Zombie

I wasn’t born when my mum was pregnant with me and my dad beat her, but I feel like I was there because she tells me about it all the time. Instead of buying sweets, why doesn’t he help with your living costs? Will your school shoes buy themselves? Another red letter has come; my dad is late paying this term’s fees. Do I want to see the letter? She cannot give me money to go shopping in Bromley with Eimear, Farah and Kemi, because she has none. Do I know how much she spends each week on food shopping? How much gas and electricity costs each month? She pays the bills by herself, and she is just one person. Come and look at her bank statements. Look, she has reached her overdraft limit for the month and there are more than two weeks left until she gets paid. She does not know how we are going to survive. She is trying her best, but she gets no help from my dad. And, on top of that, she has two teenage children, and not one of them knows how to wash dishes. I close my ears so I don’t have to listen.

If I ask my mum to do something and she ignores me or doesn’t do it properly, I roar at her and I can’t even control it. My mum and Sol won’t listen to me when I shout. My mum is sure that none of my school friends speak to their mums the way I speak to her. I don’t think their mums take them through their bank statements every week either. We never have any money to do anything.

 

My mum says that people in the UK are very fortunate because we have a ‘welfare state’ and the government will always try to help people in need. When you are poor in Ghana, you literally have nothing. If you are Ghanaian, and there is rice in your house, your mum will always say there is food at home. My mum cooks with Tilda Basmati rice. With Tilda Basmati rice you can make jollof rice, rice and stew, rice water and ground rice. When I have to eat rice for two days in a row, I don’t want to eat it on day three. I ask my mum if we can have a Chinese takeaway for dinner. When she says, ‘There is rice at home,’ my heart starts to beat in an angry way. I have had enough of rice and I don’t want to eat it tonight. When I raise my voice, my mum gives in. She gives in a lot these days. Sol thinks I’m my mum’s favourite and that I always get what I want. He thinks I’m lazy because I fall asleep in front of the TV and lie-in on weekends.

 

In Year 11, the reason I always want to sleep is because I am exhausted all the time. I can barely keep my eyes open in class. I have to pay attention because this is my GCSE year and there is so much to learn. I feel like I am carrying a basket filled with plastic bags of ice water on my head, like the women at the traffic lights in Accra. Instead of water, I am carrying equations, information and diagrams, and conjugated French verbs. The basket is really heavy and I want to set it down but I have to look in the direction I am walking and carry on. I have lost my appetite and my mum says that I am losing weight; she is worried. Auntie Baaba reminds me that Ghanaian girls are supposed to be curvaceous.

‘We like bottoz and breasts, not bones bones bones.’ Even though she is laughing, I know it’s not a joke.

I know something is wrong with me when I have to lie down to brush my teeth because my hand is really weak in the mornings. I spend my lessons with my head in my hands resting on my desk because all I want to do is sleep. When I’m really tired, my words come out slurred. I know something is wrong with me when I try to run for the bus after school and the screen goes black as my legs turn to jelly. I can hear people laughing as I open my eyes. I am on the floor of the bus. School children, I think. They are laughing at me. I wake up in front of the driver’s door. I saw a magpie at lunchtime on the Astroturf at school. When you see one magpie by itself, it means that something bad is going to happen. I think that’s why I feel like I’m trying to stand up in a sideways bus that has just fallen off a bridge. That’s why I’ve fainted, again. A lady who looks like a mum helps me to pick my things up from the floor and stand up. My legs don’t work properly after that.

Sometimes my fingers hurt so much, I can barely grip my pen. If I’m writing an essay, my handwriting looks really neat at the beginning, but by the end, it looks like I’ve just learned how to join up. In exams, I get extra time ‘to put me on the same footing as everyone else’. Mrs Wardell says it’s nothing to be ashamed of, it’s called ‘equity’. I’m allowed rest breaks whenever I need them but I just wish I could sit in the main hall with everyone else.

 

Dr Gordon says I have something called Addison’s disease. Now I feel like I have something wrong with my body and my brain. It’s so rare that only eight thousand people have it in the UK. It’s so rare that it takes a long time for anyone to know what is wrong with me. I have to have something called a ‘synacthen stimulation’ test to check the cortisol levels in my body. Cortisol is basically a natural steroid that your body makes. It helps to control the blood sugar in your body as well as your circulation. It also helps you to deal with stress. I’ve never really thought about ‘stress’ before but when Dr Gordon explains a bit more about it and how it can affect the body, I realise that I’ve had a lot of stress in my life. When Dr Gordon speaks through this part of my diagnosis, my mum wrings her hands together and looks at the floor. I can’t see her eyes, but I know that they are filling with tears. I also know that we won’t talk about it when we get home because we never talk about things like that.

Dr Gordon tests my thyroid gland to see if it is working properly. When you have Addison’s disease, your body doesn’t always produce enough hormones. Dr Gordon says I have an underactive thyroid gland. Addison’s disease is an ‘autoimmune condition’. An autoimmune condition is one where your body attacks itself. That is why I have to take tablets three times a day, so I can replace the hormones in my body – and brush my teeth.

There is only one person I know who can understand what it is like to have Addison’s disease. God sent Kemi to the same school as me and put her in my year. That is what our mums say. We have to wear medical alert bracelets so that, in an emergency, people will know why we have fainted or why we are sick. Kemi is in my form class. We sit together in French and in double science with Eimear and Farah. We get on so well that we understand things about each other without having to explain them. Kemi has to tell the teachers how to pronounce her name. She finds it annoying because it’s really not that hard. Kemi can make me laugh by just looking at me. Her mum says I can come to her house whenever I want. She makes jollof with Tilda Basmati rice too.

