Amma then spent decades on the fringe, a renegade lobbing hand grenades at the establishment that excluded her
until the mainstream began to absorb what was once radical and she found herself hopeful of enjoying it
which only happened when the first female artistic director assumed the helm of the National three years ago
after so long hearing a polite no from her predecessors,
look at it this way, Amma, she says, your father was born male in Ghana in the 1920s whereas you were born female in London in the 1960s
and your point is?
you really can’t expect him to ‘get you,’ as you put it
I let her know she’s an apologist for the patriarchy and complicit in a system that oppresses all women
she says human beings are complex
I tell her not to patronize me
they decided they needed to start their own theatre company to have careers as actors, because neither was prepared to betray their politics to find jobs
or shut up to keep them
it seemed the obvious way forward
they scribbled ideas for names on hard toilet paper snaffled from the loo
Bush Women Theatre Company best captured their intentions
they would be a voice in theatre where there was silence
black and Asian women’s stories would get out there
they would create theatre on their own terms
it became the company’s motto
On Our Own Terms
or Not At All.
she surprised herself at the strength of her grief
she then regretted never telling him she loved him, he was her father, a good man, of course she loved him, she knew that now he was gone, he was a patriarch but her mother was right when she said, he’s of his time and culture, Amma
my father was devastated at having to fell Ghana so abruptly, she eulogized at his memorial, attended by his elderly socialist comrades
it must have been so traumatic, to lose his home, his family, his friends, his culture, his first language, and to come to a country that didn’t want him
once he had children, he wanted us educated in England and that was it
my father believed in the higher purpose of left-wing politics and actively worked to make the world a better place
she didn’t tell them she’d taken her father for granted and carried her blinkered, self-righteous perspective of him from childhood through to his death, when in fact he’d done nothing wrong except fail to live up to her feminist expectations of him
you’ve really suffered, Yazz says, I feel sorry for you, not in a patronizing way, it’s empathy, actually
I haven’t suffered, not really, my mother and grandmother suffered because they lost their loved ones and their homeland, whereas my suffering is mainly in my head
it’s not in your head when people deliberately barge into you
it is compared to half a million people who died in the Somali civil war, I was born here and I’m going to succeed in this country, I can’t afford not to work my butt off, I know it’s going to be tough when I get on the job market but you know what, Yazz? I’m not a victim, don’t ever treat me like a victim, my mother didn’t raise me to be a victim.
yes but I’m black, Courts, which makes me more oppressed than anyone who isn’t, except Waris who is the most oppressed of all of them (although I don’t tell her that)
in five categories: black, Muslim, female, poor, hijabbed
she’s the only one Yazz can’t tell to check her privilege
Courtney replied that Roxane Gay warned against the idea of playing ‘privilege Olympics’ and wrote in Bad Feminist that privilege is relative and contextual, and I agree, Yazz, I mean where does it all end? is Obama less privileged than a white hillbilly growing up in a trailer park with a junkie single mother and a jailbird father? Is a severely disabled person more privileged than a Syrian asylum-seeker who’s been tortured? Roxane argues that we have to find a new discourse for discussing inequality
Yazz doesn’t know what to say, when did Court read Roxane Gay – who’s amaaaazing?
was this a student outwitting the master moment?
#whitegirltrumpsblackgirl
Yazz noticed that those ‘buns’ reciprocated Courtney’s attention, her creamy softness pouring ostentatiously over the top of her denim blouse
they stared at Courtney, not at Yazz, who wasn’t the one getting checked out as usual, and she usually got checked out a lot
not that she’s interested in the kind of male who belts their trousers underneath their bum
today it’s all about Courtney, who’s not even particularly hot and it’s like Yazz is invisible and her friend is an irresistible goddess
a white girl walking with a black girl is always seen as black-man-friendly
Yazz has been here before with other white mates
it makes her feel so
jaded
Nzinga had suggested that her relationship history of blonde girlfriends might be a sign of self-loathing; you have to ask yourself if you’ve been brainwashed by the white beauty ideal, sister, you have to work a lot harder on your black feminist politics, you know
Dominique wondered if she had a point, why did she go for stereotypical blondes? Amma had teased her about it without judging her, she herself was a product of various mixtures and often had partners of all colors
in contrast, Nzinga had grown up in the segregated South, although shouldn’t that make her pro-integration rather than against it?
