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Back Afterlove
Chapters (86)
  1. Title Page
  2. CONTENTS
  3. Love
  4. Before
  5. One
  6. ONE
  7. Two
  8. TWO
  9. Three
  10. THREE
  11. Four
  12. FOUR
  13. Five
  14. FIVE
  15. Six
  16. SIX
  17. Seven
  18. SEVEN
  19. Eight
  20. EIGHT
  21. Nine
  22. NINE
  23. Ten
  24. TEN
  25. Eleven
  26. ELEVEN
  27. After
  28. One
  29. ONE
  30. Two
  31. TWO
  32. Three
  33. THREE
  34. Four
  35. FOUR
  36. Five
  37. FIVE
  38. Six
  39. SIX
  40. Seven
  41. SEVEN
  42. Eight
  43. EIGHT
  44. Nine
  45. NINE
  46. Ten
  47. TEN
  48. Eleven
  49. ELEVEN
  50. Twelve
  51. TWELVE
  52. Thirteen
  53. THIRTEEN
  54. Fourteen
  55. FOURTEEN
  56. Fifteen
  57. FIFTEEN
  58. Sixteen
  59. SIXTEEN
  60. Seventeen
  61. SEVENTEEN
  62. Eighteen
  63. EIGHTEEN
  64. Nineteen
  65. NINETEEN
  66. Twenty
  67. TWENTY
  68. Twenty-One
  69. TWENTY-ONE
  70. Twenty-Two
  71. TWENTY-TWO
  72. Twenty-Three
  73. TWENTY-THREE
  74. Twenty-Four
  75. TWENTY-FOUR
  76. Twenty-Five
  77. TWENTY-FIVE
  78. Twenty-Six
  79. TWENTY-SIX
  80. Twenty-Seven
  81. TWENTY-SEVEN
  82. Twenty-Eight
  83. TWENTY-EIGHT
  84. Eleven Months Later
  85. ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
  86. Copyright

She pokes her head out of the kitchen holding a cutlass, her gaze narrowing, which I think is more of a threat to me than a potential axe murderer. I should probably be intimidated, but given that my mother is now shorter than both my little sister and me, it’s hard to be. So I smile sweetly at her and she mutters something I probably don’t want to hear, then heads back into the kitchen with a huff.

‘You hungry?’ she asks as I follow her in. She doesn’t wait for me to respond, just puts down the cutlass and plucks the fresh roti from the tawa on the stove with her fingers. She folds it in half and in half again then goes over to the sink and starts clapping it furiously between her hands until it begins to fluff up.

I don’t know how she does it. I tried it once and the roti was so hot that I screamed and dropped it into the sink. My Aunty Lalita thought it was hilarious, laughing for a good minute before berating my mother for not teaching me how do it sooner, saying that I’ll never find a husband if I can’t clap roti. I didn’t dare tell her that I’m not bothered about either of those things.

I’m guessing my mother just got out of the shower, because her hair’s still damp and beginning to dry in a fluffy halo around her hairline. It’s the same colour as mine, but threaded with grey now, which she used to hate, but has now given into, not bothering to dye it any more – not after she got some on the bathroom tiles last year and couldn’t get it out.

She’s wearing a pair of my father’s tracksuit bottoms and an old T-shirt of mine that says, OVER IT and is swamped in both, the cuffs of the tracksuit bottoms pooling over her red velvet slippers. She’d be mortified if anyone called round now and saw her like this, but I like it.

She looks like she does in those photographs of her and my father as teenagers.

‘Here,’ she says when she’s satisfied with the roti, putting it on a plate.

‘Oh yes!’ I grin, rubbing my hands together as she holds it out to me.

Everyone thinks their mother makes the best roti, but they’re wrong because my mother makes the best roti. They’re light and fluffy and crispy, all at once. I once told her that if I ever found myself on death row, her roti and chicken curry would be my last meal. That or her pumpkin and bake. We decided in that scenario I could have both.