 

Kemi’s mum is called Auntie Monilola. Everyone calls her Moni for short. Auntie Moni and my mum think it is a miracle that we have each other. What are the chances? Auntie Moni wears rings that are so sparkly they make you want to wear sunglasses. She is my first Nigerian auntie. When I’m at her house, I make her call me by my pretend Nigerian name, ‘Titilayo’. She calls me ‘Titi’ for short because it makes me laugh. Auntie Moni loves to keep fit. Before Kemi was diagnosed with Addison’s disease, she would go spinning with her mum every Saturday morning at the gym. Now, they do Pilates together instead but only if Kemi feels up to it. Auntie Moni says, ‘It’s always good to try – you never know, you might surprise yourself.’ Auntie Moni also says that God is a Woman and that women rule the world. She teaches me Yoruba.

 

‘Kemi, is that your boyfriend?’ I am giggling too much for her to take me seriously.

‘Stella, that’s my dad!’

Kemi’s dad gives her a big hug when he picks her up from school as a surprise. He is really pleased to know that her friend thinks he is young enough and cool enough to be his daughter’s boyfriend. Kemi is an only child. If anyone asks her dad if he wishes he had a son, Kemi’s dad answers, ‘I have everything I want and need.’ When Kemi smiles, she looks exactly like him. At home, Kemi’s dad plays Fela Kuti and they dance to the Godfather of Afrobeat. When Kemi was diagnosed with Addison’s disease, her dad told her not to worry. Now they understand the problem, they can work around it; there is nothing she cannot achieve if she puts her mind to it. Kemi’s favourite Fela song is ‘Zombie’. She is a daddy’s girl. If she calls him ‘Dad’ by accident, Kemi’s dad reminds her, ‘I’m not your dad, I’m your daddy.’

 

I am going to the Jazz Café with Kemi and her parents. Uncle Obi bought four tickets and told Kemi to bring a friend. Auntie Moni and Uncle Obi pick me up at 6pm. Kemi and I are wearing jeans, black tops and gold earrings. Uncle Obi says we look like sisters. Auntie Moni tells him that’s because we are. Doesn’t he know that he has two daughters? Uncle Obi says it was remiss of him to forget. In the car I want to make myself really small, but Uncle Obi won’t let me. He keeps asking me and Kemi questions. When he speaks to us, he glances at us in the rear-view mirror and smiles. If you give an answer, he wants to know the reason for your answer. It makes me feel nervous because I don’t know if he is trying to trick me or what will happen if I get the answer wrong.

‘Stella, what is your favourite Fela song?’

‘I don’t – I don’t really know any of his songs.’

I think, but don’t say, that everything I know about Fela Kuti is what Kemi has taught me. When Uncle Obi slows the car down to a stop, I don’t see the red traffic light because my heart has jumped to my throat and the skin on my arms has gone cold and prickly.

‘You don’t have a Fela favourite?!’

The indicator is ticking to turn right and for something bad to happen. I know I have said something wrong and that it is too late to take it back. I know that tears are rushing to my eyes because they are blinking hard and fast. I am looking for two magpies outside the window of Uncle Obi’s car, but it is too dark to see. I know because I am looking. With my blinking eyes. No one can hear it if you say it or shout it or scream it in your head – the poem about magpies. I want to get out of the car before the lights turn green. Before we get to the Jazz Café. Before the car falls forty feet off a bridge. Before it’s too late. Uncle Obi is staring at me through the rear-view mirror. His eyes are wide; they have forgotten how to blink.

‘Kemi, what is the correct answer?’

‘You’re supposed to say, “Zombie O Zombie”.’ Kemi rolls her eyes and laughs at the same time. That is the cue for Auntie Moni and Uncle Obi to join in.

‘ “Zombie” is the ultimate anti-establishment song. Dance to the beat of your own drum. That’s what Fela is saying. Don’t let other people make decisions for you or tell you what to do. Don’t be a follower, don’t be a zombie. It’s such a great song. I want you to learn the words before we get to the Jazz Café.’ Uncle Obi is laughing again. Auntie Moni says she also loves the song ‘Lady’ and that she can’t wait to hear it tonight. Did we know that Fela Kuti’s mum was a women’s rights activist? What they did to that woman was wicked. Uncle Obi agrees before he turns up the volume to Track Six. I try to smile and stop tears from flooding the banks of my eyes as we drive in the direction of Camden.

 

I keep fainting. At home in the morning. Between lessons during the day. On the bus after school. When I miss my bus stop and end up in Vauxhall, my mum says we need to go back to see Dr Gordon. I have lost too much weight. My purse belt is sitting really low on my hips and my bra has grown too big for me. Dr Gordon says that I am having an Addisonian Crisis. She admits me to hospital and puts me on a drip of corticosteroids, saline and sugar. I am so tired. In and out of sleep. When I wake up, Kemi is here with Auntie Moni, my mum and Auntie Baaba. The adults look at me with worried eyes and take turns to reassure each other, ‘It is well, thanks be to God.’ Kemi has brought flowers, magazines and a mix-tape with all my favourite songs, and hers.

‘ “Zombie” is the first track,’ she says with a smile.

She arranges the flowers in a plastic vase borrowed from the nurses’ station and holds my hand. Whenever I open my eyes, Kemi is there. She stays until visiting time is over.