I followed Jalil into the kitchen. Aminah had not noticed his outburst. I did not expect her to; learning what is spoken through the body is like learning a new language. She was not yet fluent. And though I was also not fluent, I had at least been around long enough to understand some of the words. I opened the kitchen door and found Jalil pacing up and down inside, cracking his knuckles.
“Are you all right?” I asked, as if I didn’t already know that he wasn’t. What I wanted to say was Tell me what’s wrong, but Jalil did not like having assumptions made about him, particularly ones that made him look weak or out of control of a situation. He grunted and paced. I walked to him and placed my hands on his shoulders, forcing him to stand still for a moment, until he looked me in the eyes.
“Is it Aminah?”
He shook his head.
“So, what is it?”
“He’s coming,” Jalil said, his eyes filled with slight panic.
“Who?”
“Baba.”
“Oh,” I replied, my tone of confusion self-evident. I was not aware that this was a thing to panic over. I also envied the fact that this was a thing that I could not ever say, that my father was coming home. What a strange thing to envy.
“Is that a bad thing?”
“Yes… I mean, no. It’s not bad, but it’s just too soon. He’s coming. He hasn’t said why. I’m not ready.”
“When? And not ready for what?”
“He’ll be here next week. And I’m not ready for him. For everything he’s going to do and say.”
“Like what? He’ll just be happy to see you.”
“He’s going to say the same thing he does on the phone, about marriage, and getting a proper job, and all that…”
“But you have Aminah, surely that makes things easier.”
“I haven’t told him about her.”
“Why not?”
“What am I going to say? ‘Yo, Dad, I’m seeing this girl, she’s cute. Not that serious yet. By the way, you might know her dad, he’s got a restaurant on Edgware Road.’ ”
“So why did you organize this dinner?”
“She did. She wanted to meet my friends. I think she was getting suspicious of my privacy and the fact I didn’t want to post any pictures on social media. And she said she wasn’t sure about coming around when it’s just me and her… too much temptation apparently.”
“But you like her?”
“Yeah! Of course, I’m not blind.”
“Look, I think you’re overthinking it. You’re just anxious. It’ll be fine.”
I pulled him in close for a hug. His warmth enveloped me. The smell of the scented oils he buys from the brothers outside Brixton Station lulled me into a familiar feeling of comfort. I breathed him in, and held him closer, not wanting to let go.
“I was wondering where you two got to,” Aminah said, as she walked in to Jalil and me. We quickly separated.
“We were just having a chat,” I replied, smiling enough for the both of us. We re-joined the guests, who were now eating their dessert, a selection of baklava with tea.
Watching Aminah and Jalil’s growing relationship made me think of my own.
“The problem with the West is that it creates the Other, and then resents you for being it; being prejudiced against you for something that emerges from their imagination.”
“They actually believe they were the inventors of civilization, centering themselves in every—”
“No. I don’t think they believe it necessarily, but privilege is self-serving, and they must adhere to that which serves them.”
“That’s true, they had no problem with Africans or Muslims teaching them math and science, and our civilizations being the cultural and intellectual centers of the medieval and precolonial era, across the Middle East and in Africa, where they came to learn and be educated.”
“But they do have a problem with you covering your head.”
“Or having a beard, or a backpack.”
“Unless, of course, you’re in Shoreditch in a pair of skinny jeans and New Balance trainers on.”
“Hey, that’s not nice… I wear skinny jeans and New Balance trainers.”
“They were not fashionable to wear in school times. Trust me, I had a pair and got bullied for it. That ‘NB’ sign was ugly.”
“Any sign that wasn’t the Nike tick was ugly back then.”
“Hand-me-downs.”
“It still is, to me.”
“I’m about the no-brand life now… and thrifting.”
“Very hipster.”
“Hipster? Our aunties and uncles have been doing ‘thrifting’ since we first came into this country. We just called it something different back then.”
“Yeah, we called it being poor. And we got teased for it.”
“Now it’s ‘in.’ ”
“But that’s just it, isn’t it? Everything is in cycles, things come, and things go.”
“Then, might I suggest,” interceded Jalil, “without presumption, that we have overlooked a rather significant detail; that perhaps this… resentment for the Other has always existed; they merely did not yet have the power to act upon it.” The table went quiet.
“Racism and prejudice are predicated upon fear. And at the root of all fear is awe. They fear you, because they admire you. They want to be you, without being you. Remember, all empires have risen and fallen, but only His is eternal, Alhamdulillah. So, until this empire also falls, let us toast…”—the room joined in raising their glasses of tea—“for we have air in our lungs, blood flowing through our veins, and love beating in our hearts.” He finished, cup held in the air while looking over at Aminah, and me looking over at him.
I’m not sure why I decided to go to church today, but something compelled me, pulled me up and out, something stronger than my fatigue, than my desire to sleep. I was not given the overzealous greeting reserved for first-timers; also, my sporadic attendance touted me as the immovably uncommitted. I arrived in time for the latter part of Pastor Baptiste’s sermon.
