Black Sheep (5 page)

But Dwayne grinned again and looked at me like I was crazy. “Those are just tunes, man! That’s just what kids wanna listen to these days, innit!”

I raised my eyebrows and crossed my arms. “Maybe that’s why black people are so messed-up. How you can justify violent and misogynist lyrics is beyond me. Have you ever heard any
other people in the world describing themselves in such awful terms? Huh?”

He was quiet then, not grinning any more.

“Exactly. If you don’t have pride in yourself, how are you ever going to rewrite the script?”

But he did that thing, that infuriating thing of dodging my question. “So what’s a posh girl like you doing with a nigga like me, then, eh?” His voice was teasing and his smile
tugged at that part of me, the weak part, that found him so impossible to resist.

Suddenly I didn’t want to talk about black pride and gangsta rap any more. I allowed myself to smile at him and gave him a look.” Coz you’re my bad-boy lover, that’s
why.”

“That’s right, baby,” he murmured, leaning over. “That’s right.”

Back in my Sunday morning bedroom, I smiled to myself again and shook my head.

Mum still didn’t know anything about Dwayne – but I was starting to feel that maybe, just maybe, it was the right time to tell her. After all, we had been seeing each other for a few
weeks and it didn’t look like things were going to cool down any time soon. Plus, it felt strange to keep such a major thing from Mum.

We had always been very close, she and I, sharing everything ever since she and Dad split up when I was five. Mum knew practically everything about me – mainly because I had always told
her everything. Things began to change, though, when I turned 11, around the time we left Brixton.

“You’ve become so secretive all of a sudden,” she used to say. I started voicing my opinion less, mainly because I knew by then that when Mum had made her mind up about
something, it was useless to try to convince her otherwise. It was easier to keep your opinion to yourself and agree with her.

Just then, she knocked on the door and poked her head round.“Morning, darling,” she smiled, blowing me a kiss. “Did you sleep well?”

“Like a baby,” I replied. “What time did you get back?”

“Oh, about midnight. Auntie Loretta said she felt like dancing after the show so we went to a wine bar, a really nice place, great band. Didn’t you get my message?”

I turned away guiltily. I had heard the message come through but I’d been a bit preoccupied at the time. “Text?” I mumbled vaguely. “Oh, yeah...”

“Silly girl,” Mum laughed. “You were probably so into your chemistry books, eh? Or was it physics?”

‘Something like that,’ I thought to myself, ducking under my duvet.

“Anyway, darling, I’m going to get ready for church, OK? Grandma needs me to pick her up and Sylvia’s singing a solo with the choir. Wear your cream trouser-suit – I like
that one on you. And wear your hair in a low bun – that suits your face the best.”

I nodded. I had almost forgotten all about church.

MISHA

The pavement outside Gran’s church in Brixton was packed and the crowd heaved with greetings, laughter and the click of high heels on tarmac. The pavement was covered
with immaculately turned-out African-Caribbean men and women – no one spared any effort in getting dressed for church. It was one of those occasions women still wore hats. They shimmered in
gorgeous maxi-dresses, pencil skirts and smart trouser-suits.

I mentally assigned points for the different outfits, something I always did at the Brixton church. Our church in Dulwich was a more sedate affair – most of the people there were white, so
everything was much more toned down.

As a little girl, I could remember standing outside the church building and being fascinated by the women’s gorgeous skin tones: deepest ebony, walnut brown and amber – and their
hair – the smooth, synthetic weaves, bouncing braids and sleek up-dos. The church ladies were always styled to perfection, their make-up flawless.

This Sunday, I couldn’t help noticing that several of the younger members of the congregation wore tank tops, skinny jeans and the latest style gladiator platform heels. Hadn’t
Pastor James spoken about that just last weekend?

Grandma took my arm and walked painfully towards the entrance. She kissed her teeth and muttered, “These young people have no shame – coming to the house of God dressed for the dance
hall.”

I helped Gran climb the steps and settle herself in one of the front rows. I was so pleased to see her, I just sat next to her, my hand in hers, stroking the sleeve of her turquoise silk suit
jacket. It had been three weeks since Mum had last agreed to attend church in Brixton and Gran wouldn’t come to the church in our area. I had missed her. And I had missed the church that
I’d grown up in too.

