The Greatest

The Greatest

By Cass Ezeji

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For Iferonke Dude

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Growing up, my Granda had many sayings. Some were long winding poems and others were quotes from Oscar Wild or Fidel Castro. However, the quotes that most resonated with me were the ones he’d utter under his breath. Life’s a weary puzzle he would say. This saying was taken from his favoruite song, and sometimes he would surprise you by singing the entire verse. But mostly statements such as this quietly punctuated his actions; boiling the kettle, getting out of his chair, or after one of his loud unsettling yawns. His words would hang in the air as if waiting for something else to follow.

If someone was with him – though he’d never say it to us directly – “Life’s a weary puzzle, hen.” Then he would promptly turn up the volume high on the telly, as though drowning out any potential response. The older I get, his contention has become more pertinent.

Particularly his word choice “weary”. Life is not a happy puzzle, nor is it rewarding. Indeed the puzzle will grind you down, chew you up, and spit you out, leaving you exhausted and on the dole. As for me, few parts of my life fit together and the parts that do slot into place, eventually become undone, just as I became undone.

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It all began with a terrible sinking feeling. It washed over me in the mornings, appearing like a fog and clawing at me. Still, I’m unable to move from the bed that smells so much of me, too much of me.

There’s nothing to do and mealtimes aren’t worth getting up for. Of course, there was a time when I loved eating but the food is about the most depressing thing here. I’m encouraged to eat breakfast, “the most important meal of the day” and though the nurses assure me that I can return to my programmes as soon as I’ve eaten something, it’s impossible. I simply can’t

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eat. They speak in condescending tones that only make me want to sink further into the haze that holds me tight. I’d like to sink so deeply that I never have to wake again.

The woman in the next room seems to actually enjoy her time here. Her family visits regularly, bringing her food, books, and magazines. You can tell they’re foodies, as I used to be. Over the months I’ve seen them bustling in and out with fresh fruit, bags of nuts, bean salads, stewed chicken, rice, and Lindt chocolates. I can’t be sure, but I think they’re from somewhere in West Africa. I suppose that’s something we might have in common, but I’d rather not broach the subject. I’d rather keep all interaction to a minimum. Of course, there was a time when I had visitors (although they didn’t bring me such delicacies) but after the incident visitation was restricted, and by that time no one wanted to see me. Apart from Tiwa.

Tiwa has always had time for me, but since she had the wee ones, her hands are full. The strange thing is, I haven't even met them yet. I wouldn’t like this to be their first impression of me. Babies are like sponges, you see, and I’m not exactly anything to soak up. I’m not taking her absence personally, she’s always been a good friend. Even during lockdown, when not a single one of us had visitors, she would stand outside my window and play cards with me.

Even in the rain. We played Stop The Bus even though the sheets of paper were becoming drenched and the ink started to run.

On her last official visit, she brought me hair oils and a comb that was swiftly confiscated from me due to its long metal teeth. They worried it could be used as a weapon. The handle of the comb was made from very dark wood, carved into the shape of a fist. It was beautiful, and in many ways, I think that's why they took it from me. Tiwa used to have a similar comb that I coveted when we were wee. I deemed it too precious to use for functional purposes so I’d go into her room, take it from the dresser, and simply hold on to it, gently tracing its teeth with my finger, silently declaring it superior to all other combs. It was this comb that she used to part my hair the first time she braided it. There were always at least two packs of

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x-pression hair that she kept in the cupboard among pomades and foaming gels. Her fingers were brisk as she added the hair. Though it was far too dark for me, colour 1B, I insisted that it didn’t matter. When she finished her work she stuck the comb in my hair so that the fist popped up like a crown above my head. I felt beautiful, regal even. We smiled, “Say it Loud!

I’m Black and I’m Proud!” we shouted at each other, putting our own fists up. Her older sister Bimpe quickly informed me I shouldn’t leave the house with the comb sticking out like that. I returned the prized comb to the dresser, whipping my new braids behind my shoulder.

I’ve since come to understand that the braiding of hair carries not only a rich history but also an energy transfer from the braiders fingers to the braidees head. You should be careful about who you let near your scalp. Looking at it this way, what Tiwa transferred to me was care and a sense of belonging that I hadn’t felt before.

As for the oils she brought me, I have no use for that kind of thing since my hair loss. I hide what I have left under scarves or my sleeping bonnet. Tiwa would sit on the edge of my bed, examining my scarfed head as she popped grapes into her mouth one by one, “What's your hair saying, babe?”

Sometimes I'd answer casually, “nothing”, quietly avoiding her eyes, and other times I would go into detail, “She’s giving hot mess”' or “dysfunctional at best”. She’d let out a little chuckle, self-deprecating humor was her forte, especially the politically incorrect stuff. As she placed the oils on the bedside table, she proposed cornrowing my hair but I couldn’t stand the thought of anyone touching me, least of all my hair, or what was left of it.

Not long before I was admitted she called me to take out her cornrows. Her nails were freshly done but her hair needed to be washed and combed before her wig install the next day. This was a very Tiwa-specific conundrum, she has always been glamorous: her nails done, her make-up flawless, and her waist-length wigs expertly laid. This time each nail was a different shape and colour: coffin-shape with gemstones, square with blue and pink ombre and gold flakes, and one had a small gold chain with a cross dangling from the end of it. For 5

all their fanciness and money she spent on them, they greatly inhibited her movements, most of all her capacity to undo braids. As always, she called me for some assistance, and as I undid each braid she repeatedly apologised for the scalp build-up, but I felt happy to see her like that and was sweetly reminded of when we were wee.

The doing of hair is a lengthy process: the washing, conditioning, detangling, and sectioning was a holy ritual to which I was once dedicated and have come to miss. What for me was a therapeutic exercise, for her was an arduous chore, of which I was happy to relieve her. I took my time, gently getting out the knots and massaging her scalp, a part of me felt bereft that her natural hair, and my efforts, would soon be hidden under a lace front the very next day. Her long and lustrous hair was rarely seen, instead, she donned expensive wigs shipped from America and Nigeria: long yaki hair the colour of onyx, golden beach waves, auburn curls, and straight bobs. Such a collection of hairstyles would have been inconceivable to us as teenagers who wore our natural hair proudly and were met with daily taunts because of it. These days her wigs also function as a measure of her intimate relationships. Should she let the guy she’s dating see her natural hair, it was serious; should it be him instead of me she called for help with her cornrows then he was surely ‘the one’.

Doing her hair that day was one of the last good times I had before I became undone.

Other than Tiwa, my only other visitor was Mammy. She would come in, sit uncomfortably in the ugly chair beside my bed, and remind me that I was “young yet”, there was plenty of time to turn all this around if I could just be consistent. If I were able to establish a routine and stick to it, then I'd be able to come home. According to her the road to recovery (as she likes to call it) is as simple as three easy steps: Step 1. Stop smoking Step 2. Exercise Step 3. Stop Lying

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I resent her simplistic solutions and unsolicited advice. Of course, after the incident, she never came back to see me at all. She looked at me blankly and said “I canny cope” before leaping up from the chair to leave. She doesn’t seem to realise it's her fault I ended up here in the first place. She did after all plant the seed.

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2. Fibs

There are lies and then there are lies for the common good. If it’s for the common good then it’s merely a fib, and I’ve told a few in my time. I suppose now would be a good time to tell you the big fib.

I’m on a long holiday in New York, enrolled in a creative writing program.