Dominique wondered if she really was still being brainwashed by white society, and whether she really was failing at the identity she most cherished – the black feminist one
why did Nzinga think being in love with her meant she had to give up her independence and submit completely?
wasn’t that being like a male chauvinist?
Dominique felt like an altered version of herself after a while, her mind foggy, emotions primal, senses heightened
she enjoyed the sex and affection – outside in the fields when summer arrived, wantonly naked in the heat, unworried about anyone coming across them, what Nzinga called Dominique’s sexual healing, as if she’d been suffering terribly when she met her
Dominique let it pass
she wanted to talk this through with friends, Amma most of all, or the women at Spirit Moon, she needed a sounding board, it wasn’t going to happen, Nzinga kept them at a distance, kicked up a fuss when Dominique made overtures of friendship
did me and Papa come to this country for a better life only to see our daughter giving up on her opportunities and end up distributing paper hand towels for tips in nightclub toilets or concert venues, as is the fate of too many of our countrywomen?
you must go back to this university in January and stop thinking everybody hates you without giving them a chance, did you even ask them? did you go up to them and say, excuse me, do you hate me?
you must find the people who will want to be your friends even if they are all white people
there is someone for everyone in this world
you must go back and fight the battles that are your British birthright, Carole, as a true Nigerian
Carole amended herself to become not quite them, just a little more like them
she scraped off the concrete foundation plastered on to her face, removed the giraffe-esque eyelashes that weighed down her eyelids, ripped off the glued-on talons that made most daily activities difficult
such as getting dressed, picking things up, most food preparation and using toilet paper
she ditched the weaves sewn into her scalp for months at a time, many months longer than advised because, having saved up to wear the expensive black tresses of women from India or Brazil, she wanted her money’s worth, even when her scalp festered underneath the stinky patch of cloth from which her fake hair flowed
she felt freed when it was unstitched for the very last time, and her scalp made contact with air.
She felt the deliciousness of warm water running directly over it again without the intermediary of a man-made fabric
She then had her tight curls straightened, Marcus said he preferred her hair natural, she told him she’d never get a job if she did that
my point is that you are a Nigerian
no matter how high and mighty you think you are
no matter how English-English your future husband
no matter how English-English you pretend yourself to be
what is more, if you address me as Mother ever again I will beat you until you are dripping wet with blood and then I will hang you upside down over the balcony with the washing to dry
I be your mama
now and forever
never forget that, abi?
Bummi and Augustine agreed they were wrong to believe that in England, at least, working hard and dreaming big was one step away from achieving it
Augustine joked he was acquiring a second doctorate in shortcuts, bottlenecks, one-way streets and dead ends
while transporting passengers who thought themselves far too superior to talk to him as an equal
Bummi complained that people viewed her through what she did (a cleaner) and not what she was (an educated woman)
they did not know that curled up inside her was a parchment certificate proclaiming her a graduate of the Department of Mathematics, University of Ibadan
just as she did not know that when she strode on to the graduation podium in front of hundreds of people to receive her ribboned scroll, and shake hands with the Chancellor of the University, that her first class degree from a Third World country would mean nothing in her new country
especially with her name and nationality attached to it
Freddy arranged for Bummi to meet his parents in a London restaurant, which she was looking forward to
except he warned her that although they’d warmed to the idea of Carole, once they saw how classy, well-spoken and successful she was (most importantly for his mother, how slim and pretty, too)
they’re still old-fashioned snobs
Freddy’s father, Mark, looked uncomfortable, said little at the dinner, Carole sat there with a fake smile plastered on her face the whole time
Pamela, his mother, smiled at Bummi as if she was a famine victim, when she started explaining the meaning of hors d’oeuvres to her, Freddy told her to stop it, Mommy, just stop it
Losing her dad the way she did was something LaTisha never talked about; whenever people asked, she told them he’d died of a heart attack
it was easier than explaining what had happened, people thinking there must be something wrong with her and her family
else why would he leave?