I spotted Mami in the front row of the pews, palms held together, leaning forward as if each word spoken by Pastor Baptiste was drawing her in closer, and closer, and closer. I blocked out his voice, muting all noise to an absolute silence, and just watched as he flapped his arms on stage, and paced back and forth, excited but simultaneously calm and composed. He appeared more entertainer than pastor, the way the congregation was reacting to him.
I caught up with Mami after the sermon. She was less surprised to see me, and reacted with a simple kiss on the cheek, as if we had bumped into each other accidentally at the supermarket or the bus stop. She was no longer seeking surprise visits, they were unsatisfactory; she wanted commitment.
“Pastor, you know my son, Michael.” Pastor Baptiste greeted me enthusiastically, his mouth still a frame of happiness. I held my smile back. He shook my hand firmly, and let his stare linger a little longer than usual. He did not stay to speak of rain as blessings or prayers, or some other abstract symbolism. I called Mami to go, and she told me to wait for a moment as she needed to speak to someone. She went back into the church, and through the dimly lit corridors, I could see her talking to the pastor. She seemed different, jumpy, like a fan at a concert or a crushing schoolgirl. Pastor Baptiste placed both of his hands on her shoulders and looked intensely in her eyes. I could not hear what was said. He kissed her on the cheek as they hugged then parted. Their connection seemed beyond the physical. I felt a heat rise within me, as if witnessing something that shouldn’t be happening.
“I was thinking about inviting him for dinner,” Mami said as we left the church to make our way home.
“What for?” I replied, bluntly, surprising even myself. Mami gave me “the look” that only strict parents possess, which, even at this age, I had not yet formed successful rebellion against. I adjusted myself and asked again, correctly this time.
“Because he is our pastor, and I would like to give him thanks for all his work, with a meal.” I noticed the “our” in her speech, it was intentional—Mami was calculated and obstinate, perhaps the only thing we had in common. “And I think it would be good for you to meet, and you know, talk. Get to know each other.” The truth reveals itself, once the mask is pulled off. Talk. The word itself is a loaded gun aimed at you from any direction.
“Does he not have plans? A family? A wife and kids who he must prioritize his dinners with?”
“No. He is committed to his work, to his purpose.” I had no retort. I did not reply, I simply sunk into my own quiet. I knew that Mami had told me about dinner not because she sought my approval; she merely told me to inform me I had to attend.
The following week, one evening, I returned home to find dinner prepared. The cutlery was neatly laid; Mami had used the three-course silver knife and forks, and the blue ceramic plates with the white patterns revealing the hills and valleys of an unknown place. She hadn’t used these plates since… I can’t remember when, we don’t get visitors much nowadays. But I remember the dinners we had with Father. How we would hold hands and pray, and I would look up from between them at their tower of love. Father, the man who I thought more and more of as the years passed; a wound that never heals.
“I’m sorry for my lateness, Pastor Baptiste,” I said, after greeting Mami and settling into my seat. “I had loads of marking to do at work and got held behind in a couple of meetings.” Those meetings were actually Sandra and me, in my classroom, seeing who could do the Malteser challenge: lying down on the table with a Malteser at the top of your pursed lips while you blow out, keep it hovering in the air, and successfully eat it afterward—my record was eight seconds.
“Oh, no need to apologize,” Pastor Baptiste replied, with attempted grace. “You are doing good work.
“What is this food? It’s delicious!” he spluttered excitedly, while staining the bib he wore. I looked at him, unimpressed. I looked at Mami and could see she was holding back her natural inclination of telling him to “clean it up,” which she would have done had it been me.
“Pondu,” Mami replied.
“Pon-du.” He tried to repeat. I hated the way he said “pondu.” For the first time, I noticed his torn accent from the Islands. The food was special. It was Father’s favorite food. And Mami only used to cook it when I came home to visit from university. It was so rare, and exciting. But she hardly ever cooked it now, not since I moved back in; who knew moving out again would take this long. It deflated me, being so behind in life; no partner, no place to live, no kids. Where was my life going?
“So, Pastor, where are you from?” I asked, with urgency, and regret, for I wanted to know, but did not want to hear him talk.
“Well…”—he chortled, before wiping his mouth with the bib under his chin—“you could say I’m from all over,” he continued, impressed at his quip.
“Where would you say you’re from?”
“I was born here.”
“And your parents? Are you married? Did you go to university?” I asked.
“Michael, that’s enough questions. Pastor did not come to be interrogated.”
“It’s quite all right,” he replied, laughing nervously before continuing. “I was born here, but my family are from the Caribbean, by way of Jamaica, if you will. I spent most of my childhood there, with my grandparents, and then came back here during my teens. Hence, the slight twang in my accent you would have probably noticed—my mother could not get rid of it completely no matter how much she told me to ‘speak properly.’ ” He chuckled to soften the tension in the air. I looked at Pastor Baptiste with the expectation that he was going to continue his life story.
“And…,” I prompted him impatiently.
“Well, when I came back things were a bit rough during my teenage years. But I was lucky enough to attend university and come out with a degree. I did all kinds of jobs, from cleaner, to stacking shelves at the supermarket, to security guard, to teacher. I loved it. But I had to move on. I got wrapped up in some issues that were unresolved, let’s put it that way. And then I found my calling…”
“Which is…?”
