wanted to know.
‘That’s my nickname for Malakai,’ explained Breanna. ‘Don’t you think his complexion is like milk chocolate?’
Jazz picked up the bottle of perfume and she inspected it like a Z-list celeb studying an article about themselves in a tabloid. ‘Mind my girl don’t lick your complexion off,’ she joked.
After everyone bought a cheesecake to take away, Sean walked with Jazz and Malakai stepped with Breanna. He had his right arm around her shoulders and they soon lagged twenty yards or so behind the others.
‘So your dad is not your real dad?’ Malakai said.
‘No,’ answered Breanna. ‘Him and Mum got together when I was about two years old or something.
‘Do you know your real dad?’
‘No. Mum said it was one of those t’ings. You know. A one-night stand kinda t’ing.’
‘Your mum? A one-night stand? She seems so …? What you call it? Don’t be offended but a little bit … stush.’
‘Yeah, so everyone says,’ said Breanna.
‘She must have an idea who your dad is. Haven’t you ever asked her about it?’
‘Yeah I did. Nuff times. But I gave up after a while. She’s sticking to her story.’
‘What story?’
‘Back in the day she went to some party. Someone made some hash cakes. The chronic was burning. Everyone had a proper buzz on, drinks were flowing and Mum ended up in a bedroom with some guy. She was so out of it she doesn’t remember who she was with or what happened. Two months or so later she found out she was pregnant with me.’
‘And you believe that?’
They were passing under the bridge in Brixton High Street. A train rattled overhead. A sudden gust disturbed debris alongside the kerb. Breanna secured the top button of her body-warmer. She paused and looked at Malakai. ‘No. I never believed it,’ she finally answered. ‘But if Mum wants me to believe her story then I will. I don’t want to dig deeper ’cos the truth might be something a lot worse. I think she was raped.’
‘Raped!’
‘It’s a mad guess but it would explain a lot,’ reasoned Breanna. ‘You should see photos of Mum when she was young. She was beautiful. Still is. Even now I see men much younger than her step up to her. I wish I got all of her looks.’
‘You’re beautiful too,’ said Malakai.
‘Sometimes Mum’s so sad,’ resumed Breanna, ignoring Malakai’s compliment. ‘So was Gran. You know when someone’s smiling but you can still see their pain? Them two were like that. Mum’s still like that. It’s like they knew something but they won’t tell me ’cos they know it would hurt me.’
‘Their generation went through a lot,’ said Malakai. ‘My mum’s kinda sad too. She split up from Dad when I was about five. She’s had about four boyfriends since then but all of them let her down. She’s always cussing about black men and when she does I feel kinda bad. I’m a grown-up black man now. I’m twenty-three. Makes me wonder if one day I’ll make a good dad.’
‘Do you still see your dad?’
‘Now and again. He lives in Crystal Palace with some whitegirl. Younger than him. They got a six-year-old daughter. Precious is her name. My baby sister. Mum don’t like me calling Precious my sister. So I don’t tell Mum when I visit her.’
‘It’s good that you see her though.’
Stopping at the bus stop outside Brixton market, they caught up with Jazz and Sean. The cold air couldn’t quite quench the smell of rotting vegetables, spoilt fruit and stale fish. No one was paying any attention to the ranter with a microphone outside Brixton tube station. Close to him was a tall rasta selling incense sticks; he wasn’t getting much trade.
‘I think you should ask your mum about your real dad,’ said Malakai. ‘You’re a big woman now. Twenty-one tomorrow. What she told you about your real dad don’t sound right. Ask her again but be polite about it. Be understanding. Ask in a mature way.’
‘I will,’ replied Breanna.
‘We’ll wait until
‘That’s my nickname for Malakai,’ explained Breanna. ‘Don’t you think his complexion is like milk chocolate?’
Jazz picked up the bottle of perfume and she inspected it like a Z-list celeb studying an article about themselves in a tabloid. ‘Mind my girl don’t lick your complexion off,’ she joked.
After everyone bought a cheesecake to take away, Sean walked with Jazz and Malakai stepped with Breanna. He had his right arm around her shoulders and they soon lagged twenty yards or so behind the others.
‘So your dad is not your real dad?’ Malakai said.
‘No,’ answered Breanna. ‘Him and Mum got together when I was about two years old or something.
‘Do you know your real dad?’
‘No. Mum said it was one of those t’ings. You know. A one-night stand kinda t’ing.’
‘Your mum? A one-night stand? She seems so …? What you call it? Don’t be offended but a little bit … stush.’
‘Yeah, so everyone says,’ said Breanna.
‘She must have an idea who your dad is. Haven’t you ever asked her about it?’
‘Yeah I did. Nuff times. But I gave up after a while. She’s sticking to her story.’
‘What story?’
‘Back in the day she went to some party. Someone made some hash cakes. The chronic was burning. Everyone had a proper buzz on, drinks were flowing and Mum ended up in a bedroom with some guy. She was so out of it she doesn’t remember who she was with or what happened. Two months or so later she found out she was pregnant with me.’
‘And you believe that?’
They were passing under the bridge in Brixton High Street. A train rattled overhead. A sudden gust disturbed debris alongside the kerb. Breanna secured the top button of her body-warmer. She paused and looked at Malakai. ‘No. I never believed it,’ she finally answered. ‘But if Mum wants me to believe her story then I will. I don’t want to dig deeper ’cos the truth might be something a lot worse. I think she was raped.’
‘Raped!’
‘It’s a mad guess but it would explain a lot,’ reasoned Breanna. ‘You should see photos of Mum when she was young. She was beautiful. Still is. Even now I see men much younger than her step up to her. I wish I got all of her looks.’
‘You’re beautiful too,’ said Malakai.
‘Sometimes Mum’s so sad,’ resumed Breanna, ignoring Malakai’s compliment. ‘So was Gran. You know when someone’s smiling but you can still see their pain? Them two were like that. Mum’s still like that. It’s like they knew something but they won’t tell me ’cos they know it would hurt me.’
‘Their generation went through a lot,’ said Malakai. ‘My mum’s kinda sad too. She split up from Dad when I was about five. She’s had about four boyfriends since then but all of them let her down. She’s always cussing about black men and when she does I feel kinda bad. I’m a grown-up black man now. I’m twenty-three. Makes me wonder if one day I’ll make a good dad.’
‘Do you still see your dad?’
‘Now and again. He lives in Crystal Palace with some whitegirl. Younger than him. They got a six-year-old daughter. Precious is her name. My baby sister. Mum don’t like me calling Precious my sister. So I don’t tell Mum when I visit her.’
‘It’s good that you see her though.’
Stopping at the bus stop outside Brixton market, they caught up with Jazz and Sean. The cold air couldn’t quite quench the smell of rotting vegetables, spoilt fruit and stale fish. No one was paying any attention to the ranter with a microphone outside Brixton tube station. Close to him was a tall rasta selling incense sticks; he wasn’t getting much trade.
‘I think you should ask your mum about your real dad,’ said Malakai. ‘You’re a big woman now. Twenty-one tomorrow. What she told you about your real dad don’t sound right. Ask her again but be polite about it. Be understanding. Ask in a mature way.’
‘I will,’ replied Breanna.
‘We’ll wait until
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