With Taiwo umbilically attached she bubbled, unbearably

excited like a five-year-old on Christmas Eve; to him

she revealed the goodies of a country he’d only known

as a stranger peering through snug windows on icy nights.

His tour began with Seven Brides for Seven Brothers

in the neon-lit cinema of London’s Leicester Square;

boating on the Serpentine’s waveless waters filled

Sunday afternoons along with rambles on Hampstead’s

wild city heath; trains to Epping Forest – picture postcard

picnics of cheese, pickles, apples, orangeade,

under fairytale ancient trees; cycle rides over London’s

evening bridges following the liquid curve of the Thames

from the Tower to the glamorous lights of Chelsea Bridge;

Soho’s tempting finger beckoned on busy Friday nights

to Hi-life basement dives replete with émigrés and sailors,

or quiet tea-sipping at Lyons Corner House on the Strand.

Soon, betrothal to The Son was replaced by devotion

to potential husband and dreams of a huge brood

of children so lots of souls could be saved in Heaven.

ELLEN

YOU WILL go to your husband as an uncrushed flower,

I fondly recall Mother Superior’s eloquent sermon,

delivered to the sixth form, my last day at school.

I am so proud to know that simile will prevail for me.

It is a summer evening, warm as I imagine Taiwo’s land.

I write at my oak desk overlooking Kensington Square;

the scent of honeysuckle travels in through my open window

from the flower-filled gardens where young lovers linger.

I think I have always felt worthless, really, of no account,

yet he makes me feel so important, I am so loved by him.

He phones me every day and I feel cherished.

I cannot believe how my love for Taiwo grows daily.

I love him with every limb, every bone, each beat of my heart,

every thought of my weak brain, every living part of me.

I love him more than life, until I die and go home to God.

I wanted to help Africa but Africa was brought to me.

My friends Mavis, Gwennie and Amy are overjoyed.

We will graduate as teachers, marry our beloveds,

go forth and multiply. My childhood has now been shed

as a caterpillar leaves its chrysalis, only to be recalled

as witty anecdotes to entertain my darling Taiwo

on winter’s cosy, married, muffin-toasting nights.

CHAPTER 2

Abbey Wood, London, 1935 –

BABY ELLEN was the cherished, cuddled, coddled,

much-loved child born to Peggy and Leslie Brinkworth.

Pampered with soaps, creams, powders; babyhood

was a perpetual playpen of squeezy, squeaky, squirty,

soft, fluffy and furry things. Nursery rhymes

seduced her to sleep, tinkering bells roused her awake,

oohs, aahs and eyes followed her every movement.

After seven years of a scrimping and saving courtship

to purchase a new house, cash down (£560) and furnish it,

the wedded two were overjoyed with their reproduction

ensconced each morning, horizontally gurgling,

to take air in her black bassinet perambulator in the garden.