Reading the Ceiling by Dayo Forster

through it.
    Taiwo: At last!
    Reuben: I hear congratulations are in order.
    Amina (by phone): Not to worry sweetie, my sharp ears tell me he’s been around town and some.
    Meena (by email): As long as your family is with you, it’ll be all right.
    My mother buys me a new Magimix that can chop peppeh en yabbas , cream butter and sugar, grind fluffy akara batter. She raids her cupboards and digs up an inheritance of her household treasures: tablecloths and napkins, embroidered sheets and pillowcases, tea towels with pictures of Buckingham Palace, Arcoroc glasses printed with butterflies, teapots with painted-on sunflowers, sharp kitchen knives.
    She says as she hands them over, ‘I saved these for many years. I’ve given Taiwo hers and these are yours. Kainde’s are still waiting for when she’s ready.’
    At our wedding, my mother’s magnificent hat shadows my face as we stand in the sunlight on the steps of the registry office.

6
Rejection
    â€˜Boy, I’m telling you, I saw this with my own eyes. Grown-up men like me and you, rubbing their noses in that man’s shit for a post in government.’
    Frederick Adams is expressing his views on our verandah, lit by two kerosene lamps stuck on hooks on the pillars. There is no electricity tonight.
    â€˜And look at this. Even if we’d been fighting a war, there’d be nothing worth bombing. We’re sitting in all their vomit. Ten years and still the same floating dustbin we had with the old guy.’
    His friend, Musa Kinteh, replies, ‘They call it progress. Did you see the Celebration of Liberation Day headlines yesterday? We came to power to give “Justice to the Poor”.’
    â€˜You said it, also Water for Wasters. Farts for Farmers. All idiots, that’s what we’ve got.’
    â€˜What makes it worse is that they are young  idiots. At least the old guy knew how to do it with style.’
    â€˜These young ones threaten, then bang! bang! Six foot deep.’ The two of them are playing damiyeh , loudly slapping round wooden pieces on a homemade board cut slightly out of its square by the gardener, and then painted black and white on an uncertain grid.
    â€˜And then they go after your family.’
    â€˜You’re right. We can talk and complain. But we have family responsibilities and you never know when they’ll go after them to get at you.’
    â€˜ Tai. Tai. ’ With each bang of a black-painted counter onto the board, Fred skips over Musa’s white ones, embellishing the noise with his own sound of victory before settling to a final, ‘ Tai.  You were getting a bit overconfident there, weren’t you?’
    â€˜Watch your back. One little game does not mean you’ve won the match. Tell that to our government.’ Musa stretches his arms out over his back, his chin, speckled with white beard, juts out.
    â€˜What do you say, Dele, look, I’ve whapped him again. He thought my mind was on politics but it’s all tactics.’
    I bring out two more lamps and a tray of snacks for the men. Another two of Fred’s friends, Suni and Alhaji, are bent over a charcoal brazier, one holding a small teapot aloft while the other pokes at the coals.
    It’s game night. The men will play damiyeh  on two boards in their own mini-league, well into the start of Sunday morning. A fresh pack of green tea waits on the small table on the verandah. The tea will be mixed with water and brought to the boil. Someone will add sugar. The first round will be light and sweet, with no depth. They will simply pour this away into the flowerbed where those stubby succulents with boat-shaped flowers grow. There’s no one younger to give it to, no one who cannot as yet take the bitter tang of subsequent brews, the hit that drives away sleep. Their ataya  will be thick and strong, but with a sweet undercurrent. There’s a little metal plate that holds four cups. Suni