Pastor James, his bald patch shining under the neon lights, was on fire that day. He gave a sermon based on the story of the prodigal son, from Luke, Chapter 15. His deep voice rumbled through
the hall as he retold the story of the son who asked for his inheritance early, only to waste it on fast living, ending up humiliated and abased, feeding pigs while wishing for their food.

Then the pastor’s voice lightened, his words rippling and flowing over our raised heads, like water over pebbles in a stream, as he spoke of the father’s joy at seeing his prodigal
son return home and the feast he prepared in his honour.

“But, my brothers and sisters,” he continued, his eyes bright, “the man’s elder son was not pleased, not at all! And he questioned his father. He said, ‘Look, these
many years I have served you, and I never disobeyed your command, yet you never gave me so much as a young goat that I might celebrate with my friends.’ Imagine his bitterness, brothers and
sisters! And he continued, saying, ‘But when this son of yours came, he who has devoured your property with prostitutes, you killed the fattened calf for him!’ And what did the father
say, brothers and sisters? What did he
say
? That father said, ‘Son, you are always with me, and all that is mine is yours. It was fitting to celebrate and be glad, for this your
brother was dead, and is alive; he was lost, and is found.’ What did the father say, my brothers and sisters? He was lost and is now
found
, Amen!”

It was an emotional moment and I felt my heart beating along with the cries of
Amen
and
Hallelujah!
that came from the congregation. The choir broke into a hymn, one of
Grandma’s favourites, and people rose to their feet, swaying to the music, clapping their hands. When the refrain had been sung for the third time, Pastor James lifted up his hands and
everyone settled back into their seats.

The pastor’s face was serious now and he scanned the crowd before crying out, “Now, where are all
our
prodigal sons?”

Silence settled in the church and Pastor James cried out once more, his voice echoing through the hall, driving right through me. “Brothers and sisters, I ask you again:
where
are
all our prodigal
sons
?”

Pastor walked down from the podium, his microphone in hand. “I’ll tell you where our prodigal sons are: they are out on the
streets
! They’re out there, robbing,
stealing, doing drugs, selling drugs,
fornicating
! Shooting innocent
people
! They are languishing in
jails
! They are rotting in
crack houses
! They are in every
evil place, doing every evil thing! They are living a life of
wickedness
, just like in the parable!”

He stopped for a moment to mop the sweat that dotted his forehead, breathing hard, looking around him, his eyes blazing. As usual, during a sermon, I searched my heart to see if, somehow, the
message applied to me. No, thank God, I was no prodigal daughter. Mum didn’t have to worry about me, not at all. But a small voice inside my head taunted me: ‘What about last
night?’

“Some of you don’t know where your sons were last night. Some of you don’t know where your sons are
right now
! You don’t even ask any more! Why? Because we have
come to
fear
our own children, brothers and sisters. We have come to fear our own flesh and blood!”

I heard the sound of sobbing a few rows behind me and I turned to see an older Ghanaian woman, her wrapped head bowed, crying into her handkerchief. There were others too. The pastor’s
words had touched a raw nerve.

I looked over at Mum to gauge her reaction and saw that she was looking straight ahead, her face betraying no emotion. But her hand was holding on to mine so tightly that it hurt.

Pastor continued. “I would like to say to all those prodigal sons: come back, my children! Come back to the house of your Father! Come back to the body of the Church! Leave your evil ways
and be welcome! This is what we must tell our wayward children, brothers and sisters: that they are always welcome in God’s house.”

Ms Braithwaite, the piano player, played the first bars of the hymn and Sylvia stood up. Her pure, sweet voice rang out into the rafters of the building and I honestly felt like crying, it was
so beautiful. As she sang of forgiveness and being washed clean of sin, we all rose to join in and sing the hymn together. I soon found tears running down my cheeks. And I knew that it wasn’t
due to Sylvia’s singing alone.