It’s a noble kind of fib because it protects my Granda and aunties from the truth, as well as me from having to explain anything about my life. There have of course been other fibs along the way that got me here, the doctor calls them fixations and intense ruminations. In a way, it's good that I'm writing all this down in case anyone needs any evidence of this creative writing program. Could a truly mad person be so organised? Am I in a hospital dosing in and out of consciousness or am I a writer merely honing my craft on a retreat? It’s difficult to tell sometimes. I regularly imagine myself as a more beautiful woman than I am, wearing glasses that slightly distort this beauty but that consolidate an intellectual air.

In any case, this is my attempt at what I would write if I were on a writing program in New York.

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There are days when I feel fully committed to getting better and finally going home and then there are others where I feel I can’t go on. It’s a lonely place to be, especially without visitors.

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I feel a sense of envy seeing the woman in the room next door’s family come and go with their dishes and pots and takeaway containers. It’s the delicious smells that get to me. The aromas waft from her room into mine.

Today, for example, I know they’re having rice and stew and I get a whiff of the fragrant spices it’s been cooked with. There was a time when rice was my specialty. Mammy would even ask me to make it for her, my special rice and chicken. I never could quite master Jollof rice though.

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3. Jollof

Jollof, Jollof, Jollof Rice, Para-para-paradise!

Oh so love-lee, oh so nice Jollof, Jollof, Jollof Rice, Para-para-paradise!

There was, of course, no jollof rice in my house growing up. The first jollof of my girlhood had been at Uncle Kolade’s house. I was brought over as Tiwa’s guest, but the family kind.

“Should I call him uncle if he’s not really my uncle uncle?” I asked, determined to get it right.

She gave me a puzzled look, “It would be rude not to call him Uncle. Besides, we are family”.

For us, family was defined by a feeling rather than blood and that’s how it was between Tiwa and I. We were sisters. Indeed, Uncle Kolade was not Tiwa’s biological Uncle. She had grown up with him around the corner, as with other Nigerian uncles, aunties, and cousins.

They lived in more or less the same area, gathering several times a week to eat together to complain about the Scottish weather and gossip: so and so is getting married, this one has been cheating on his wife, the Ghanaian man across the street won’t say hello, and auntie such and such is no longer attending church.

This was the community that formed Tiwa’s everyday life and she was depended upon on it in a way I never was. I tagged along beside her as she delivered jollof rice to one auntie, picked up messages for another, babysat small cousins, and attended optometrist

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appointments with aging Uncles. Unlike her, my only responsibilities were picking up the washing from the laundrette for Mammy. I loathed being seen with the big tartan bag full of dirty clothes. Upon entering the laundrette I’d get a scolding from Peggy before I’d barely said hello. “Yer late!” she’d yelp or “See you – ye should be helpin’ oot yer mammy mair, naw runnin’ aboot like ye do”. She’d scowl at me, looking me up and down from her plastic chair where she was perched like a disgruntled noblewoman. Her legs were crossed, and one sandal flapped up and down her heel as she dashed her cigarette into the ashtray. She had the kind of hands and face that never stopped working hard, her skin was wrinkled and shriveled.. I’d bring home the washing only to be told I hadn’t folded it properly. Peggy always managed to report me to Mammy, telling her that I never took my time, “in and oot in a flash, so she wis”. I resented that our washing always smelled of cigarettes. Occasionally Tiwa would accompany me to the laundrette after school and later mammy would say that Peggy had asked who I was hanging out with. “Who’s that black lassie your Corinne’s hingin’ aboot wae?” or “dae you know who that African lassie is?” I wished she’d mind her own business.

Uncle Kolade’s house was on the street around the corner from Tiwa’s family home and not far from mine. He was still out getting messages when we arrived so we used Tiwa’s spare key. We immediately assumed charge of the living room with our dance routines, catwalking, and raucous laughter. The smell of Maggi and frying onions already simmering on the stove wafted through from the kitchen. The Africa One channel played quietly in the background and it struck me, though I didn’t like to say it aloud or even admit it to myself, it was the first time I had seen so many Black people on telly. I realised that I had in fact never seen any depictions of Africa apart from once a year when Lenny Henry urged us all to raise money for impoverished African children by wearing red noses made of plastic. Tiwa hated that programme in particular. There were repercussions for her in school the following day as classmates remarked that she was “lucky” to be in Scotland seeing as there was no clean water or electricity “back home”.

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I continued to watch from the corner of my eye, stealing glances as we danced our routines, hands placed on growing hips, jiggling our young backsides. Tiwa taught me the Jollof Rice Song she made with her siblings. Naturally, there was a dance to go with it too which involved spinning your arms in the air whilst simultaneously spinning your hips down low.

She proclaimed Uncle’s to be the “Jollof of all Jollof”. I joined in the routine and waited patiently for this unknown food that inspired such jubilation. We were on guard for his return, should he catch us mid-wiggling and jiggling.

There were family portraits in neat rows on the mantelpiece and window sills. I stared at the golden faces of grandchildren smiling in pristine school uniforms, teeth not yet fully formed, light brown hair neatly braided for the occasion. There were portraits of Uncle Kolade’s eldest son, Ade, posing proudly holding his degree – although I didn’t yet know the significance of this particular roll of paper. There were photographs of Ade and his wife, a white woman with the same bright eyes as her children. The photographs I was most drawn to were of all of them together as a family. There was Uncle and Auntie Kolade, in her brightly coloured wrapper standing with their university-educated son, his white wife, and their children, their faces glistening with a shea-butter shine. It struck me then that no such lovely family photos existed in my home. There were no depictions of familial love or achievement – there were no framed photographs of us at all. I wondered if a family could be a family with just two people in it. Especially when those two people who look nothing alike.

“Eh-hehn, look who’s already here!” Uncle entered the living room we had taken over. He scanned my face and gave me a knowing look which I was accustomed to from the elders in Tiwa’s life. “I know your fadda” he said, smiling at me familiarly.

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I had heard this many times before too and it bothered me that so many people believed that they knew something about me, but I chose to indulge Uncle. I was, after all, a guest in his house.

He cleared his throat, “I knew his fadda before him, your Grandfadda Robert Chisom Okoye.

Mhm, strong genes in your family. Very strong.” He smiled again, “like a photocopy between di generations”.

The mention of the photocopy was too far for me.

“I think you’re mistaken Uncle, I’m not who you think I am.”

Tiwa shifted a little and they exchanged glances.

“My dad is Muhammed Ali” I beamed.

“Come again?”

His glassy eyes looked blue in certain light due to his cataracts and he frowned.

“You know…The Greatest” He looked at Tiwa again, confused, and suddenly burst into laughter and clapped his hands together. “Ah ah, she’s not serious” he said to Tiwa. Tiwa said nothing and I assured him that I was entirely serious.

“Deez one! She’s a character!” he chuckled heartily and walked into the kitchen shaking his head.

Whilst I was familiar with both the reaction and the mentions of a Mr. Okoye, it meant nothing to me. I didn’t know the men he spoke of. Whoever they were, they were no relation of mine and, if anything, I empathised with his incredulous laughter. It wasn’t every day you met the daughter of a hero in a small Scottish city.

He was still laughing to himself as he placed the bowls of food on the table and asked whether or not I’d tried Nigerian food before.

“Only dodo at Tiwa’s house” I answered, suddenly shy.

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“But your people…they don say dodo” he pointed at the oil-drenched plantain with his fork.

“Only we Yoruba call it that. I don recall what the Igbo call it”.

I had heard many times that I had Igbo features, all of which were connected to the Okoye character he spoke of but I was keen to assert myself, despite my shyness.