“Which is what I’m doing now.”
“Okay, Michael, perhaps you could now give Pastor a chance to finish his food?” Mami said; the tone of her voice was a question, but the look in her eyes was a threat.
“Michael could always come to see me at church if he ever wanted to find out more,” Pastor Baptiste said invitingly. After Pastor finished eating the food, and wiped his mouth and lips delicately with the napkin he had tucked into his shirt, Mami cleared the plates and returned with tea.
“Well, that’s what we wanted to talk to you about. There was a reason for this dinner.” Mami spoke to me after moments of silence and slurping, mostly from the pastor.
“We wanted to tell you something…,” she continued, her tone changed into something more propitiating.
“Pastor Baptiste and I are… we are…”— Mami stuttered through her words—“we have the intention of marrying. And have come to you to let you know—for your blessing.”
They reached across the table and held hands as if they had rehearsed this moment. I was in shock. My face remained still, frozen, immovable, as if it had been carved into resistance from alabaster. I said nothing.
“The guy is an absolute madman,” I said exasperatedly to Sandra.
“Mr. Barnes?” she replied, unconvinced.
“Yes, Mr. Barnes.”
“You’re lying. Mr. Barnes from Barnes who hums ‘Ride of the Valkyries’ while he’s waiting for the microwave in the staff kitchen? Who cycles on one of them folded bikes, and wears a helmet and hi-vis jacket? The same man who is always offering to make everyone tea and goes on weekend trips alone to check out the different valleys of England and then uploads pictures of him with his thumbs-up on Instagram?”
“Yes. Weird that you know him so well, but yes. The same guy.”
“Okay, so what happened?”
“First thing, you abandoned me. I’m sure you knew this would happen, but we’ll get to that later. I thought I got there first, but there he was, already waiting, popped up out of nowhere. We didn’t quite know what to do as we were both expecting you to lead the day, seeing as it was your bright idea we all hang out, so we went to get some food and then noticed a pub where they were showing the football. We decide to go in. I thought it wasn’t a bad idea, at least we won’t have to talk much. Now I haven’t watched football since… never mind, you probably wouldn’t know.”
“Why wouldn’t I know?”
“Do you watch football?”
“No.”
“See.”
“But that doesn’t mean I wouldn’t know.”
“Ugh. Let’s stick to the story. So, we’re sitting down together, watching. At this point, I don’t even know which teams are playing, but I’m supporting the team that everyone else in the pub is—because that’s just the smart thing to do. And we are absolutely surrounded by them, and they’re doing the chants and all.
“Mr. Barnes keeps reacting to every missed opportunity or close call for the other team. I’m looking at him like ‘what the hell are you doing?’ But he relentlessly continues.
“Now, I thought he didn’t support either team because he was talking about ‘if they were showing Barnes, you’d get to see some real football,’ or something like that. Does Barnes even have a football team?”
“How would I know?”
“At this point, the other fans are starting to look at us really uncomfortably and aggressively. I’m obviously trying to ignore, sinking my face further into my drink, but I can feel their stares on my skin.
“Then the other team scores, one-nothing. Mr. Barnes pumps his fist and comes out with ‘Get in,’ and there is a deadly silence in the room. The score remains one-nothing, and with each passing minute, the tension increases; the air gets thicker in the room. I develop a cough. I think it was the anxiety of it all, which only drew more attention to us.
“Wait, why are you laughing?”
“Because I can imagine where all of this is going. And that is so something you would typically do, just make the situation worse.”
“I haven’t even done anything yet. Mr. Barnes decides he’s thirsty again and offers to get some drinks. I say yes and decide to join him. As he gets up and walks, he bumps into this big, burly bald guy with tattoos, who was carrying three drinks with both his hands in a kind of triangle formation. The drinks spill, all over his jeans and shoes, but he doesn’t drop the glasses. ‘Watch it, mate,’ he says. Mr. Barnes replies with ‘Oh, fuck off !’—But that’s not all, please tell me why his accent changes from bubbly Northerner to East London cockney! The other guy puts down his glasses, squares up to Mr. Barnes, obviously Barnes is small, so he’s looking at the guy’s chest.
“He says ‘You got a problem, mate?’ and Mr. Barnes replies with ‘I ain’t your mate. You call me “mate” one more time and I’m gonna slap the tattoos off your forehead.’ ”
Sandra looked at me with her jaw hanging southward halfway to the floor.
“Listen, and then he—”
There was a knock on the door, which jolted both Sandra and me into the air. Mr. Barnes appeared, peeking his head through the door. He was his usual self; shy, awkward, reserved, stuttering a greeting, uncertain whether it would be received.
“I didn’t see you in your classroom, was going to pop by and say hello,” Mr. Barnes said, sheepishly.
“I’ll catch up with you later,” I replied.
Mr. Barnes nodded, swiveled his head back out of the door, and left.
“Did you see that? The madness in his eyes.”
“Haha, yeah, a proper hard-nut he is. Finish the story then,” Sandra said in a fit of laughter.
“No point, to be honest.” I huffed.
“Yeah, make up stories that make your boring life seem more exciting than it really is.”