The fish we have there is called electric eel because it

gives you a shock when you hold it.’ Lara was getting

impatient. Why was he always so long-winded about things.

‘Is your language Nigerian?’ / ‘Eh! Eh! You really do not

know anything.’ Your fault, Lara thought. Your fault.

‘MY TRIBE is Yoruba, that is my language.

Then there are the other tribes. The Hausas are illiterate,

the Ibos are cannibals, the Fulanis, beggars, and so forth.

At home we speak Yoruba but at school, English.

In my language names mean something. If you are called

Rotimi you will die young. Just as well I did not give

you that name.’ Taiwo chuckled to himself. Lara poked

out her tongue. ‘What else do you want to know?’

‘What was your mother like?’ / ‘Oh, very nice.’ / ‘Yes but

what was she like?’ / ‘A very nice lady, I can safely say.’

‘Well, what was your father like?’ / ‘He was very nice too.’

This time she rolled her eyes. ‘Was he born in Lagos?’

‘Oh no, he came from Brazil.’ Lara shrieked, ‘My grandfather

was Brazilian?’ Taiwo cut in, ‘Don’t shout. Why are you

so excited? You would rather be anything than an African.’

‘Tell me about him,’ Lara pleaded. Was he very nice too?,

she wanted to add. ‘He went to Lagos when he was a boy.

His father brought him, you know, that slavery thing.’

‘So we were slaves just like the West Indians?’ / ‘Never!

We Africans will never be like them. You know they

live in shanty towns with goats sleeping under the bed?

Now that’s enough. I have work to do.’ She was irritating

him, he decided. He didn’t want to go tomb-raiding.

She left, feeling cheated, feeling stirred.

AS LARA approached the terraced box, she chucked

her fag in the gutter, quickly cracked a mint

and buttoned her blouse from chest to neck.

A musical two-tone ding blurred a body in the glassed

hall, it peeped behind the security chain, opened up.

‘Hello, hello. Lovely to see you.’ They kissed –

one cheek cool satin, the other compact powder puff.

‘Let me take your coat.’ At four foot ten inches,

with wavy white curls in a 30s bob, Peggy limped

sideways into a flowered room of oak and ornaments.

She fussed in with salads, cold cuts, condiments, cakes

and a china teapot in a Rasta tea cosy. Lara grinned,

glanced over the crew-cut lawn barbered weekly

by one of the tribe for an intoxicating 50p piece.

‘Come along, let’s eat.’ They smiled over the cream

broderie anglaise tablecloth, silver cutlery, engraved

crockery which had been born in the last century.

Lara made a special effort to honour her table manners,

not to slump, scatter crumbs, elbow the table, slouch,

spread too much jam, talk with her mouth full, burp,

say yeh instead of yes or do the unheard of – swear.

They chatted politely but nothing was said.

NO DA COSTA photos memoried the mantelpiece.