A fragment of Africa

meandering like the twisting river

that splits the centre in a complex grin;

the smiling coast,

beaming as bright as the boats at Bakau

and clutched in the soft jaws of Senegal.

 

Here, plump roots feed a village of mouths.

No Salad

We were starving.

We had been pounding the streets of New York since the first commuters had surfaced from the subways like moles into the dazzling shine of fifty million windows.

And now they had returned to the tunnels and we were on the prowl.

A pretzel cart, a diner, anything.

Just not another Starbucks.

My stomach reeled at the thought as it continued its struggle to absorb the flood of lattes that had settled like swamp water.    

Our feet were burning from the shoes that seemed to be shrinking the more and more we dragged them across zebra-striped crossings and tarmac.  I decided in that moment that I hated shoes, that they were invented by people with a vendetta against feet. I scowled at the bag containing a brand new pair of sandals clutched in my left hand and knew that I would forgive them as soon as I smelt the leather and stroked the sequined strap.  But for now, there was only venom.

My stomach grumbled, long and hollow; my sister’s answered in rapid response.

And then we saw it. That lit up van with its menus proudly displayed; the vendor, hot and sweaty and scratching in his hair net. It was beautiful.

The sign read ‘Halal Sandwich Bar’.

I rested my arm upon the sill of the open hatch and stated my order without hesitation.

“Two ham salad sandwiches, please.”

The vendor blinked. “No ham,” he announced and pointed at the sign with a blue latex finger. “Halal.”

I amended my order swiftly. “Cheese salad then, please.”

Again the vendor blinked. “No salad.”

I could feel the frustration of my hunger rising. “Just cheese is fine,” I said.

The vendor set to work, slapping four pieces of pre-buttered bread down on his work surface and ripping open a packet of pre-sliced cheese. His fingers worked quickly, but just as he was about to seal the sandwiches with the second slices, he paused, I moaned, and he turned towards me.

“You want tomato?” he asked.

It was my turn to blink. “Erm, yes please.”

On they went.

“Cucumber?”

“Yeah, sure,” I responded slowly.

Plop, plop, plop.

“Lettuce?”

“Ok.”

My sister giggled.

“Three dollar,” the vendor informed me gruffly.

“Thank you,” I said, passing over the coarse notes.

We walked away with our cheese, tomato, cucumber and lettuce sandwiches, doubting our definition of salad in New York.    

Look at Africa

Sticky bare knees pressed against each other in the bush taxi as we waited for the off. Outside, Serekunda hummed, heat rising like rippling steam as the locals vied for attention. We had been instructed to keep our eyes forward, to gaze at the seats with their innards spilling forth, to focus on the rather alarming hole in the floor of the vehicle which now framed the white-toothed grin of a local boy as he wriggled underneath to get a better look at the pale-faced visitors. I grinned back and alerted my companions to the intrusion. Then we were all grinning and, throwing caution to the lack of wind, turned our heads and looked at Africa.

A sandaled foot dangled in my line of sight as the owner of it scrabbled to seat himself on the roof of the taxi. It rocked slightly as he shifted and settled his weight. Women with baskets balanced on plaited heads manoeuvred skilfully through the throng of action, pausing to offer the fruit they carried to potential buyers. A few caught sight of us and soon cashew fruit and mangoes were being thrust through the gaps in the windows, obliging us to route around in our pockets for the remaining dalasi that had survived the market earlier that day. The paper currency was thin in our hands, on the verge of turning to dust and adding to poverty’s crusade.

Then came women with different loads to carry. Straps of brightly coloured cloth swathed their torsos and the fragile bodies of their babies. Most seemed content to drift through the crowds, searching for what they had come to seek, but one met my gaze and held it tight as she moved towards my open window. Her fingers squeezed through the gap and knotted with mine. She smiled joyfully and gestured to the sleeping baby on her back; I marvelled at how peaceful he seemed in such a roaring place. She gave me his name. Moses. Her eyes grew desperate as our bush taxi lurched with the arrival of our driver. Moses in the basket. She untied her baby and offered him up like a gift. Moses sailing down the river. I shook my head as realisation dawned. Moses sent away by a desperate mother. I held her gaze as the engine rumbled and Africa blurred into a painting caught in the rain.   

 

Reflection - 2nd Draft

I see you; subtlety is not your strong suit.

You hold me with a stare,

I look away first.

 

In you I know them;

generations sit in the lines of your face

like branches on an ancestry tree.

 

You shock me.

I shatter your face into a thousand and four pieces

but you always return fully formed.