she ran wild, hated school, couldn’t concentrate, even Mummy couldn’t control her and she was a social worker, I’m sending you home to Jamaica where they’ll beat some sense into you, LaTisha
yeh, whatevs, I could do with a Caribbean holiday
Shirley
was praised by the headmaster, Mr. Waverly, as a natural teacher, with an easy rapport with the children, who goes above and beyond the call of duty, achieves excellent exam results with her exemplary teaching skill and who is a credit to her people
in her first annual job assessment
Shirley felt the pressure was now on to be a great teacher and an ambassador
for every black person in the world
when Shirley drove up to the school in the mornings
moments before the inmates charged up the Paupers’ Path to destroy any sense of equilibrium
its monstrous proportions settled in her stomach
like concrete
and as the eighties became history the nineties couldn’t wait to charge in and bring more problems than solutions
more children at school coming from families struggling to cope
more unemployment, poverty, addiction, domestic violence at home
more kids with parents who were ‘inside,’ or should have been
more kids who needed free school meals
more kids who were on the Social Services register or radar
more kids who went feral – (she wasn’t an animal tamer)
Shirley
who’s never satisfied with what she has: excellent health, cushy job, hunky husband, lovely daughters and granddaughter, good house and car, no debts, free luxury holiday in the tropics every year
tough life Shirl
compared to Winsome who spent her working life standing on the open platform of a Routemaster bus
bombarded with rain or snow or hailstones
climbing stairs a million times a day with a heavy ticket machine hanging from her neck and big money bag around her waist that got heavier as the journey progressed giving her round shoulders and back problems to this very day
having to deal with non-payers and under-payers who refused to get off de dam bus who cussed her for being a silly cow or a nig nog or a bloody foreigner
she herself is a grateful person
grateful she had Barbados to return home to when her English friends had to stay over there and spend their old age worrying about the cost of heating and whether they’d survive a bad winter
grateful that as soon as she stepped off the plane to walk into the blast of heat, her arthritic joints stopped playing up
haven’t so much as muttered a word of protest since
grateful that the sale of the house in London allowed them to buy this one by the beach
grateful that she and Clovis, now in their eighties, have a reasonable pension, and won’t have to worry about money for the rest of their loves so long as they stay parsimonious, which is true of her generation anyways, who only buy what they need, not what they want
you go into debt to buy a house, not a new dress
Winsome counts her blessings every day and thanks Jesus for bringing her home to a more comfortable life
she thanks Jesus she made new friends with women who’d also returned from America, Canada and Britain and asked her to join their reading group
she was honoured, she’d been a bus conductor, they didn’t mind
at first she’d enjoyed teaching the disadvantaged children of the area whose parents had an inter-generational history of paying taxes in this country, even though she knew most of them wouldn’t go on to great things
a supermarket till for the ones who were numerate, a typing pool for those who were numerate and literate, further education for those who could pass exams sufficiently well
she felt a sense of responsibility towards her own kind, and didn’t like it at all when the school’s demography began to change with the immigrants and their offspring pouring in
in the space of a decade the school went from predominately English children of the working classes to a multicultural zoo of kids coming from countries where there weren’t even words for please and thank you
which explained a lot
she loathed that feminism was on the descent, and the vociferous multi-culti brigade was on the ascent, and felt angry all the time, usually at the older boys who were disrespectful and the bullish male teachers who still behaved as if they owned the planet
…
Shirley was barely out of her teaching probation when she took a pot shot at Penelope at that staff meeting all those years ago – at the only woman in the school who dared stand up to the men
why didn’t Saint Shirley attack one of the male chauvinist pigs who pontificated ad infinitum instead of a strong woman who’d brought petitions into work for both the Equal Pay Act and the Sex Discrimination Act, both of which were eventually passed into law
improving the situation for all working women
she should be admired and respected by her female colleagues
Megan wondered aloud how she could put her gender-free identity into practice when they were living in a gender-binary world, and that with so many definitions (sane and insane, she refrained from saying), the very idea of gender might eventually lose any meaning, who can remember them all? maybe that was the point, a completely gender-free world, or was that a naïve utopian dream?
