The child was too old for this malarkey. It had to stop.

CHAPTER 11

Battersea, London, 1969

DAWN released London from anonymous night,

spires, bridges, monuments, a silver flash of Thames

emerged from darkness under the insipid eyes

of giraffes which lined the deserted embankments.

Battersea Power Station loomed incongruous, Peruvian

Temple of Energy, magnetising bleary-eyed men

who approached it, the spokes of a wheel to its hub.

Cloth cap, donkey jacket, dungarees, steel-toed boots

adorned men who will work iron, levers, pistons

until twilight diffuses the city skyline opaque again.

Taiwo double-decker dreamed his way to Battersea

each morning, long before the wife and progeny stirred.

Life is a boxing ring with no referee, judge or prize.

How I tire of defending my right to exist on these

great British isles. How I ache with invisible bruises.

How I long to saunter casually down the road

without tensing my stomach muscles, ready for foes.

Hey, what a speech. I will write a play. One to rival

Saint Joan. ‘The Tired Boxer’ by Taiwo da Costa,

the brilliant new Bernard Shaw from the colonies.

Ah, if only. First to provide for my brood in a job

where my imagination dies and my soul suffocates.

TAIWO

MY CHILDREN will not swim in a lake of lost dreams,

with discipline they will flourish in my new republic.

I line my little army up for two important reasons,

the first – to greet people to the house, the second –

when they are so bad that punishment is due:

a broken window, ripped sofa, money missing.

I put Juliana at the head, then age down to Kenelm,

make them stand still until they admit their crime.

With so many they think they can fool their daddy,

but I can wait forever, eat dinner, read the paper,

until the culprits own up and are suitably chastised.

If not, they all make friends with my wooden spoon.

‘Left hands out,’ I order, then work my way down.

The seniors get 15 strokes, the youngest a mere tap.

Their lips tremble, they push back crocodile tears.

If the boys cry, I hit harder. Weakness is not a male asset.

Finally, dismissed, they troop out of the kitchen.

‘Don’t hit them, Taiwo,’ Ellen moans. She is too soft.

I will not have it. I know how to raise my children.

This is a harsh, harsh world. They will be prepared.

I must show them the ropes, so to speak.

THE KEY turned. The front door.

Lara’s throat dehydrated, saliva syringed down

her windpipe. Her tummy a tumble-dryer, thrashed.

Her heart became a man’s hobnail boot kicking,

trying to break through the delicate ribs of her chest.

She tried to outstare the television. If she blinked

water would free up, spill out of the sockets, be seen.

The tribe sat, entranced by The Magic Roundabout.

Thudded feet, the hall’s floorboards groaned, then

the Best Room door opened and Taiwo boomed in,

his voice shuddering, gravely, laden with authority.