Read Online Where Women are Kings by Christie Watson - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Christie Watson
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sound of a baby crying and her arms were too light and empty.
She walked past the thick trees, and the playground full of children. The sun was shining brightly, making the grass look AstroTurf green. The park was filled with the smell of summer. An ice-cream van perched on the side of the path; a small queue of children formed in front of it, looking up longingly at the pictures on the side of the van of different coloured ice creams. As Nikki walked past, she smiled at a young girl pointing to a 99 Flake. Her mother shook her head.
‘No,’ she said. ‘You can have a small natural-fruit lolly only. Don’t want to spoil your dinner.’ She looked over the girl’s head and winked at Nikki.
But Nikki didn’t wink back. She’d have loved the chance to give her child an ice cream. Nikki walked on towards the playground, which was filled with mothers. Some were talking while their children went up and down slides; some pushed younger children and babies on the swings while texting or talking on mobile phones. One mum, though, was completely focused on her child. Her boy, who was around six or seven years old, was climbing a tree and she was standing below it, her arms outstretched as if to catch him.
‘I won’t fall, Mum,’ he shouted.
He was almost hanging upside down. But his mum laughed. ‘I’ll catch you.’
‘Am I allowed to go higher?’
‘Yes, but be careful.’
Nikki stood next to the gate and found that she was gripping the railings and holding her breath. He was so high up in the tree that she only saw a trainer poking out from the branches.
His mum stood, looking up, still smiling.
Eventually he climbed down and jumped the last part, and then ran towards his mum’s outstretched arms. ‘I did it, Mum! I did it!’
Nikki found her eyes glued to the mother and son. She’d give anything to be that mother standing under the tree. She thought about the girl without an ice cream. Nikki looked around the playground in front of her.
I can do it, she thought. I don’t need a baby. A child is a child. I will have a son or daughter at last. I’ll let them climb really high, and be ready to catch them if they fall.
SEVEN
My Elijah,
As I write this, I can see the colours of spring bursting through the ground. I can see everything here from the shade of this tree, sitting on my ‘writing bench’, as I’ve named it. I like looking out. Especially at this time of year. The best thing about England is surely the spring, here reminding us that after every winter come flowers and sunshine, with tiny buds of colour and hope. With the air like it is today – blowing so soft on my face, smelling of all things pure – and the lawn laid out green in front of me, anything feels possible. Even in England. But I know the truth of it. That, of course, after every colour comes another, and after spring, summer and autumn comes winter, dark and cold like a terrible dream. There is never winter in Nigeria. Even now, as I look at the first hint of the best English spring, my stomach rolls into a ball when I think of home, spiny like a hedgehog curled up inside me. I remember everything as if it all happened in a dream last night. Leaving Nigeria was the most difficult thing of all. I’ll never forget the look on my mother’s face at the airport, the pain in her eyes wider than the earth. But I was young, and excited, and going to England. I imagined a place as sweet-tasting as my childhood breakfast cereals. The reality I was confronted with was not sweet at all, but bitter and sour.
We had a small flat, Akpan and I, which was difficult to clean, and smelt of the dead mouse that, despite our best efforts, we could never find. We lived on the eighth floor of a tall building with lifts that were stained with urine. Nigeria is a much cleaner place. We had two neighbours: the first, a Ghanaian, was an unregistered childminder and had somehow found a way to hide twenty or so young children whenever the authorities
She walked past the thick trees, and the playground full of children. The sun was shining brightly, making the grass look AstroTurf green. The park was filled with the smell of summer. An ice-cream van perched on the side of the path; a small queue of children formed in front of it, looking up longingly at the pictures on the side of the van of different coloured ice creams. As Nikki walked past, she smiled at a young girl pointing to a 99 Flake. Her mother shook her head.
‘No,’ she said. ‘You can have a small natural-fruit lolly only. Don’t want to spoil your dinner.’ She looked over the girl’s head and winked at Nikki.
But Nikki didn’t wink back. She’d have loved the chance to give her child an ice cream. Nikki walked on towards the playground, which was filled with mothers. Some were talking while their children went up and down slides; some pushed younger children and babies on the swings while texting or talking on mobile phones. One mum, though, was completely focused on her child. Her boy, who was around six or seven years old, was climbing a tree and she was standing below it, her arms outstretched as if to catch him.
‘I won’t fall, Mum,’ he shouted.
He was almost hanging upside down. But his mum laughed. ‘I’ll catch you.’
‘Am I allowed to go higher?’
‘Yes, but be careful.’
Nikki stood next to the gate and found that she was gripping the railings and holding her breath. He was so high up in the tree that she only saw a trainer poking out from the branches.
His mum stood, looking up, still smiling.
Eventually he climbed down and jumped the last part, and then ran towards his mum’s outstretched arms. ‘I did it, Mum! I did it!’
Nikki found her eyes glued to the mother and son. She’d give anything to be that mother standing under the tree. She thought about the girl without an ice cream. Nikki looked around the playground in front of her.
I can do it, she thought. I don’t need a baby. A child is a child. I will have a son or daughter at last. I’ll let them climb really high, and be ready to catch them if they fall.
SEVEN
My Elijah,
As I write this, I can see the colours of spring bursting through the ground. I can see everything here from the shade of this tree, sitting on my ‘writing bench’, as I’ve named it. I like looking out. Especially at this time of year. The best thing about England is surely the spring, here reminding us that after every winter come flowers and sunshine, with tiny buds of colour and hope. With the air like it is today – blowing so soft on my face, smelling of all things pure – and the lawn laid out green in front of me, anything feels possible. Even in England. But I know the truth of it. That, of course, after every colour comes another, and after spring, summer and autumn comes winter, dark and cold like a terrible dream. There is never winter in Nigeria. Even now, as I look at the first hint of the best English spring, my stomach rolls into a ball when I think of home, spiny like a hedgehog curled up inside me. I remember everything as if it all happened in a dream last night. Leaving Nigeria was the most difficult thing of all. I’ll never forget the look on my mother’s face at the airport, the pain in her eyes wider than the earth. But I was young, and excited, and going to England. I imagined a place as sweet-tasting as my childhood breakfast cereals. The reality I was confronted with was not sweet at all, but bitter and sour.
We had a small flat, Akpan and I, which was difficult to clean, and smelt of the dead mouse that, despite our best efforts, we could never find. We lived on the eighth floor of a tall building with lifts that were stained with urine. Nigeria is a much cleaner place. We had two neighbours: the first, a Ghanaian, was an unregistered childminder and had somehow found a way to hide twenty or so young children whenever the authorities
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