“Umm…” I was unsure of how to address this particular subject. “ I actually don’t know where I’m from, my Dad’s African-American obviously, so it’s hard to know which people I come from. I mean…like… West Africa yeah, but not the specifics. He was born in Louisville, so that’s my roots really”.

I stumbled over every word and again I was met with silence. Suddenly I heard Mammy’s voice, frustrated yet defiant, “And who was it that brought ye up?”

I cleared my throat, “Obviously my mum's white and from here” I said hurriedly to no one in particular.

To my relief, Uncle was keen to change the subject. He asked what kind of food I ate at home, what my mother did for a living. He mostly asked us about school and our for the future. Did I want to be a doctor or a lawyer? Which universities would I apply to? Which teacher would provide a reference?

It had never occurred to me to apply for anything let alone the possibility of being a doctor or a lawyer. Tiwa took the reins once more, “I’m applying to study medicine at St. Andrews when I reach 5th year”. She smiled and lowered her gaze from mine. It was as though she were speaking a different language, one she hadn’t revealed to me before. I was silent. He pointed again to the plate of food, “This is jollof” he proclaimed. At last, I was face to face with the dish I had heard so much about, the dish that inspired song and dance. At last, here was the Jollof of all Jollof.

The rice was an orange colour with a bright red stew and assorted meats which I eyed cautiously. I shifted in my seat as I enquired if there was any pork, not wanting to seem rude but equally hoping it was a dish of beef and chicken.

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“You’re a Muslim?” Uncle asked, looking at Tiwa questioningly.

“No Uncle, but I don’t eat pork.” I spoke faster than usual, hoping I wouldn’t have to explain further.

“Then why?” he asked, his frown deepened and his previous look of amusement turned to disapproval.

“It’s dumb… maybe, but just out of respect for my Dad. He’s Muslim, so…you know – ” Tiwa interjected, “Yeah…sorry Uncle I forgot to tell you, but she can still have the rice”.

There was something in her expression, imperceptible to others, that was strained. Her winning smile was the glue that kept things from falling apart, kept all conversation safely on track, and unwavering from the tried and tested topics of school and medicine. Yet I could sense within her a mild irritation. She wanted me to cooperate. She knew there were no fixed rules in my avoidance of pork. At times I was steadfast and at others, I was more lenient. This, I realised, was an instance in which I should be lenient. Besides I wanted to please Tiwa and show my appreciation for the invitation to my first Nigerian meal.

“I’ll eat around the meat,” I said smiling, aware that the sauce itself had been cooked in pork.

I thought of my Granny and my ongoing refusal of her lentil soup boiled with ham hock.

As I ate my first spoonful the heat immediately hit me, the spice engulfed the back of my throat, burning my mouth and creating a fire so intense I had no way of hiding it; water began to fill my eyes. Tiwa looked at me not knowing whether to laugh or to come to my aid.

I began to cough manically and the fire now sat in my belly, emanating its peppery heat. It was the kind of cough I had no control over and that bore no signs of giving up. My lips began to tingle and swell and then it felt as if I had no lips at all.

“Now you’re a true Nigerian” Uncle announced, seemingly ignoring both my convictions as to my lineage and the ensuing signs of my malfunctioning body. As I reached for the glass of diluting juice in front of me I searched for the politest way to say, “Uncle, if I continue this will blow my head off”. I thought quickly, the need to find an appropriate solution was critical.

“Uncle, have you got any yoghurt? To mix with the sauce? It’s a wee bit hot for me.”

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“Yoghurt?!” Tiwa shouted, “You can’t put yoghurt on stew, Corinne!” she was mortified by the mere suggestion.

Uncle laughed, taken aback once again, and as he nodded his head I felt that it wasn’t to indicate that there was yoghurt in the fridge but to confirm to himself that there was indeed something wrong with me. Alas, I had failed The True Nigerian Initiation Test that Tiwa had been so keen for me to pass. I felt shame wrapping its heavy arms around me, I had exposed my lack of tolerance for spicy food and embarrassed Tiwa. I had rendered myself out of touch and rude. Nevertheless, Uncle rose from the table and returned with a tub of Greek yoghurt and I gratefully scooped it out.

“You’ve done well-o, my grandchildren won’t even try this kind of food.”

I was reassured and the tingling sensation began to dwindle. The stew was now edible for a fourteen-year-old Scottish palette such as mine. The vibrant red colour became a muted pink, the clumps of yoghurt cooled and changed the meal entirely. The Jollof of all Jollof became less oh so love-lee oh so nice and more oh so mush-ee oh so white. I glanced at the photograph of the smiling children once again.

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Soon after my first visit to Uncle Kolade’s I begged Mammy to make jollof rice the next time Tiwa came over. I claimed it was so Tiwa could feel at home but in truth I wanted to make us seem more cultured than we were.

“Yous’ll get what you’re given” was Mammy’s response.

The following day, much to my surprise, there was her attempt in all its unseasoned glory.

Tiwa and I stared at the plate of over-boiled white rice and garden peas that sat lonely to one side accompanied by an equally over-boiled chicken fillet.

“It’s chicken rice and peas, basically the same as that jellafi you were mentioning,” Mammy told us, yawning.

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I squirmed in embarrassment; it looked nothing like Uncle’s. It was plain and flavourless.

Tiwa tucked in, ever polite, feigning enjoyment and we were moved to neither sing nor dance. We simply ate. We passed the peas from one side of the plate to the other, like dribbling several tiny tennis balls.

“It's different, Mrs. Callan,” Tiwa said gratefully, “but it’s really nice. Really. Thank you”.

She smiled her lovely smile and whispered to me winking, “Could do with a bit of yogurt, though eh?”

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4. Say It Loud

I remember this period of my life as though it were only a couple of months ago and then it dawns on me that it was in fact a very long time ago. I never realised it at the time, but I wasn’t a bad-looking girl back then. These days when I catch my reflection I don’t recognise the gaunt woman with patchy hair staring back at me. There are dark circles beneath my eyes and my once full breasts are now deflated. The nyash that Tiwa used to smack playfully in praise is no longer there.

My mind, however, is unchanged. I still have a reputation as a troublemaker that I can’t seem to shake. It’s fascinating that what was once perceived as eccentricity and character (panache, if you will) is now viewed as madness. The only difference is the passing of time. I am, after all, just the same person, only older, sunken.

I wasn’t well-liked in school and my interests never aligned with my classmates, there was no salvation as Tiwa attended a different school on the other side of the park. She was popular and had a group of friends, mostly boys, with whom she played basketball. Unlike her, I didn’t walk about school as part of a crew, moving as one entity. I preferred to sit alone in the playground listening to my MP3 player.

The words ‘Paki liar’ were spat and tossed around the playground like an unwanted copper coin. I was goaded into providing photographs and documents to back up my claims as to my Dad and his whereabouts. Children often need something other than words to hold on to but my birth certificate listed my father as unknown, so as not to cause any problems or complications for him. I’d hate if my existence rendered him disgraced in any way. As for the photos, theirs was a brief affair, there simply wasn’t the time. You look at people today,

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everything is documented, selfies and videos on TikTok and Instagram. Back then it was different, my parents were in the moment and then the moment passed by.

“Just look at me” I would tell my classmates placidly, “this is all the evidence you need.” I leaned forward to provide a closer view of my face.

When I came home with a black eye and a swollen lip mammy begged me to make more of an effort to fit in, “to swim with the tide”. She also spoke with the headmaster but nothing much changed. I ceased all talk of The Greatest for my protection but was still called a liar and a wee bastart (in the true sense of the word). They chided me to hit back, “Did yer da naw teach ye tae gie a square go?”