When the service was over, Pastor James congratulated Sylvia on her singing, asked Grandma about her arthritis, and then went to speak to the woman who had been crying. It turned out that her
son had been badly beaten by a gang of thugs late on Friday night. He had been knifed in the leg and was in hospital. He was twelve. I was shocked. Twelve? My step-brother, Mark, was twelve! Why
would anyone stab a twelve-year-old?

“How could this happen?” The Ghanaian woman wailed, clutching her hands together in front of her chest. “I tried so hard... so hard...” She wept into the pastor’s
shoulder. “I didn’t even know he had gone out. When I checked his bed, I saw that he had stuffed it with his clothes to make it look like he was still asleep... I didn’t even know
he had left the house.”

The pastor shook his head as he patted her back. “Indeed, this is a trial, sister,” he crooned. “We must all pray for these sons of ours... there is no doubt that they are in
need of strong prayer.”

“We should go,” said Mum.

“Come on, Gran.” I took my grandmother’s arm. “Let me help you...”

In the car on the way home, Mum said, “You know what? Every day I thank God Misha was born a girl. I don’t know what I would do if I had a son to worry about. Especially with the way
things are these days.”

“Yes, it’s true,” Gran agreed. “In my day, you worried about the girls more. Now, it seems the boys are getting into worse trouble. Lawd a’mercy, what a time we are
living in.”

“And I thank Him that I was able to move us out of this terrible place – Brixton!” Mum pretty much spat out the word. “Can you believe that? A child from a good,
church-going family, sneaking out and getting into fights – at twelve years of age? I tell you, this area is toxic for our children.”

I shifted awkwardly in my seat when I saw Gran press her lips together. ‘Not now, Mum,’ I thought, ‘please don’t go on one of your anti-Brixton rants...’

But Mum acted like she didn’t feel the frosty vibe that Gran was giving off. “Mummy,” she began after a pause, “have you given any more thought to what we spoke about
last month? About you moving in with us?”

Gran huffed impatiently and kissed her teeth. “I’ve told you before, Dina, I’m quite happy where I am now, in the house where you children grew up! Your father would have
wanted me to look after it, to keep it in the family.”

“But, Mum, that house backs on to that gigantic estate – and terrible things are happening there now. It’s even worse than it was when we lived there! You hear all sorts of
horror stories: gangs, drugs, delinquent kids. It’s just not safe any more.”

“I feel perfectly safe,” replied Gran indignantly. “Besides, everybody knows me here. We’re a community. I go to the Caribbean Centre to meet my friends from the old
days; I can walk down the road to get my
akee
and saltfish, my hard dough bread. Where you live? No, darlin’, it’s not for me.”

“Oh, Mummy,” Mum sighed in exasperation. “It’s really not that bad! It’s a very diverse area, really.”

Gran made a clucking noise and frowned. “Is that what you call it? Diverse? How come me can walk to the shop three times a day for a week and not see another black person? No,
darlin’, your place is not for me.” And she clamped her mouth shut and looked straight out of the window, clutching the handbag on her lap.

I looked outside. We had reached Coldharbour Lane. The market was already buzzing with life. Fruit’n’veg sellers shouted out their special deals of the day, “Four for a
pound!” Loud reggae music vibrated under the walkway and everywhere I could see the rich mix of Brixton.

There were the Rastas with their bulging knitted hats; the African women, still dressed up for church in stiff wax-print head-wraps and two-piece skirt suits, carefully coordinated with bags and
shoes; the black Muslim men in their white robes and thick beards, standing behind stalls selling incense and giving out pamphlets. It occurred to me that I hadn’t seen anyone from the Nation
of Islam around for a long time. They had always been easy to spot with their upright bearing and smart suits and bow-ties.

Dotted here and there, weaving in and out of the market stalls, I could see the new kids on the block: the scruffy-looking white people who flocked to experience the Brixton vibe. I chuckled to
myself. Only a few years before, few white people would have dared set foot in Brixton. But now the vintage clothing shops and the impossibly trendy bars and organic restaurants along Coldharbour
Lane catered specifically for them.

I felt a surge of homesickness. This was where I had spent the first eleven years of my life. My old primary school was round the corner. My best friend from primary school, Rachel, lived on
the Saints Town estate.