The Bar

I am called to the Bar of England and Wales in July 2016. My mum wears a beautiful kaba made from kente. Patterns of purple and yellow and black. Complemented with her finest gold jewellery. She playfully tries on my wig. My dad wears a striking kente of maroon and orange, yellow and green. It is carefully draped over his left shoulder. He wears a white undershirt and green shorts, chokoto. I want him here. I invited him. To see what I have become not because of him but in spite of him. I want him to know that I did not choose insolence, I chose advocacy – or rather it chose me. And that I have emerged, full circle. He may have ruined my mum’s life, but he has not ruined mine. That they arrived wearing kente, separately and without communication, is testament to the symbolism of this moment in their lives. In wearing kente, they communicate without words, in colour and pattern.

Kente is a traditional Ghanaian woven fabric, rich in symbolism and craftsmanship. The cloth is beautifully woven in geometric patterns, each with its own meaning. The patterns relate to the history and beliefs of the Ashanti people, a proud people, from where this regal fabric originates. My mum wears the ‘Akokobaatan’ pattern: ‘mother hen’. It is a symbol of motherliness, parental care and tenderness. The purple is a symbol of feminism. The yellow, an expression of richness, royalty, prosperity and wealth. The black, as she wears it, represents maturity and spiritual energy. Her heart is bursting with pride and it makes me happy to see. I understand her hard work and sacrifice. I know the cost she has paid to see me here. I want her to live this feeling twice, as my mum and then vicariously through me. Dreams of ‘should have, could have, would have’ materialised in this moment. Alongside a new chapter of opportunity and prosperity.

My dad wears ‘Obi nkye obi kwan mu si’: ‘To err is human’. It is emblematic of forgiveness, conciliation, tolerance and patience. The maroon is a symbol of mother earth and healing. The green, as he wears it, represents spiritual growth and maturity. My dad is beaming from ear to ear. I know that he will speak about me to his friends and customers, as if he had some hand in my success. His temper has disappeared, it seems. Years away from forces of provocation and greyness of the beard will do that to a person. He has widened at the waist and softened in the brow. And he shows me the deference of one who bows before a person more learned. I recognise that he is proud of me in the way he clasps his hands in front of him, no longer in a power stance at his hips. To make him proud today is to know a new feeling in my heart. It makes me believe that I have forgiven him without the need to understand. Oh, Happy Day. Perhaps what his heart is, is not what his hands did. It is possible, is it not? All things are – I am proof.

A kente weaver must know not only the different patterns but how to create them. It is a timely and costly labour. Traditionally worn by kings and queens of Ghana, it is woven by men and sewn together by women. We are, after all, the thread that weaves the fabric of life. A masterpiece in textile design, reserved for the most special occasions.

Sol wears a bespoke suit: navy blue, orange lined. A matching pocket square and socks. His watch is Swiss. His cufflinks, expensive. He has taken a day off work to celebrate my achievement and to celebrate me. Principal Engineer and N16 resident. He alternates between his role as his mother’s son and his father’s son with dexterity. A gulf of resentment, anger and pain separates one from the other. It is a relief to have him here. He mingles with my peers, their parents, the Bar and the Judiciary with the ease of someone who knows what it is to feel comfortable in his skin. He is the proudest big brother in the world. He shows it with an expensive gift. A substitute for words I think he feels but cannot say. A Pandora’s package of Mulberry bags. I undo the black ribbon of the gift container and untie protective cloth to unwrap my present. A beautiful bag, black, grained leather, gold fastening.

‘I thought you could use it for court.’

I struggle to believe that I own my very own Mulberry bag, a real one. When did we arrive at this place of luxury from whence we came?

‘ “Started from the bottom now we here!” ’ Sol does his best Drake impression. It makes us laugh because no other words could explain our journey to this point.

I think of ‘dual consciousness’ and admire my new bag.

‘Sol! It’s amazing. I love it! Thank you so much.’

‘It’s a belted Bayswater.’

Neither Sol nor I know what a ‘belted Bayswater’ is. In any event, I know he didn’t choose it alone. It was chosen by a woman for a woman. From Brixton to the Bar via Chancery Lane. Who even are we?

