
said Grandma, boiling up the green
banana, yam and dumpling
and grating the coconut onto the rice
and peas.
They must just accept Jesus Christ
into their lives
and put away the drink and sin and all
the lies.
Now go and wash your hands and set
the table.
Don’t worry, girl.
We’ll pray for them tonight.
breathe
If in the end her words were nothing
if in the end his hands were air
if the thought of her rips.
If he stopped phoning when you stopped fucking
if she hangs on you
and
doesn’t call again
if he asks you to pay back the money.
If.
If she still isn’t sorry
if.
karma
The
girl who made your life hell
when you were young and had no friends
walked by you today. Names are not important
here
but feelings are
because sometimes
you find yourself, some twenty years later
or more
still cowering
still minuscule speaking
still tiny lettering
all the way in your stomach. Still
a swallower of things.
You always thought karma would get her
but you hear she’s doing well. Got married,
kids on the way, not that you’re really definitely
after those
things
but
still.
Still
it’s a bitch.
You came home
many times feeling
ghoul. All kinds of transparent.
Do the feelings ever
leave? Or do you just learn to wrap them up into
something to wear?
That’s one thing everything does, you suppose.
Turns you into a maker of gold.
14
But at least I’m not fourteen
anymore,
talking to other people’s husbands
avoiding my stepfather
drinking all of the clear suff I can
find in my
mother’s cabinet,
washing it down with talcum powder
and orange juice
passing out in parks
or at football games
and getting the dark, dark chills
in the early hours of the morning.
Staying forever far from home
completely, completely at sea.
Knowing God has cut me out
jagged, loose, wild.
prayer
Some girls do
and I’m one of them.
They told me God didn’t like it.
I cried at church
tried to pray myself Good.
(Sat on my hands.)
Some girls do
and I’m one of them.
They told me men wouldn’t like it.
I plaited my hair
tried to quiet the singing down there
(I was sitting on hymns.)
Some girls do
and I’m one of them.
They said I really didn’t like it
(not if I was honest with myself).
I sat at the meetings
(confessed to things
that have never felt wrong)
things that some girls do
and
I tell you,
I’m one of them.
impending dialogue
Hungry. Stomach screaming hungry,
I worry about the conversation we
haven’t had yet. You know, this one. I
will order pudding after dinner and
chew and swallow without tasting
anything much. You will chain-smoke
and drink three different beers and
we will talk out how to make the best
of things despite the year and its
shitty weather. We are tired of
dressing in layers just in case and
leaving wet umbrellas in other
people’s houses. Who can live like
that? On the day, your voice will be
too bright and cheerful, the way it
always is when you hurt the most.
We’re always trying to make
everything okay. Fine. Well, or
whatever shit we tell our friends
instead of awful. Grieving. Barely
breathing. Come, let us talk with our
closed-up throats, crushed hearts and
wet eyes. Quickly, because when you
get that metallic taste on your tongue
and teeth it means trouble and when
I get that light feeling in the space
between the back of my eyes and my
skull it means hell.
the stupid thing about it
You’re on the phone for four whole
hours. While your head hurts and you
can’t go on and you wish you’d never
met. While she blames you and you
blame her and she hates you and you
hate her
still, in the end, it goes like this
You: I need to touch you. I want you.
Her: Come over, right now. Hurry.
new
hold me, you.
firmly, because all I’ve known how to
do so far is leave
hold me, you.
tightly, because all I’ve known how to
do so far is run
challenge me, because all I’ve known
so far is how to make excuses.
The other day I told you your mind
was a different country
you said, “No. Continent,” and we
laughed.
When I joke about having other
lovers you tell me they’re all in you so
where would I be running to?
You are a million different reasons to
stop. I don’t sleep as much as I
thought I needed to
or drink all the wine. I’m frightened I
might be happy.
Dig your nails in.
All I’ve known how to do so far is
walk.
quirk
You are one of life’s
anomalies
and this is
how I fell.
up home
Stuff that you remind me of.
Home. Wherever that is. I’m
confused
and in the same way that my grandma
(who hasn’t seen my brother or me for
two years because he has been lost
somewhere between despair and
north Manchester
and I’ve been away in Africa)
in the same way that she just smiles
and puts on the kettle
I’m beginning to feel a lot like I’ll
wait for you
against my better judgment.
She gives us macaroni and brown
stew chicken in a Tupperware box
(which she asks him to return but
everyone knows he won’t).
Core loneliness is a terrible thing.
I suppose we all have each other, but
only up to a certain point.
I suppose we all die stubbornly and
separately, in the end.
Someone reads Psalms 139
and, in the verse that mentions how
we are fearfully and wonderfully
made,
I’m beginning to see the light
and I trace the outlines of your
tattoos on my arm.
My brother takes all of the food
because he had mouths to feed.
Nobody knows how many. Nobody
has asked or kept count and he
doesn’t say much. Anyway, I will soon
be en route to London. Can’t
have food and memories weighing
me down, however delicious.
Some things you just have to leave up
North, like short a’s, Morrisons,
Ovaltine, pictures of your late parents
in graduation caps and gowns
carrot juice the way West Indian
people make it with the nutmeg a
nd
condensed milk
and the look on your grandparents’
faces, always, when you say,
“Oh well, must get going. Don’t want
to miss my train.”
I’m beginning to miss you terribly, by
the way.
It’s a stunning day up here
despite the rain.
mum
Mum. Where you are
I hope that there is Tia Maria and
Coca-Cola
and people don’t talk too loudly
when you’re trying to sleep.
I hope you have a daughter with a
plan and a dream
and sons who aren’t on first-name
terms with the police.
I hope you have your pick of a few
good men
and none of them know how to
cheat.
Mum, where you are . . . I hope that
there are grandfathers who don’t
stare at you for too long
and grandmas who aren’t sick
I hope that they don’t scream because
your mother left
and tell you,
you ain’t shit.
I hope that you don’t bathe old men
for a living
who call you nigger bitch
Mum, where you are, I hope that God
comes down and shows you what
goes where
and doesn’t shout because you’re far
too tired to care.
I hope that there’s someone to tease
the knots out of your hair.
I hope that good is good and right is
right and fair is fair.
kid
You can fit two thousand four
hundred and ninety-six
tiny letter a’s on an a4 page
based on fitting four of them firmly
into the space of a
centimeter square.
Dad will say, “That’s diligence for
you.”
Everyone else will call it a waste of
time.
You can fit a whole tube of Smarties
in your mouth
while dressing your little brother up
in your Sunday best.
Grandma will laugh at the boy in the
dress.
Granddad will nearly hit someone.
Your brother will be sent upstairs to
change
head bowed in shame.