 

I seek you out,

find pleasure in your face

and pursue opportunities to see you again.

 

I watch you change,

like paper browning and spotting with age,

but your edges won’t curl to conceal them from sight;

instead you smile

and show me how we have lived.

 

 

 

 

Nostalgia - 2nd Draft

The bench has a few more scrapes and scratches

the chair

once strong

wobbles under your weight

conversation pours

like the wine from the bottle

you sink into its depths

and feel the chronicles of the past brush beneath you

like silver fish

until eagerly you catch

lift and expose

those belongings of the bygone into the light of the warm sun

and thirst for the homeland of those glossy days

Reflection

I see you

subtlety is not your strong suit

although at times a glimpse is all I catch

and at others I hold you with a stare

antil I look away first

 

You remind me of them

those I know or knew

those I don’t or didn’t

generations sit in the lines of your face

like braches on an ancestry tree

 

You shock me often

with things I don’t want to see

so I cower and hide

even shatter your face into a million pieces

but you always find me

 

Sometimes I seek you out

and find pleasure in your face

on those days I stare for ages

discovering you afresh

and pursue opportunities to see you again

 

I have watched you change over the years

like paper browning and spotting with age

but your edges don’t curl to conceal them from sight

instead you smile

and show me how we have lived

 

Nostalgia

The bench has a few more scrapes and scratches

the chair

once strong

wobbles under your weight

conversation pours

like the wine from the bottle

you sink into its depths

and idly chat of now

until then kindles

and eagerly you expose the belongings of the past

lift them one by one into the light of the warm sun

and coax them to life with words

thirsting for the homeland of those glossy days

 

 

Just for a Moment - amended Ghost Story

Molly had a knack for pushing me into disagreeable situations. It was her eyes. The way they gazed up at me with such pleading, like the eyes of someone about to die.

I should have taken that look as an omen.

Little Orping was in the very centre of nowhere, and although father insisted that we ‘give the place time’, we decided in sisterly union to despise it. Festering there was the worst weather in Britain. Drizzly mist swept the length of the streets and seeped through the protection of our clothes until we were sodden and miserable.

My father had decided to uproot us from the grandeur of York shortly after mother died. The city held many difficult memories and too much noise for a suffering mind to stand. That night, in the attic room I shared with Molly, we had listened as he wept through the floorboards and woke in the morning to find our bags already packed.

The train had hauled us to Little Orping later that day, snaking its way through sweet civilisation until it petered out and died and all we could see through the smeared windows was the vastness of nothing and the thin tributaries of drizzle carving murky streams through the muck.     

Father started work the very afternoon of our arrival. Our landlord and owner of Little Orping was a friend from his schoolboy days and had offered father a generous sum of money to assist in felling the wood that sat on the boundaries of his meagre empire. As he put it, to ‘make room for the light’. His name was Greaves, only he insisted that Molly and I call him ‘Sir’ much to our dislike. We pulled faces as he turned his proud back and later received punishment at our father’s hand.

During that first night in Little Orping, sleeping side by side with our matching welts, Molly and I swore our loyalty to one another and our imminent return to York.

The following day we escaped the confines of Little Orping and headed for the condemned woods, our escape plans momentarily postponed due to our sudden need to explore. As soon as we entered we felt the familiar sense of awe that we had often felt when sneaking into York Minster. The tall trees were the high stone arches, but the dull light that filtered in through the leaves above bore no resemblance to the glorious sunlight that streamed in through the stained glass windows to make pools of swirling colour on the flagstone floors. However, the silence was the same. In the Minster it was as though the carved saints and angels had been talking right up to the point of our entrance, and were holding their breath until we left so as not to expose themselves as real. In the wood, it was as though the very trees were holding their tongues.  

We moved among the branches, mapping new paths and breaking the hush with our rebellious chatter. So concerned were we with our giggles that we failed to see the looming figures of a man and his drooling dogs striding towards us in the gloom. Seconds later, as we untangled ourselves from the heap of limbs we had become, our giggles reached new heights as we gazed up into the heated face of Greaves.     

His eyes were ablaze and, after hurriedly scouring the surrounding area, he demanded in hissed tones that we follow him back to Little Orping at once.

It was then that I felt it.

The sudden shift in the air. The strong feeling that something else moved among the trees. Before I could accept Greaves’ advice, Molly fixed me with those eyes of persuasion, seized my hand and pulled me into a run that took us away from the whimpers of his dogs and further into the suffocation of the thickening mist.