I would have loved to have known how to fight, for the skill to be passed on to me. Not just to fight, but to know the story of my people, where I came from, and who I could be. But I was a weak child and I hated violence. Whilst my Dad was very much associated with Malcolm X’s doctrine for a time, in truth I felt more aligned with Dr. King’s teachings. I discussed this at length with Tiwa, we both took an interest in Black American politics and had our own take on how these politics could be applied to Scotland in the early 2000s. She believed in defending one's honour and could easily hit back. She fought well given that she towered over her schoolmates. I on the other hand couldn’t hit back on moral grounds.

“Are you sure it’s naw jist ‘cause yer a shitebag?” she asked me gravely before bursting into laughter. I gave no response.

By the time I was finishing secondary school I had already legally changed my surname yet my teachers refused to refer to me by my new name. This was around the same time concerns were raised regarding my behaviour and academic performance. They didn’t understand my desire to be more aligned with my Dad: his activism, his power – his greatness, and his blackness.

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Don’t misunderstand me, it's not that I wasn’t proud of my Irish roots but like those feeble-minded children with whom I was schooled, I needed something to hold on to.

Besides, Callan just doesn’t quite convey who I am. I’m Corinne Ali. I was oblivious to the fact that this broke my mother’s heart.

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It has come to my attention that some of the younger nurses don't know who The Greatest is. They hear me discuss Muhammed Ali and think I'm some kind of fundamentalist. Since I was admitted, I believe it’s my duty to educate them. It’s up to me to ensure his legacy stays alive, at least on this side of the Atlantic. They appear disinterested but I tell them everything about him: his humble beginnings, multiple marriages and children, The Rumble in the Jungle, his politics, his journey to Islam, and his dedication to the sport. They roll their eyes.

He was a tenacious man and it was this tenacity and talent that saw him transcend his circumstances. My family, Granda, in particular, was deeply moved by this. They held him in high regard, a deep respect that placed him on a pedestal yet his feet were firmly on the ground. He was still a man of the people. Despite being raised during the time of segregation and racism he managed to rise above everything to become the undisputed champion, The Greatest. It wasn’t just my family, all over Scotland people were in awe of him. His disarming humour rendered him one of us, the fervent timbre of his voice as he denounced the Vietnam War and the cheeky glint in his eye. He was a principled man of the people. He was ours.

Granda had equally high hopes for me. He believed that I would make something of myself, that I’d be the first to go to university, to earn a good income, perhaps settle down with a husband. I wouldn’t be a national treasure but I would be honest and decent. He believed in

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hard work and honour and that if I lived by these principles I could achieve anything. Just like my Dad. Alas, life’s a weary puzzle.

My Dad and I never got our time together. It was my Dad’s passing in 2016 that landed me here and I became acquainted with all the stages of grief and its strange and surprising ways, the way it creeps up on you out of nowhere and knocks the breath from you.

It’s all the stranger when no one believes a word you say.

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4. The Greatest

We lived on the top floor of a high-rise flat and whilst the close was dark and stank of piss and other liquids, our home was bright and clean. There was no mantlepiece on which to place lovely family photographs nor was there a kitchen table to gather round and eat together. Mammy and I ate dinner together in front of the telly and watched Coronation Street, Take The High Road and Emmerdale.

There were no photographs of us as a family, merely a few baby photos of me stuck on the fridge. In one photograph I’m wearing a knitted hat made from green and white wool. You can just make out the edge of a muscular brown arm holding me up to the camera as I stare into the lens with drool dripping from my mouth. I’m struck by my innocence. Mammy can’t remember to whom the brown arm belongs. The only other photographs in the house were of him. On our walls, there was only The Greatest.

There were framed portraits of a young shirtless Ali hung in the kitchen and an older Ali in the hallway. There was a blown-up black-and-white photo of him, close up, the giant beads of sweat on his face appeared like clusters of islands. Some were cut out from newspapers, others were posters and some were photocopied from books. Due to his eternal presence in our home, speculation came naturally. I would hover around these photos and pray he'd come back for me.

It wasn’t just Mammy who held a deep love and admiration for The Greatest, my whole family adored him. From a very young age, I was fuelled by stories about his fights and his admirable stance on the Vietnam War. When he appeared on Parkinson in 1971 the family gathered around the telly and no one was allowed to speak or leave the room. Granda shushed everyone as he liked to do, increasing the volume to the highest level. Each one of them sat in awe. The legendary episode was repeated when I was ten years old and the 22

same thing happened again. I sat on the floor next to Granny, my aunts and uncles on the back settee. Everyone had their place, as though they too were living room fixtures alongside the side table and the pouffe which no one knew the use for. We had our cups of tea and toast ready. I’m still comforted by the cake-like form of Mother’s Pride bread smothered in salted Kerrygold butter. It was a sweet treat before bed in which we all indulged. There was an impatience in the air as we waited with bated breath for him to appear on the screen, my stomach filled with butterflies. This was more significant for me than it was for them.

Granda made sure Mammy was aware of what was taking place, phoning her an hour before it began.

“Is that you hen? Ali’s on Parky at 6pm. D’ye mind we watched it aw the gither? Aye, just remindin’ ye. ITV it is, a re-run”. He put down the telephone.

It began.

I was in awe, spellbound by his poise and humor. He was beautiful and gracious, radiant in his masculinity. Granda interjected (he was the only person allowed to speak) “A great man.”

There was a tremor in his voice. He didn’t always make the right choices, but he wis a great man, aw ‘hings considered.”

I don’t recall ever seeing such awe in Granda’s eyes before. A look of pure unfaltering admiration. “A marvelous man” he exclaimed, his eyes beginning to fill. “Of course the game’s nu’hin like that these days…”

My Dad emanated a warmth and charm that made it easy to understand why my family loved him the way they did without ever having met him. Each smile revealed the faint gap between his front teeth. He’s perfect, I thought as I placed my tongue between my own gap and smiled. Yet I felt a stab of jealousy as Michael Parksinson enquired about his health.

The British public wanted to know how he was keeping, “it’s the affection they have for you…they never felt about another boxer the way they felt about you” he informed him warmly. Jealousy rose within me. It didn’t seem fair to speak of British affection so generally, 23

as though all of our love was the same in equal measures. Of course, everyone admired him but this was nothing compared to the love I alone had for him. Once more I gently pressed my tongue between the gap in my teeth.

After the interview, just as the rush of emotion had led to a feeling of elation, so too did the plummet back down to earth hit like a punch to the stomach. No one mentioned anything about him and Mammy. I felt a dull ache. Undoubtedly, he was a marvellous man, but he was a marvellous man who had not yet come back for me. I cried relentlessly and whilst Granny consoled me, holding me close to her bosom, Granda appeared disturbed, “Och away ye go wae yer tales, ya fly woman!” I was inconsolable and cried myself to sleep that night. This resulted in Granny having strong words with Mammy in the morning. She asked if my school was aware of the situation and if other parents were privy to my tall tales, and the conviction with which I told them. Mammy’s defence was my over-active imagination. “She’ll grow oot it” was my Granda’s conclusion.

That night I imagined myself as a small baby and The Greatest throwing me up in the air and catching me. The Greatest holding my hand protectively as he dropped me off at the school gates. The Greatest gently kissing Mammy’s cheek as she cooked in our tiny kitchen, his hand around her waist. The three of us eating our tea in front of Take The High Road, passing peas from side to side on our plates.

Yet he never reappeared, never helped with the tea, never kissed lonely cheeks or held small apprehensive hands.