My mum has bought me a wig tin from Ede & Ravenscroft to keep my barrister’s wig safe and intact. It is engraved in gold letters: ‘S. A. Sai’.

‘Thank you, Mum. That’s really kind of you. I love it.’

 

We pose for pictures in Gray’s Inn Fields. My mum and dad receive compliments on their traditional outfits. And the magpies come to celebrate with us. They fete from the trees, the lawns, the telephone cables and across the green. Each in the company of a friend. I am so happy that they are here. With me, with us, my family.

 

The ‘Fathia fata Nkrumah’ kente cloth – ‘Fathia is a befitting wife for Nkrumah’ – was created to honour the very first First Lady of Ghana, Fathia Nkrumah, wife of Ghana’s first president, Kwame Nkrumah. I love it in pink and green and yellow, predominantly pink. My mum explains to me its origin. Nkrumah led the country to independence in 1957 and the Gold Coast became Ghana. His marriage to Fathia, a charming Egyptian woman, was considered to represent the unity of African people on the continent. Some say that in wearing the ‘Fathia fata Nkrumah’ cloth, we honour the first ladies in our lives: wives, mothers, sisters and aunts. I want to have a kaba made in this pattern the next time I go to Ghana. I like it, the colours.

 

I don’t reserve tickets for my mum and Sol to dine at Gray’s Inn after I am called to the Bar. I should have been more organised. My mum wishes the celebration could continue over lunch. She would have loved the formality of it all: dining in hall, the privilege and esteem of the experience. That she could have charmed some old judge with tales of Ghanaian history and kente, in her heels, wine-coloured lipstick and floral perfume. The most glamorous nurse at 37 Military Hospital-cum-domestically abused wife-cum-proud mother. Her daughter’s place, rightly earned in this historical setting. Stella, a lawyer. My dad is relieved, I am sure, to go back to his comforts and overalls. He reminds me, before he leaves, that my MOT is due next month. He will sort it out for me.

 

Ginny and her family are less focused on the photography of this event for posterity than mine. They are proud of her success, but I can tell that they have seen this kind of achievement before. One step ahead of me, Ginny has organised tickets for them to attend the celebratory lunch and emailed Gray’s Inn in advance to ask for us to be seated together. We look at the seating plan and make our way to the top table to take our place with the Benchers of the Inn: silks, judges and other esteemed guests.

Before he leaves, Sol asks me to give him a call when I’ve finished with the Patriarchy. He’s got a meeting at the Rosewood; he’ll be just around the corner.

 

The entrance to the Rosewood is so beautifully lit it cannot but keep the joy of the day bright. I am a barrister! It is both reverie and fact. Walking past the iron gates of the courtyard, I know that I am crossing a threshold that divides my future from my past. I consume the artwork of the Cocktail Room as I walk in the direction of opulence and extravagance. My eyes are momentarily confused to see that within its design, the room’s decor includes the beaming faces of Farah, Kemi and Eimear alongside Sol, his girlfriend Sienna and two of his closest friends.

‘Congratulations!’

My confusion gives way to a surprise so effervescent that it forces warm tears from my eyes.

‘Oh my God! When did you— What? I can’t believe you’re all here!’

So, Farah is not working days after all, Eimear is clearly not in Rotterdam for work and Kemi looks far too good to be in bed with the flu! The opening of a champagne bottle adds to the evening’s surprise, and by some moving magic, cascading bubbles fill tall glasses held in the hands of our intimate circle. My queries of how and why and when are met with laughter, hugs and kisses before The Girls present me with a turquoise box wrapped with a white ribbon which I have only seen before in Christmas adverts. I open it with unbelieving hands to see a diamond and black onyx gold bracelet. The sparkling thing that Farah is fastening on my wrist makes my words stick in my throat. I look them all in the eye when our glasses clink to cheers.

‘Congratulations, Counsel! We’re so proud of you!’

Mine are blurry with tears.

‘Thank you so much.’ My heart is pumping gratitude and wonder and love all around my body.