As we ran, I was struck by how large the woods were, how the trees created an illusion of a never ending world. I was just about to snap my hand back and demand Molly stop when she did of her own accord. I fell forward, being careful to miss her and landed with a thump on the leaf strewn floor. Molly made no move to help me up.

Her eyes were wide; her lips slightly parted as she stared across at a large wooden hut nestled in a circular embrace of trees. It was one storey high, the type of which had been erected during the war, and seemed to be in a case of serious disrepair. Windows hung like limp limbs from their hinges and not one single light shone to signify any life within the walls.

Naturally, Molly unfroze and leapt towards a gaping hole that had once perhaps held a door. She was gone before I had time to shout her name.

I scrabbled to my feet and entered the hut without hesitation. My only thought was Molly and the fact that the place looked as though it could crumble to dust at any moment.

So shocked was I, then, when I found myself in a most magnificent cinema.

The ticket booth stood empty to my right, the leather seat within dipped with the impression of having just been vacated. Ahead, a refreshment counter stood decked with sweets that I had never seen. As I drew closer and examined their names, I recalled a memory of my father reminiscing about his trips to the cinema in his youth and the sweets he used to buy. He had met my mother there, and had spoiled her with a packet of mint marvels. I saw them there in that cinema in the woods, nestled in the bottom corner of the display case as though plucked from my father’s memory.

As I moved to the only inner door Molly could have taken, I felt as though I was being watched and looked about sharply. Posters upon posters of film stars from a distant era plastered the walls haphazardly. It was the only decoration in the place that seemed untidy, as though they had been added as a rushed afterthought. On closer inspection, I noticed that nearly all of them held somewhere within their picture the same young woman; blonde, beautiful and decorated in fashions from an elegant time. As I looked at her closer still, I saw lines scored across her face, tears in the paper where her smooth skin and perfect cheekbones resided. Gentle slashes across her lips, her neck. I shivered, held captivated by that strange finding until Molly filled my thoughts again and I moved on towards the door.

I saw her, standing close to a wide stage above which hung the cinema screen. The plush curtains were drawn as though ready for an audience. Molly turned as she heard me enter; she clutched something close to her chest. It was furry and limp, and at first I was repulsed until I drew nearer and saw that it was a coat, similar to one our grandmother had worn whenever she had gone out in public. This coat was different though. Unlike our grandmother’s, which had looked rather ragged and matted by the time she had died, the one clasped in Molly’s hands looked brand new, as though it had just left the factory where skilled hands had sewn the pelts into a garment fit for a film star. Molly stroked it, stating how beautiful it was and how she had just found it lying there on the stage. How she would love to wear it, to try it on just for a moment.

Just for a moment.

He came as soon at her arms delved into the sleeves, as soon as a smile lit her face and scattered into an array of manic laughter.

The Wurlitzer surfaced like a terrible fish from the depths of the stage. His arms and legs flailed like those of a marionette as he created the music that would haunt me into adulthood. His hair was matted in clumps about his head, the skin around them red raw as though constantly scratched at by jagged nails. 

I never saw his face, only watched as he played and played, as my sister, laughing still and dripping in fur, drifted ever closer and sat beside him on the stool, as the Wurlitzer descended down again into the mouth of the stage, as terror pinned me to the spot. As I watched my sister go.

My father found me an hour later, petrified and alone. Greaves and a rally of men were with him. Without a word, he lifted me into his arms and carried me away. I screamed for Molly, I screamed for my little sister as the cinema disintegrated into the gloom. But she did not answer, and the last thing I heard before the mist swallowed the scene whole like a curtain across a screen was Greaves’ final condemning order:

‘Gentlemen, tear it down.’

Every tree was felled, every branch chopped and left for firewood. Two days later, when exhaustion finally gripped my father, I snuck back to search the debris. There was no sign of any man-made structure amongst the trunks and twigs. No sign of the cinema in the woods, and no sign at all of a smiling little girl in a fur coat.

We never spoke of the incident. My father took me back to York and fell into silence for the rest of his days, losing himself and his diminished family to drink.

I married young, to a loving man who wanted to ease the pain I held in my eyes. To this day, he knows very little about my past, about Molly.

We have a child now. A girl, Bella, and at times when she giggles or seizes my hand in such a way I am transported back to her, to Molly. I have learnt to not let those moments paralyse me as they once did. 

Now I feel I have written everything, and I hear my Bella calling. She declares that a parcel has been delivered. I hear her unwrapping it as she approaches. She exclaims how elegant, how beautiful the contents is, how she would love to wear it, to try it on just for a moment.

Just for a moment.