24

5. Wilt

My eyes are so dark they look black in certain light. Mammies are like sunflowers, dark in the centre with beautiful yellow petals around the outside. They harbour secrets she would never admit, as it would cause the petals to wilt. Despite the advice she pushes on me these days, when I was wee she was mostly silent and avoided all eye contact with me. She knew that just one look from me and my dark eyes could cause the flowers to disappear altogether.

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6. Tiwa

At fourteen years old Tiwa was already 6ft tall and her breasts were full and her hips rolled dramatically with every step she took. She possessed a womanliness that was beyond her years, immense beauty that she didn’t yet know how to carry. She was unequipped with the fundamental tool that comes with age: confidence. As a result, she prematurely developed a slight stoop in her back from lowering herself to appear smaller in height and a tightness in her shoulders from trying to appear smaller in width. She loathed that she stood out in the way that she did and that adults, particularly men, always engaged with her as though she were a grown woman and not the child that she was.

Her sister teased her for the unseasonable curves of her body and encouraged her to cover up, as though her body and its contours were inappropriate. There was always an Auntie or sibling in her ear, mocking her as she was the darkest of her siblings and in the same breath praising her for her “slender”, “near European” nose.

I held up the bra she gave me by the straps and examined it, the large cup size was at least four times bigger than mine.

“This is yours? I thought it was Bimpe’s!”

Bimpe had the biggest breasts of anyone we knew and so we called her “four eyes” because of the way her nipples poked through whatever t-shirt she was wearing. This caused us to be vigilant about covering our own nipples and we were dedicated to finding the right bra, despite the fact I had no breasts to speak of.

“Boys will notice your four eyes if you don’t wear padded ones,” Tiwa informed me.

§

26

Even now the thing I love most about Tiwa is her voice. It’s soothing and sad all at once. In each of her words contains a kernel of melancholy, an essence that can only be found in tears of the most honest kind. Even her familiar laughter has a sadness to it, a low hum that hints at surprise at the sudden expression of joy. She felt everything and felt deeply.

We were rarely apart; ours was a warm and limitless affection, we shared a deep love for our similarities and our differences, and together we were protected from the thorns of being the only ones. Tiwa was also the only one who believed me.

Not only did she believe me but she encouraged me to find ways of reaching out to The Greatest. As she was academically inclined, she proofread my letters and advised me on where to send them. She talked about my search as an ‘inquiry’ so that I might be taken more seriously. Together we constructed sentences like: “I am making inquiries about my father”, “I would like to enquire as to the whereabouts of my father”, and “are you able to help me with my inquiry?” She even asked her brother Dayo for advice. At the time, he was a sought-after local athlete who had been as far as London in competitions. He was the only person we knew who might have some connections to important sportspeople abroad. But he looked at her with contempt and swiftly told her to get out of his room and shut the door behind her. For the most part her siblings – all but Bola – disapproved of our friendship, and me more generally. “You need to keep away from that Corinne Ali” were the disapproving words that followed her wherever she went.

We visited our local fitness centre, which as it happened, had a portrait of The Greatest hung proudly in reception. I took this to be a sign that we were on the right track and was at once filled with hope. But the two receptionists could hardly respond as they wheezed unhealthily between side-splitting laughter. Naturally, I have accumulated humiliating experiences such as these, each one a medal for every inquiry that has brought no success. Indeed, there have been too many attempts to speak of, but I never let it break my search. This tenacity is 27

only further proof of whose child I am – of who I am. Each time my spirit was dampened, Tiwa would deliver a motivational talk, with all the gusto and conviction of Dayo during prayer meetings.

Tiwa was as invested as I was in finding my Dad. It did seem to me, however, that she was more motivated by the potential of uncovering The Greatest’s African roots than actually finding him. She claimed that the only thing worse than being Black and Scottish was being a Black American because they could never really know where they came from and thus who they are. Whereas we knew who we were but were unbelonging. Not only did Black Americans not ‘belong’ to America, but they also had no way of knowing if they were originally from the coast of Ghana or Nigeria, Senegal, or Liberia. Were they Fulani or Mandinka? Yoruba or Edo? I agreed it was complicated but was comforted by the simplicity of the notion that Black was Black.

“A stolen people” is what Tiwa said.

I thought of Uncle Kolade imposing an Igbo heritage upon me, about the Okoyes of which he spoke. I wondered if they were the descendants of enslaved people.

“You’re basically doubly fucked because you’re mixed-race Black and Scottish and American” she informed me, delivering the news matter-of-factly. “Triply fucked if you count the Irish part. Historically I mean…”

Tiwa learned about the Slave trade in school and spoke about it at length. As the only black girl in her year, her classmates threw her pitying looks as the teacher described ships, human cargo, tobacco, and cotton production. My school omitted this entire period of history and instead focused on the Jacobites and how The English had taken away the native Gaelic language.

“Yeah,” she said dryly, “but it’s not dead” and broke into a rendition of Brochan Lom, a Gaelic song she had learned in primary school, taught to her by a supply teacher from Uist.

28

“Brochan lom, tana lom, brochan lom na sùghain Brochan lom, tana lom, brochan lom na sùghain Brochan lom, tana lom, brochan lom na sùghain” “What?” I shrieked with laughter, “what's it about?”

“I dunno…porridge or something” she laughed.

In retrospect it would have been useful to learn Gaelic, there’s so much of it on telly these days. I listen to the throaty rise and fall of its cadence as I drift in and out, sinking sinking.

Tiwa had stuck a picture of Cleopatra above her bed. It was black and white and slightly off-centre, printed in school during lunch, without anyone noticing.

“My dad says we were Kings and Queens before all that. People don’t talk about that as much. White people don’t know anything about it… Black people weren’t just slaves.” As she spoke, her voice departed from its usual solemn tone, she was excited and animated as she told me about the Yoruba Kingdoms of Oyo and Ile-Ife and Goddesses that resided deep within the water. There was a glint in her eyes as she explained that all this was reflected in her name, “the one who wears the crown”.

§

We linked each other's arms, always striding in step with one another in matching high tops.

Time was endless and expansive as we listened to the same Lauryn Hill album on repeat, mouthing every line. We bitched and moaned and dreamed.

Various people drifted in and out of the house, including her siblings who blasted Nas and Wu-Tang Clan from their bedrooms. Nigerian Gospel music played from the living room, the score that accompanied the hustle and bustle. Her parents worked long hours and were frequently absent. They ensured that tasks were delegated between their children and that

29

they were always kept busy. Tiwa’s parents were serious about two things: Christianity and education.

After school, she had Kumon, which to me, seemed like more school after regular school. I’d sit by her side waiting for her to finish whatever Kumon was as she rubbed out and rewrote answers in her exercise book and asked me to spell out words I’d never heard of. When this was completed there would often be a prayer group which signalled my time to go home.

I enjoyed the steadiness of her life, I looked forward to the run to and from her house, it was a worn routine that felt safe and familiar yet we yearned for something more. We discussed our escape matter-of-factly and grew impatient for a time in the future when we would never have to walk down the same old streets or do Kumon. In hushed tones we planned out the two-bedroom flat we would share, the clothes we would wear, and the clubs we would dance in until late. I didn’t share her ambition or propensity for excellent school grades. Instead, I was convinced that working in Topshop would be the pinnacle of my career, specifically the one on Oxford Street in London. The first time I visited the big city I felt as though I was in another world.

