Where Women are Kings (7 page)

‘Approved adopters!’ shouted Chanel. She handed over
half a dozen pink balloons. ‘A baby! We’re going to have a baby!’

Nikki pulled them into the house and held the string on the balloons, not knowing what to say.

‘Approved adopters,’ said Chanel again. ‘So exciting.’ She walked into the living room with Jasmin trailing after her, and Nikki followed them in. ‘Have you picked one yet?’

Chanel was hugging Obi, then Daddy, so they didn’t notice the balloons at first, but then Obi started to laugh. ‘We haven’t actually got a child yet, you know. And what’s with the pink? We are not specifying the gender.’

Jasmin suddenly looked interested. ‘Ew. You’re getting a boy? Maisie in my class has a baby brother and her mum spends all day cleaning snot off his nose.’

‘Jasmin.’ Nikki let the balloons go and dance in the air above them and put her arm around Jasmin’s shoulder. ‘It could be a boy, or a girl.’

‘And it probably won’t be a baby,’ said Obi. ‘Whoever we get matched with will be perfect for this family. Most children who need adopting are older. Look.’ Obi picked up a magazine and laid it on his lap, flicking open the first page.

Nikki sat down next to Obi. Daddy got up from his chair and moved next to Obi, sitting on the arm of the sofa. Nikki made to move but he shook his head. ‘I’m fine,’ he said, looking down at the magazine on Obi’s lap.

‘I’m not sure we shouldn’t save this for later,’ said Nikki, gesturing with her eyes to Jasmin.

But Jasmin didn’t move.

‘She’s fine,’ said Chanel. ‘It’ll be her cousin, after all.’

Faces stared out at them: a few babies, but mostly older children in pairs or threes, most of them mixed race or black.
Every single one of the children looked beautiful to Nikki. Children waiting to be adopted were all beautiful, unusually so, with thick, long eyelashes and eyes that opened wide and glistened. All the photos showed the children in their best clothes, ribbons in their hair, clean and neat. Underneath each photo was an advertisement for that particular child, as though the children were white goods – fridges or washing machines. Nikki tried not to focus on the babies’ faces, but she felt her eyes drawn towards theirs, wide open, their smiling gums and chubby cheeks.

She touched the pages on Obi’s lap. ‘Ricardo said to read between the lines, whatever that means. I suppose like here, it says, “Sammy (not real name)”, so that might mean the birth family are looking for them – want to take them back. There might be a possibility of abduction.’

‘Abduction?’ said Daddy. ‘Really? Is that a possibility?’

Nikki nodded. It was true. There were so many possibilities. Abduction by birth families was just one of them. ‘These children aren’t given up, they’re taken from their birth families due to the worst abuse you could imagine. Often families try and trace them; that’s why they like to place children out of borough.’ The words rang through Nikki as she looked at the photographs:
not real name
.

‘Abducted by aliens,’ whispered Jasmin.

‘Or it might mean that they’ve got a ridiculous name,’ said Obi. ‘Look. There’s one here called Lion; I mean, who calls a kid “Lion”? In seriousness?’ He laughed.

‘Lion!’ Imagine a child in Nigeria called Lion,’ said Daddy. ‘Nobody would have him visit their house.’

Chanel laughed so loudly the balloons moved across the ceiling. Jasmin walked towards Daddy and he reached out and pretended to tickle her. He was the only person that Jasmin
let treat her like a child, and her face lit up whenever Daddy was nearby.

They turned the next page, and the next. The adverts were all similar, but occasionally Obi would stop at one and read it out.

‘
Lucy is a happy three-year-old girl who attends nursery part time where she is showing some difficulties but progressing well with support. She has some developmental delay, which may be due to her past experiences. Her foster carers describe her as a happy little rainbow who enjoys Peppa Pig and dressing up. Lucy would benefit from one parent being at home full time and no other children in the household
.’ He paused. In the photo was a little girl with blond hair, blue eyes, pale skin. ‘She looks lovely,’ he said. ‘Mind you, they all look lovely.’

‘Aw, Nik, she looks perfect. I can picture her now in that new Rhianna collection they have for kids at River Island. O.M.G. Like clothes for adults, but just miniature. She could totally pull off leopard print.’

Nikki hit Chanel’s arm gently while Obi chuckled and shook his head.

Nikki looked down at the magazine again. She did look lovely to Nikki, but all Nikki could think of were alarm bells. Read between the lines, Ricardo had told them. Support, developmental delay,
cannot live with other children
. What would she do to the other children? thought Nikki. What had happened to her?

‘Too white,’ said Daddy.

Nikki leant forward and shot him a look.

‘Well, she is,’ he said, his eyes laughing.

‘Or, look at these two. Gorgeous.’ Obi pointed to two smiling children, a boy and girl, both mixed race – or ‘dual heritage’ as Ricardo kept correcting them – with beautiful
happy faces. ‘
Talesha and Malika, age four and five, are a brother and sister who need to be adopted together. They have an older sibling who is to be adopted separately. Talesha has recently started reception and is settling well. She enjoys making cakes and flying kites. Talesha is a confident little girl who would benefit from clear boundaries. Malika is a boisterous boy who likes playing outside on his bike. He has shown some signs of attachment difficulties for which he is receiving extra support. Malika is very protective of his younger sister and finds it hard to let others care for her at times, though we anticipate that with time this will improve. Talesha and Malika’s foster carers describe them as a cheerful handful
.’

‘Cool names,’ said Chanel.

‘Nightmare,’ said Nikki.

‘What do you mean? They look lovely.’

