A scholarship girl. Mummy is really pleased with me.

Our school motto is Death Before Dishonour. I am not

sure what it means but there was a twelve-year-old girl

called Maria Goretti who died on a hilltop rather

than lose her honour. We said Mass for her at school.

I am so smart in my uniform. My best friends is Maureen

alias Piggy. Her father is a lawyer so Mummy says

she is a good friend to have.

Love from your Buttercup Princess who is now grown up. x

Dear Gerard,

It was such a lovely surprise to get your letter.

Well, I passed my Highers, with God’s help, and I am soon

off to Maria Assumpta Teacher’s Training College

in Kensington in the centre of London.

Sad news to tell. Reverend Mother St Hilda passed away

this term. It was she who inspired me to devote my life

to the service of God. (I told Mummy and she was livid!)

She lay in our chapel, Ker Ana, surrounded by white lilies,

while we filed past in tears. She looked like a waxwork.

It was so sad.

Fondest love from Ellen of olden times. x

CHAPTER 7

1953 –

THE YEAR Lizbet is crowned, Everest conquered

and Ellen is courted with flowers from Taiwo each week,

who awaits her presence in a stained-glass vestibule

under the slitted-eyes of shadowy nuns who suspect all

suitors are womanisers out to mattress their charges.

In his threadbare bedsit in Atlantic Road, Brixton,

Taiwo plays seducer with his brand new radiogram,

queues of Bing Crosby, Dean Martin and Nat King Cole

ballads glide smoothly down to his suggestive strokes.

But Ellen giggles sex out the window like a rotten apple

for its purpose is solely for babies within marriage,

and Taiwo retracts his slim-fingered attempts to slide

over butter-coloured flesh to unleash rising breasts

caged in a bullet-shaped brassière and succumbs

to the hollow delights of Hollywood kisses instead.

One long night cycle ride from Kensington to Brixton,

Taiwo’s mind backpedals to his mother at the docks,

he’d ignored her cry for years: Taiwo…Taiwo…Taiwo…

It queased his stomach, nightmared his dreams, jumped

into his thoughts when off-guard throwing him off-centre.

Now was the time to write that letter home.

Lagos, Nigeria, 1954

ZENOBIA

MY DEAR BOY, praise the almighty that you are safe.

How could I have produced such a heartless boy, eh?

It took so long to write a little letter to your mother?

I, who carried you for nine months, suckled and raised you?

My boy, you must never forget where you came from.

The news I bring you should be relayed face to face

but as my boy is so far away, pen and paper must suffice.

The scream which sliced through a rainy season night

is ever imprinted on the memories of those who heard it.

It carried no hope, no future, no redemption.

It was your twin, Kehinde, in labour, and by the time