“There were so many afros that my mammy couldn’t find me” I told Tiwa as if I’d been to the moon. Tiwa and I were easily spotted on any given street, corner shop or department store, among a sea of white faces and long straight hair. But in London, there was every shade of black and every texture of hair. Some afros were tightly coiled, bleached blonde, combed out, long and soft, compact and perfectly rounded. When I visited the Topshop on Oxford Street, Mammy and I lost each other. Unlike back home, I couldn’t be found among the multitude of styles and skin tones. It was the very first time I’d seen people that looked like me. I purchased two pairs of large gold hoop earrings for Tiwa and I and vowed that not only would I return to London, I would be back as a Topshop employee, gold hoop earrings and all.

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§

“You know the boys act like I don’t exist when you’re around. You're their type” “What type is that then?” I scoffed, embarrassed at the mere thought of boys looking at me.

“Pretty and light. Your hair is soft, not tough like mine”.

“How do you mean tough?”

I didn’t know much about the boys she spent time with other than that they loved sports and their parents had come from places in Africa and the Middle East. Like Dayo, many of them were tipped to be the ‘next big thing’ in football, athletics, and basketball. If Tiwa and I weren’t together, she could be found shooting hoops on the court, outrunning them. I’d come to see her and sure enough, they would whistle and call my name teasingly flirtacious as I approached. I felt both flattered and self-conscious at the same time.

These boys, though born in Scotland, adopted hybrid American-South London accents and used words like ‘y’all’ and ‘my yard’. They had the same dry sense of humour as Tiwa and would roast one another for things that could never be changed: skin tone, hair texture, height, weight. The Arab boys roasted the black guys, branding them slaves and in turn, they would roast them, accusing them of being “illegal” and “fresh off the boat” or shouting “You-no-speak-good-a-englisha” at one another. They affectionately called each other the ‘N word’ as they greeted one another with casual fist bumps. Among the black guys, the light-skinned boys were made fun of for being “girlish” and “pretty”. The dark-skinned boys were mocked for being “too dark” and therefore “ugly”. If one’s fade wasn’t “on point” it was a source of shame, and so too if your cornrows were uneven. It was all new to me. When they said something was bad it meant it was really really good. They watched videos of 50 Cent surrounded by video vixens, all golden-skinned women with blonde weaves in tiny bikinis.

This must be what it means to be sexy, we thought.

31

Of course, I was roasted for my origins and they tore apart everything I said.

“My man Ali would never touch a white woman! White women are the devil!” one of them shouted, spraying my face lightly with spit in his conviction. When the laughter died down, he took me aside privately, putting a sympathetic arm around my shoulder, “you don’t seriously believe that though, do you fam? ‘cuz that’s a bit mad, still.”

Occasionally I would be invited to KFC with them after a game. They'd speak in their American-British accents and I was embarrassed by my Scottish one, wishing I had my Dad’s Kentucky drawl. They swapped Yo mamma jokes and belly laughed with food in their mouths.

“Yo’ momma so fat, when she was out sun-bathing niggas thought they be seein’ a whole-ass beached whale”. Laughter erupted and an extra-large cup of Pepsi flew across the table, causing everyone to leap from their chair dramatically.

“Can’t take this nigga anywhere man!” one of them said, pushing the other.

I felt as though I were in a film, set in the States but that I had been wrongly cast.

Tiwa began to talk more and more about how light-skinned people and mixed-race Black people had an easier time. She reeled off a list monotonously, “Beyoncé-light, Halle Berry-light, Alicia Keys-light. Show me one successful woman who doesn’t have one white parent or that’s just really light skin?” I felt guilty but unable to articulate why.

“I think you’re the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen” I replied, completely missing the point.

“Shut up blud” she said, adopting the boy's way of speaking. “I don’t even get a look in. The mandem don’t look twice at me, they see me as a friend…a sister. They don’t like dark skin.

No one likes dark skin.”

“Your skin is beautiful,” I said, trying to put my arm around her and sighed. “You know if we meet my Dad, he’ll tell you all about it. He gave this speech once, about how we’ve basically all been brainwashed by white people to think we’re ugly…and inferior. He can tell you better

32

than I can – but you’re beautiful Tiwa, and one day you’ll see that” I reassured her, with as much confidence as I could muster.

“Z’it on the internet?”

“I dunno, probably, but I have a book about it … you can have it”

It wasn’t the time to confide in Tiwa that I too had a hard time looking in the mirror, that I believed there was something fundamentally wrong with me. I was odd-looking with my yellow skin and hair that had multiple textures working against each other and that I wasn’t adept at taking care of. But it wasn’t the same thing and I would never know the pain she was feeling.

§

The day Tiwa was arrested I was waiting for her on the main street. It was raining as it always did and the sky had already darkened despite the early hour. I grew more agitated with each minute that she didn’t show up, cursing African time and preparing a speech about how rude it was to be late so consistently.

At the opposite end of the street, unbeknownst to me, she was manhandled and pushed into a police car.

When she was released and recounted what had happened, it wasn’t the manhandling or the injustice of it that got to her the most. It was the humiliation. The humiliation of being seen as a criminal. The humiliation of being stopped on a busy street, and being bundled into a police car in front of everyone. Upon their realisation that they’d arrested the wrong black person they offered her and her family a feeble apology, an empty gesture that hung in the air meaninglessly. Tiwa’s Dad met the officer's eyes directly, “I didn’t come to this country

33

for my daughter to be treated this way”. He buried his rage in politeness, articulating every word and rounding his vowels, his deep voice heavy with the weight of remaining composed.

Out of all the times Tiwa and I were mistaken for other people, this was by far the worst. Her light dimmed within her for a time.

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7. Siblings

The quiet of my home appealed to Tiwa. There were no speakers blasting music or siblings arguing in raised voices, nor were there limitations on which rooms we could occupy, or the food we could eat. I liked Tiwa being there with me, our laughter filling my quiet bedroom, but I was happiest when we were at her house.

§

The very first time I went to Tiwa’s, I was struck by the heat. Although it wasn’t yet winter, every room sweltered. I thought of Mammy’s strict rule regarding the meter for the heating. It was a simple rule – do not use it. Ever. The flimsy radiators were to be switched off at the wall with the dial turned down firmly to the ‘OFF’’ setting. We were to wear layers and should the cold still eat away at you, she recommended wrapping a blanket around yourself, as she so often did as she shuffled from room to room.

“It’s pure roastin!” I gasped removing my school blazer, the felt-like material sticking to my ugly polyester jumper. As if from nowhere, Dayo ducked his head out from his bedroom door, “We like it to be like Africa. Pure heat, all the time man” he said matter of factly, his smile revealing perfect teeth. I laughed, slow to realise he wasn’t joking.

“I’m serious, my parents came to this country and couldn’t believe the cold. You ever been around black peeps before? We don’t do the cold”.

“Yeah, I hate the cold…” I replied weakly.

§

The living room contained cream reclining sofas made of leather, a flat-screen TV, and state-of-the-art speakers that I avoided touching. It was the centre of activity and celebration: 35

family dinners, community gatherings, choir practice, prayer meetings after church on Sundays, and supplementary studies. I was envious of all the coming and going, the constant traffic that circulated in their home, the Christian literature and the food people brought with them, along with messages for their parents.

I envied her large squabbling family, I envied that she had siblings, and that they all looked alike, identifiable as relatives of one another: Bimpe, Dayo, Bola, and Tolu, like versions of Tiwa staring back at me, each with their own defiant personality, so different from the other.