‘What kinds of names are those? They don’t sound Nigerian!’ said Daddy.

‘Daddy, we’ve been over this,’ said Obi. ‘The child we adopt probably won’t be Nigerian. At least not Igbo. And it really doesn’t matter to us anyway.’

‘Eh? I hope you’re joking.’ Daddy pretended to fall off the arm of the sofa.

Nikki ignored them and focused on the magazine. ‘They do look lovely, but can you imagine how much work they’ll be, how much help they will need? Maybe the older one cared for the younger one because they were so neglected. And I read somewhere that neglect is the worst form of abuse. It damages their brains. Anyway, look at this little fella!’ Nikki pointed to a photo of a fat baby with a gummy smile.

Obi turned the page back to Talesha and Malika. ‘What are you talking about?’ He hadn’t even looked at the baby. Nikki felt her eyes sting. He put his other hand on top of Nikki’s.
‘That’s the whole point, isn’t it? That we help someone who needs help the most?’ He squeezed her hand.

She looked at Obi’s kind face, the outline of Daddy’s kind face behind him. ‘You’re right,’ she said. ‘It’s just a bit scary, that’s all, to think about a life, a life that we’re in charge of.’

‘I know, but what a thing to do! Look at these kids. All of them. Of course they’ll have issues but they need love. Love is the most important thing they’ve missed. And we have plenty of love.’

Nikki picked up a magazine from the pile and flicked through the pages. It was an older magazine, one that Ricardo had left them as it was out of date. ‘Malika and Talesha,’ she said. ‘Look.’

It was definitely the children from the other magazine. ‘It’s the same two,’ Obi said. ‘A year ago. A whole year in care, being advertised and no parents coming forward. That should tell you everything you need to know if you’re feeling unsure about what we’re doing here.’

‘Poor little things,’ said Chanel. She leant towards Jasmin, but Jasmin stepped away from her.

Nikki breathed deeply. Obi was right. It made perfect sense. They should help someone who needed help the most. Poor kids.

‘They are not the right ones for you,’ said Daddy.

‘We’re not shopping for a new car, Daddy. We’re looking at children. And lives. Imagine all these children and what they’ve been through.’ Obi moved the magazine over to Nikki’s lap.

Daddy moved back over to his chair and sat down, leant forwards. ‘I know. I am making light of dark work,’ he said. ‘And I want you both to know that I will be on this journey
with you every step of the way. We all are. I love you both and I’m so proud of you.’

Obi laughed and pulled Nikki’s hand towards his mouth and kissed her fingers. ‘With us all together, we’ll be fine,’ he said.

‘We’ll help, Aunty Nikki,’ said Jasmin.

‘Of course we will,’ Chanel agreed.

‘I mean it,’ said Obi. ‘We are going to give a child a chance, a real chance.’

Nikki looked back down to the magazine.

So many children with read-between-the-lines stories. So many older children still waiting. Nikki tried to focus on them. But her eyes kept moving away and landing on the babies.

‘You don’t need the magazine,’ said Daddy. ‘Our boy isn’t in there.’

‘Here we go,’ said Nikki, loud enough for Daddy to hear.

‘I’m serious. My grandchild is a boy,’ he said. ‘A Nigerian boy.’ He looked to the ceiling and put his hands together as if praying. ‘A
Nigerian
boy.’

*

Later that afternoon, Obi was called into work. Something important. He had kissed her hair, grabbed his keys and run out. Nikki went for a walk to clear her head. She usually walked through the park towards the river – almost daily, if the weather allowed it. She loved to be near the water. Growing up, she’d lived close to the sea, her childhood filled with brawny, yellow-booted fishermen, whose laughter rattled like her mum and dad’s house. But that day Nikki found herself walking towards the swing park, in the opposite direction to the water that usually drew her. Their plans whirled round and round inside her. She understood why Obi wanted to
help an older child, a child who needed help and who might be overlooked. And, seeing those children in the magazines getting older and older, she had felt his excitement that they might be able to rescue one. But still, her head was filled with the 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.

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 came knocking, and would take down the note from her door that said,
One hour, one pound, per child
. I waved at her a few times but she was hardly ever on the balcony and kept the children inside with the curtains closed and television on loud. The flat on the other side was quieter and always smelt of burning plantain, sweet and fiery at the same time. Men went in and out, and hung around the doorway. Bad-looking men. Those kinds of men would have been arrested in Lagos, simply for looking the way they did – shifty-eyed and furtive, like they’d committed a crime. Akpan told me to stay away from that doorway as bad people lived there, but, son of mine, I had a brain in my head and could see for myself. I made the sign of the cross whenever I walked quickly past. But they didn’t bother us, and so we didn’t bother them. Our flat was desperate for decoration; the carpet had lived many generations and the pattern was difficult to see, but cleanliness is next to Godliness, as you know, and so I did my best, keeping the surfaces clean, filling the air with the smell of jollof rice. I had Akpan buy plenty of bleach and small wipes in a yellow packet that removed the smell of the mouse, for a few minutes at least. We were not rich, and it was not a palace, but those first few months of living in Deptford were magical, filled with brightness. We lived in our own little cloud. Akpan would return from his work and we’d sit on the balcony and look out across
London, while I fried some plantain and listened to his stories. He liked to tell me about his childhood and the games he played, the school he loved where he was president of the chess society. We heard of a church, Deliverance Church, which was at the end of Deptford High Street, next to the stalls selling coats and bathroom products, bin bags and trainers, and was run by Bishop Fortune, a Nigerian man from Jos.