He might have overcome sickness, but he nearly did not survive hunger. His father was an uneducated trader who’d married late in life; he made up for the delay by marrying three wives, and what little they had was shared amongst all the children. They ate off the small farmland inherited from his father’s father – a constant diet of cassava and yams. Eggs were split into the smallest quarters, a reward for the fastest fingers only, rice was for very special occasions, and bread was unheard of. They did not attend school until their hands could touch the other side of their ears because that was how age was measured then: in height and market weeks.
When others chose to pursue something useful like a trade or return to farming at the conclusion of secondary school, my father refused, insistent on his desire to study. Working as a labourer, he saved just enough to afford the West African Senior School Certificate Examination, the university entry form, and to support himself through four years of study, owning just four shirts and a single pair of sandals and eating a meal a day. He survived, as he’d done before.
5
Till death do us part
There it was again: the slight pinch at the corner of my brain whenever I struggled to recall something; this time, the details of the asset purchase agreement I was working on. I’d foregone the assistance of a trainee solicitor and taken the client call alone, and no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t make sense of shorthand in front of me. I groaned inwardly. Anna had already noted, with a triumphant smirk, that I’d been falling short of the pace I’d set for myself since joining the firm, becoming a solicitor long before even my British peers.
The scar at the side of my head itched, calling for my attention. I ignored it and tried again, focusing my energy on the thought, like the therapist had taught me. On days like this, it was a wonder that I’d managed to pass my exams. I heard my father’s voice: ‘Corporate law is not law.’ Once upon a time, I’d wanted to be a lawyer for entirely different reasons.
Sunlight glimmered through the glass walls, providing a shimmering view of the City of London. Pushing away from my desk, I shuffled to my feet, taking a moment to balance on my heels, and headed for the lunch room, deciding coffee was what I needed to wake my mind up even though it had never worked for me as it did for others.
Ceri was waiting by the coffee maker; an excuse to chat with Rayan, the handsome British Pakistani senior solicitor who’d joined the firm a year before us.
‘He’s cute, isn’t he?’ she’d said to me once.
‘We should ask Iain,’ I’d returned pointedly.
‘Come on, I’m allowed to have a crush!’
I waited at the other end of the room, refusing to be drawn into conversation. Words had feet, travelling faster than their owner.
The lunch room was for talk: questioning why Miley Cyrus had ridden a hot dog on her comeback tour, banter about Manchester United’s performance a year after Sir Alex Ferguson’s retirement and futile wails ‘Noooo’ when George Clooney and Amal Alamuddin obtained a marriage licence.
It was bizarre to me the level of possessiveness exhibited over celebrities, the derangement and rabidness of fans’ social media comments, more so if the celebrity was British: ‘There’s something about her.’ ‘He should have chosen an English rose.’ ‘She’s trapped him.’ I was convinced it was some form of national madness.
In the early days, the lunch room had provided fodder for my Twitter account, attracting a band of loyal followers:
‘What do you think, Ego?’
I blinked. Ceri was staring at me with curious eyes.
‘Think about what?’
‘The referendum.’
‘What referendum?’
Rayan chuckled. ‘She’s asking about the Scottish independence referendum. The results were announced last week. They voted to remain, 55 to 45 per cent.’
‘Oh.’ I was aware of the referendum and its result.
‘Rayan thinks it was the right decision and that it was wrong to “upset the order of things”,’ Ceri said. ‘What do you think?’
‘Yes, everyone benefits from the Union remaining together,’ Rayan added.
For a moment, I stared at Rayan, astonished he’d been the one to parrot such a phrase – upset the order of things. To aspire above a given station was anti-British, rooted in the nation’s very structure. But from an immigrant?
‘Or you don’t have an opinion?’ he offered.
I always had an opinion. ‘The people should have what they want, either way,’ I said cautiously.
‘Is that it?’ Ceri demanded; she knew what I was really like.
I cleared my throat uncomfortably. ‘Yes, there is a conversation to be had about the benefits or otherwise of remaining in the Union,’ I said eventually. Rayan smiled. ‘But your home country is independent is it not?’ I continued. ‘That wouldn’t have happened if people hadn’t been willing to “upset the order of things”, as you put it.’
Rayan bristled visibly. ‘I’m British.’
‘Yes, but you’re not only British, are you?’ I challenged.
Sensing the rising tension, Ceri glanced harriedly between the both of us. ‘Rayan thinks the monarchy holds everything together.’ She gave a wobbly smile. ‘God save the Queen, innit?’
On my Twitter page that night, I wrote:
The retweets came, the favourites accumulated, someone replied:
The frustration in the words hinted at more but there was only so much 140 characters could take.