Yet they all had an overwhelming need to be the loudest, and for privacy. Each of them claimed their territory, ensuring our removal from any room at any given time. Dayo was the brother responsible for leading the family prayer group on weeknights and organising extracurricular bible studies on the weekends and bi-monthly Nigerian Fraternity meetings where elders gathered in their living room and sang. He would go on to be the first to marry and the first to have children. Bimpe was Tiwa’s only and oldest sister who filled her time with shopping and matchmaking her friends. Her middle brother Bola had studied theatre at The Conservatoire before leaving for London without completing his degree. He was rarely at home and was mysterious in the way that the older brothers of teenage girls are – seen and unseen, and entirely unknowable. He was handsome with a very different temperament to Dayo. He wore his hair in dreads and, much to their mothers' despair, he never tended to them, instead installing small silver amulets to the ends of each loc. We knew about his secret blond-haired girlfriends and the smoking habit he indulged in when he slipped away from prayer meetings. Then there was Tolu, the youngest who therefore often tagged along with Tiwa and I. He sought us out to alleviate his frequent exclusion from his brothers’ heated conversations but we met him the same rejection served to us. “Beat it wee man” we told him with a conspiratorial glance between us.

Tiwa delighted in these small triumphs, keen to establish herself as the senior sister with more authority. I was her accomplice who chimed in and repeated her words. Secretly, I didn’t like to kick him out, there was something endearing about his incessant questions, his 36

desire for company, and his gangly legs which seemed to have less control than the rest of his body, an indication that one day he would be tall like Tiwa.

In the evenings after visitors had left, homework completed and dishes stacked in the dishwasher, Tiwa, Tolu, Bola, Bimpe, Dayo, and I gathered in the living room. This was where our famous debates took place, as we half-watched music videos with the volume down low and ate cookies or whatever snacks remained. Their parent's room was just next door and we could hear their loud late-night conversations with relatives in Nigeria that to me sounded like a shouting match. Our discussions could get equally loud as we argued over beauty standards, sex before marriage, interracial dating, and religion.

“Could I date a guy who lives from paycheck to paycheck?” Bimpe repeated, in response to Dayo’s question. “So what you’re saying is: would I date a bum? A man with no savings, sha, he’s even living from hand to mouth?” She explained that she would never lower her standards for such a man and that her future husband would have more than enough money to support them.

“I live from paycheck to paycheck,” said Bolu, quick to remind his siblings that not all of them were living the entrepreneurial dream.

“Aye, we know mate…you’re on SAAS!” They all laughed “And Bimpe you can’t say nothin’, abeg, you spend all your money on shoes.” Dayo’s voice was unfaltering as he put everyone in their place, knowingly causing an argument to ensue: Bimpe defended her right to spend her money on exactly what she wanted, Bola defended student life and bemoaned the lack of decent jobs available for theatre graduates, and Dayo persisted with his pull-yourself-up-from-the-bootstraps rhetoric that had served their parents so well. Tiwa argued that she wouldn’t turn a man down just because of his low bank balance, “We all need to start somewhere” Suddenly Mrs. Oyinpere appeared at the door, shushing us all, unrecognisable to me in her dowdy dressing gown and lopsided hairnet, phone card still in hand.

37

“All of this shouting and for why? Corinne, it's time to go home, you have school in the morning. Dayo, call the child a taxi, it’s getting late.”

§

With all of the noise and the coming and going, I thought that Bola and Bimpe’s absence wouldn’t be felt so acutely. They were the first among us to fly the nest and things were notably quieter without them. Whilst Tiwa was relieved to finally have her own bedroom, things were different. Dayo sparred more frequently with Tolu who had grown tall and moody. No one said much about the man Bimpe married. He was a short Nigerian man who attended Fraternity meetings. I noted his bald head and faux-leather tan-coloured shoes that squeaked as he entered the room. He would be the first of her three ex-husbands.

On Wednesdays after school and Saturday mornings, I had a job as a dishwasher in a local café. I disliked that it cut into my and Tiwa’s time together but it was the first time I earned my own money and this cemented our London plan as being more within reach. In a few months, we would have money to book train tickets at the very least.

“We can stay with Bola while we look for our place” Tiwa announced matter of factly, without having ever consulted him.

The year he left was the same year he was cast in a Shakespeare play that his parents branded “wicked”. When he appeared in a giant-sized poster on the subway, Tiwa and I dutifully took photos standing beside his red-haired Juliet. We stuck our thumbs up and our tongues out to the side as Tiwa’s pink Samsung flip captured the special moment.

We never got to see the play despite asking for tickets.

§ 38

Bola only ever reappeared around Christmas time. Once, he showed up in silk black trousers that flared at the bottom and a sheer polo neck adorned with necklaces made of jade and agate. Dayo and Bimpe teased him, urging him to change for the sake of their reputations, for their mother and father, for all that is right and good in the world! Tolu was simply glad to see his older brother back in the family home, adorned or not.

“It’s gay!” Dayo barked, refusing to look at him. “We can’t go out with you lookin’ like that!”.

But Bola was unbothered. Off he went into the night, with his silken black trousers swishing behind him. The others continued among themselves, each with their reasons as to why their brother had really “ripped the arse oot it” this time.

“He’s not in that London anymore. Does he want to get his head kicked in? A black man walking about like that in these streets?” Dayo was the most incredulous among them. As the eldest brother, his word was final.

That Christmas was the last time Bola returned to Scotland.

From then on, we only ever saw him in magazines alongside famous actors we recognised.

He was rumoured to be dating an award-winning American actress. We let out shrieks as we unfolded the two-page spread filled with photos of him at parties, posing on red carpets, and caught off-guard candids on street corners with his arm around a mystery woman and a cigarette in his mouth. His wardrobe had elevated, he was now the kind of man who wore tailored suits and Gucci loafers. He had become muscular and toned. None of this was surprising to me: his success, his popularity, the way he had grown into a man of refinement.

What I didn’t expect was the new way of speaking he had adopted. Bola now spoke with a faux English accent, not soft enough to be a lilt and yet not prominent enough to have completely eradicated the fact of his Scottishness.

39

“He’s no been down there that long has he?” Bimpe kissed her teeth as she spoke. “Oh la de-da, I’ve turned my back on where I’m from and now I’m too much of a big shot to call my own mum back!”

Around this time, the prospect of turning my back on where I was from rather excited me. I wondered what it would be like to affect a different way of speaking. Would it make life simpler, or more complicated? Would it have any effect at all? Maybe, like Tiwa and I, he was simply tired of hearing the same old phrase, “The last thing I was expecting was a Scottish accent”.

The English twang rather suited Bola, and I had the sense that it was borne from the fact he had genuinely been down there a long time, rather than turning his back on any notion of place. As the middle son of Christian doctors, his wasn’t a path that was encouraged. In my view he worked hard, but what do I know? He was always the enigmatic brother struck by wanderlust to me. It wasn’t so much his glamour and fame that impressed me, but his ability to shapeshift and carve his own path. Even now I feel a sense of pride for Bola, an awe for the way he defined and redefined himself. I’d like to have done the same.

Tiwa and I couldn’t believe it when he appeared on The Best of Black British Talent list. Tolu beamed and begged us to use the computer. We had recently finished our fourth year prelims and any kind of excitement in our lives seemed further and further away. We poured over images of her brother living his dream in London; Bola stood grinning from ear to ear, sandwiched between famous actors: up and coming talent shoulder to shoulder with the ‘established’. He was the only Scottish person to be nominated.

“Is that Idris Elba?” Tolu shouted, unable to mask the excitement in his voice. Bimpe pulled our shoulders apart to look at the screen.

“Why do we need a Black British Talent list anyway? Why can’t we just be actors, not black actors?”