Bibi replied that dreaming wasn’t naïve but essential for survival, dreaming was the equivalent of hoping on a large scale, utopias were an unachievable ideal by definition, and yeh, she really couldn’t see billions of people accepting the abolition of the idea of gender completely in her lifetime
Megan said in which case demanding gender-neutral pronouns for herself from people who’d no idea what she was going on about also seemed utopian
Bibi said it was a first step towards changing people’s minds, and although yes, like all radical movements, there’d be much resistance and Megan would have to be resilient
Hattie asked him to tone it down with the stories, it was scaring their children and would make them hate themselves, he said they needed to toughen up and what did she know about it with her being high-yaller and living in the back of beyond?
you liked that I’m high-yaller, as you put it, so don’t you go using it against me, Slim
he said the Negro had reason to be angry, having spent four hundred years in American enslaved, victimized and kept downtrodden
it was a powder keg waiting to explode
she replied they were a million miles from America and it’s different here, Slim, not perfect but better
he said his little brother Sonny was the children’s uncle and they needed to know what happened to him and about the history of a country that allowed him to be murdered, and it’s our duty to face up to racial issues, Hattie, because our children are darker than you and aren’t going to have it as easy
they both followed the news about the civil rights protests, Slim said the Negro needed Malcolm X and Martin Luther King
when they were assassinated within three years of each other
he disappeared into the hills for a few days
Ada Mae married Tommy, the first man who asked, grateful anyone would
she didn’t exactly have suitors lining up in Newcastle wanting to proudly introduce their black girlfriend to their parents in the nineteen-sixties
Tommy was on the ugly side, a face like a garden gnome, her and Slim joked, none too bright, either
Hattie suspected the lad didn’t have too many choices himself
a coalminer from young, he was apprenticed as a welder when the mines were shut down
he proved to be a good husband and really did love Ada Mae, in spite of her colour
as he told Hattie and Slim when he came to ask for her hand
lucky that Slim didn’t lay him out
there and then
Sonny’s experience was somewhat different, according to Ada Mae who reported back that women queued up round the block for him
they thought he was the next best thing to dating Johnny Mathis
he married Janet, a barmaid, whose parents objected
and told her to choose
after Joseph died, Slim broke open an old library cabinet when he couldn’t find the keys, said that as the man of the house he needed to know what was in it
he found old ledgers that recorded the captain’s lucrative business as a slave runner, exchanging slaves from Africa for sugar in the West Indies
came charging like a lunatic into the kitchen where she was cooking and had a go at her for keeping such a wicked family secret from him
she didn’t know, she told him, was as upset as he was, the cabinet had been locked her entire life, her father told her important documents were inside and never go near it
she calmed Slim down, they talked it through
it’s not me or my Pa who’s personally responsible, Slim, she said, trying to mollify her husband, no you co-own the spoils with me
she wrapped her long arms around his waist from behind
it’s come full circle, hasn’t it?
nights
they made love with the gas lamp dimmed
she was his expedition into Africa, he said, he was Dr Livingstone sailing downriver in Africa to discover her at the source of the Nile
Abyssinia, she corrected him
whatever you say, Gracie
it was so odd seeing a stage full of black women tonight, all of them as dark or darker than her, a first, although rather than feel validated, she felt slightly embarrassed
if only the play was about the first black woman prime minister of Britain, or a Nobel prize-winner for science, or a self-made billionaire, someone who represented legitimate success at the highest levels, instead of lesbian warriors strutting around and falling for each other
during the interval at the bar she noticed a few members of the white audience looking at her different from when they’d all arrived in the lobby earlier, much more friendly, as if she was somehow reflected in the play they were watching and because they approved of the play, they approved of her
there were also more black women in the audience than she’d seen at any other play at the National
at the interval she studied them with their extravagant head-ties, chunky earrings the size of African sculptures, voodoo-type necklaces of beads, bones, leather pouches containing spells (probably), metal bangles as thick as wrist weights, silver rings so large their wingspan spread over several fingers
she kept getting the black sisterhood nod, as if the play somehow connected them together
this metal-haired wild creature from the bush with the piercingly feral eyes
is her mother
this is she
this is her
who cares about her colour? why on earth did Penelope ever think it mattered?
in this moment she’s feeling something so pure and primal it’s overwhelming
they are mother and daughter and their whole sense of themselves is recalibrating
her mother is now close enough to touch
Penelope had worried she would feel nothing, or that her mother would show no love for her, no feelings, no affection
how wrong she was, both of them are welling up and it’s like the years are swiftly regressing until the lifetimes between them no longer exist
this is not about feeling something or about speaking words
this is about being
together