40

“Cause it’s opportunities, innit?” Tiwa answered, aware of her brother’s struggle to get decent roles that didn’t involve playing a pimp or a drug dealer.

“Well, it doesn't make sense to me. I’ll tell you this right now” Dayo said firmly, even though no one asked his opinion. He cocked his head higher and cleared his throat, “The white man owes me nothing.”

“I don’t think it’s the white man organising this kind of thing” I quipped a little too sharply.

“What would you know? You’re not even Black.” There was a certain cruelty to Dayo’s nature that could sting and leave a lasting mark.

“She is Black!” Tiwa retorted, growing frustrated, aware that I was beginning to shrink beside her.

“You’re not Black, you’re not White. You don’t know what you are”.

When I excused myself and went to the bathroom I stood in front of the mirror. I looked at my reflection for irregularities, as though checking that all of me was still there. I touched my nose and inspected my eyes more closely. I couldn’t be sure of what I saw, or what anyone else saw for that matter.

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6. Work

Holding down a job while your mind slowly unravels is like having another full-time job in itself, like working a never-ending shift in which the stakes are very high and the reward is pitifully low, all the while customers marvel at the apparent juxtaposition of how Scottish you sound and yet how “Unscottish” you look.

I never thought back then that I’d be waiting on tables for over a decade, in restaurants, pubs, cafés and cocktail bars. In the beginning, I never realised that the job wasn’t just a case of taking orders and bringing food and drinks. It’s not so much the work that is the problem – the problem is with working so closely with the public. They’re always going to tell you exactly what they think.

They’re going to want answers.

The restaurant in the arts space was always busy and I worked until the wee hours. Cups, saucers, and wine glasses rattled, coffee machines screeched, tea-stained menus were displaced, their plastic sealing becoming undone and half-melted. Orders were taken, given, forgotten, and crumpled into bins. Personal questions were constant. If I were paid for every time I was asked where I was from, I would be a rich woman like Tiwa is today. Naturally, I’d explain my African-American roots and my Dad and it was men in particular who took umbrage with the facts of my life, even my co-workers. I often overheard my male colleagues discussing me around the back of the bin shed as they sat on empty kegs smoking.

“She’s no a bad lookin’ girl that Corinne, but my God she’s aff her nut.”

“Aye, crackin’ tits but Christ –” “She seems totally normal until she brings up that stuff.”

“Ye don’t think she actually believes aw that dae ye?”

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In that sense, the world of work wasn’t drastically different from school, except that there were fewer racial expletives involved in my daily life, and very few people said these things to me directly. I gained a reputation for aggressive behaviour and every few months the manager would sit me down at one of the tables and ask if anything was going on in my personal life that might be leading to my erratic actions. Each time, just like the last, I assured him that there was nothing out of the ordinary happening in my personal life. His thick brows would furrow as he sighed, “If it happens again Corinne, I’ll have to let you go.”

He’d express concern for my ‘well-being’ and then stress that I was putting him in an awkward position with the big bosses. “It’s a bad look, you marching about the way you do.”

But I knew he wouldn’t let me go because I was one of the hardest workers. If Mammy instilled anything in me it was a hard-work ethic. I made those wine glasses shine. I also had my suspicions that he may have felt sorry for me but I used his pity to my advantage and was never without a job until my unravelling began.

It was around the time of my Dad’s death when I began to feel especially claustrophobic at work. The screeching of the coffee machines became unbearable and the incessant chatter made me feel like I was drowning. I especially hated having to smile at customers. Smiling is sometimes the hardest part of being a waitress. The hardest part of life. I requested the week off on bereavement and that was the final straw. No more, the eyebrows said.

It dawned on me that my Dad and I would never have the opportunity to meet. The realisation caused my body to tremble.

Tiwa phoned me when I finished my shift. “I heard the news” she said breathlessly. “I’m sorry Corinne. I don’t know what to say…”

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The restaurant in the arts space had extremely high ceilings and on special occasions such as film premiers or exhibition openings, we’d decorate each corner with long white sheets.

This created a draping effect, like that of a Grecian palace where poetry or orgies, or the eating of exotic fruits might take place. There was something sophisticated about it and at the same time destructive. Each time we rolled out the sheets I thought how luxurious it would be to lie in the middle of one, suspended in the air like an acrobat. I took comfort in the fact that I would inevitably plummet to my death and most likely splat on the middle of the concrete floor while diners drank their orange wine and dabbled with their cheese boards.

Increasingly, I played this scene over and over in my mind: the climbing of the rafters, the unfurling of the sheets with me inside them, the particular way the blood would splatter, and the distance it would cover. Customers and colleagues alike would surely be scarred for life.

But when it came down to it, that’s not the path I chose. It would have been visually stunning and disturbing, but I didn’t want to implicate anyone in the proceedings.

§

My Dad’s passing was international news, indeed this is how I came to find out. He was on the cover of magazines and newspapers, and every news channel covered the story. The man of the people had passed to the other side. Tributes were made from every corner of the world; presidents, boxing officials, actors, and activists lamented the loss. I followed the whole thing, never once taking my eyes off Miss Lonnie. Her dark sunglasses covered her eyes, intercepting any emotion that might be revealed. My half-siblings looked solemn as they avoided the camera during the long speeches that were made. My Dad’s face was

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everywhere. I sat in front of the telly, touching the screen, scared that the beating in my chest would cause my heart to leap out from inside me or to stop suddenly.

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7. Tears

Seeing your Mammy cry is a particularly disconcerting experience.

When I was wee I wanted to stop it from happening but didn’t know how. At times she hid her crying from me, unable to leave her room for days on end. At other times it just happened; she would be mid-sentence or boiling potatoes and solitary silent tears escaped, her face unflinching. She cried on Christmas and New Year's and she cried on normal days of the week.

When I first asked her if I was adopted she didn’t cry but when I persisted, begging to know the truth she cried and asked me to stop. When I asked why I didn’t have a Dad she remained silent and when I asked why we didn’t look alike she opened her mouth to respond but no words came out. When I asked about Mr. Okoye she said she’d never heard the name, let alone know the person. When I asked about The Greatest she sighed. When he died she cried a great deal.

§

When I think of my family I can see Mammy’s tear-stained face as she averts her gaze from me. I think of Tiwa and her bejewelled hands reaching for my face, cupping my cheeks, careful not to graze me with her intricate nails. I imagine us around Uncle Kolade’s table once again, eating our different versions of Jollof and planning for the future. I remove my silk bonnet as Granda’s wisdom comes to me in a frail voice, “Life’s a weary puzzle, hen”.

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Outside the hospital grounds, the air is cold, I zip my jacket to my chin and light a cigarette. I haven’t been outside in a long time. I think of them all, and all their hopes and dreams, of all the things that happened and didn’t happen. I think of them all and I think of me. I look at the sky as if seeing it for the first time, the rarely seen orange ball is a long-lost friend I have been hiding from The woman from the next room appears beside me, she has a similar complexion to mine, and her hair is wrapped under a pink scarf.

“Can I borrow your light?” she asks me.

“Aye,” I say handing it to her, “I’m trying to quit” “Aye, same” she smiles. Her eyes are light green.

I think of Mammy and her sunflower eyes and all the things I wish she would have told me. I recount the ways I could have stopped her petals from wilting. I take a long drag of my cigarette. I think of my Dad and his gap-toothed smile and glistening eyes. I think of what could have been, and of the family photos that were never taken.

“At least the sun's out,” I say under my breath, still staring upward, feeling the warmth on my face. For the first time in a long time, I feel a pang of hunger. I stamp out my cigarette, suddenly aware that I’m still wearing my slippers.

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