Book Review: ''Circles'' for #GhanaLit Week

November 11-17, 2013 is Ghanaian Literature Week (#GhanaLit), a celebration of the literary scene in and connected to Ghana. Go on, familiarize yourself with the rules of engagement, and get involved! Below, a review of my first read, Boakyewaa Glover's 'Circles.'

The cyclical roller coaster that is Rabbie Daniels' life is at the centre of Boakyewaa Glover's debut novel, Circles. On the cusp of thirty, and caught up in a situation not unlike the vicious cycle she's experienced since first discovering the tricky thing called love, Rabbie takes stock of the events that have brought her to a pivotal point. And thus we meet her, this successful writer on CNN's International Desk who, it seems, cannot pen a drama-free existence for herself when it comes to her relationships. In order to understand her present fruitless search for love and validation, we must know her past. This is really where Circles begins, an elaborate, kaleidoscopic journey back to that first flush of love and the road since.

Glover takes us on something of an eventful blitz through Rabbie's little black book of boyfriends past. There is Selorm, the significant first with whom she first locks lips during a game of Truth or Dare. (I chuckled at how this 'risky' game has long been an undeniable accessory to many a teenage sexual discovery.) That first game of tonsil tennis seems to be the start of an unofficial coupling for Selorm and Rabbie, who revel in being together, talking, laughing and kissing the life out of each other. It all comes crashing down one night when, without precedent, she enjoys a very public kiss with another guy, Jon, in the full view of Selorm. This event marks the start of a troubling pattern that makes serial cheating par for the course in her latter relationships. Along the way there are other guys, including Junior, Edem, Tei, Kwame, Osei, Asare and Ato, this last the recurring sex buddy and best friend for whom she has a complex bag of feelings. Osei, too, is the besotted long suffering boyfriend who forgives her cheating ways time and again with no sign of change from Rabbie.

As we delve into the story, Circles conveys the circular wheels of a never ending ride that makes the novel so aptly named, because, boy, does that girl go round in circles. She is strong and opinionated, a young woman who doesn't suffer fools gladly, except perhaps when it comes to Ato, the lover who tramples all over her unsuspecting heart with his philandering ways in a manner that cuts deeply. And still she hooks up with him. You wonder how Rabbie, who, though she seems to have a level head screwed on, allows herself to be disrespected thus despite her unequivocal views on similar situations with her girl friends. And even though it's just as easy to dismiss these events as comeuppance for her lifetime of cheating on boyfriends, it doesn't dim the pity some. Because in what is art imitating life, there's always that one person, isn't there? (Thanks, Usher !)

She is likable and full of fizz, her caustic descriptions injecting humour into a story that nearly topples over with the presence of too many characters in a mostly simple plot. The chapter on her boarding school life in Wesley Girls' High School, for example, is a dizzying swirl of names, cliques and crisscrossing friendships. There hovered, however, a tinge of nostalgia for WGHS, incidentally my alma mater, so I definitely read that with a half smile.

Circles is no pressure cooker, coasting more on the simmering heat of a slow cooker. At its epicentre is the idea that we are each the choices we make, and the consequences thereof. And then, just as a kick up the bum, it throws into the ring the question '...so what the heck are you doing about yours?'

Boakyewaa Glover has chalked further success since this novel was published in 2009, and though I was not swept away by Circles, I certainly look forward to checking out her newer works.

Book Review: We Need New Names

In  a shantytown called Paradise resides a ten year old girl, Darling, from whom we get the story of We Need New Names, NoViolet Bulawayo's debut novel. There is aching loss and poverty and hope that balances precariously over an abyss of despair, yet Darling, together with her ragtag friends - Bastard, Sbho, Stina, Godknows and Chipo - embark on thrilling experiences that make everything piercingly alive from the inside of their adventurous hearts.

Very quickly, you learn that Paradise is far from the serenity and bliss the name suggests. The reality is that its inhabitants live in tin shacks; a microcosm of unemployment, hunger, political violence and the elusive search for change that splits families up as fathers depart to neighbouring countries to find work. It is not so long ago when they lived in real houses, when the kids went to school and learned to read English, when the fathers didn't spend all their time under the jacaranda playing draughts or the women just talking and doing each other's hair. When her father returns from an unsuccessful sojourn and is suffering from AIDS, Darling is unforgiving and resentful of the bony man rotting away in her mother's bed. Still, for their posse, life is fun and there are more pressing needs to see to. Like stealing guavas from the plush homes in Budapest to line stomachs gone hungry from not having any breakfast that day, even if it means they will feel like their anuses are being ripped apart with constipation later when they squat under the trees to defecate. The memories of their real homes being bulldozed by the police, forcing them to move into the tin shacks, is a different kind of horror to the realization that eleven year old Chipo is pregnant with her grandfather's child.

He did that, my grandfather. I was coming back from playing Find bin Laden and my grandmother was not there, and he got on me and pinned me down like that, and he clamped a hand over my mouth and was heavy like a mountain.

Chipo, hitherto to this moment, had long ago stopped talking as her stomach began to show, though she is not mute-mute. As the words burst from her, she is met with a helpless, almost desperate do you want to go and steal guavas, from Darling, who, despite grasping the terror of what's happened to her friend, could only hurtle with childlike speed toward the safety of an activity they enjoy. She is but a child herself, after all.

Days are spent thus; petty thefts, playing games, remembering the time before, and wondering how to get rid of Chipo's stomach once and for all, the last being the activity that gives the novel its eponymous title. They dream of escape to the real paradise of the USA, Canada and Europe - or failing that, South Africa, maybe even Botswana.

To play the country-game, we have to choose a country. Everybody wants to be the USA and Britain and Canada and Australia and Switzerland and them. Nobody wants to be rags of countries like Congo, like Somalia, like Iraq, like Haiti, and not even this one we live in - who wants to be a terrible place of hunger and things falling apart?

For Darling, this dream becomes a reality when her long bragged about Aunty Fostalina in Destroyedmichygen (Detroit, Michigan) comes for her and a new life in America begins.

Bulawayo displays finesse in capturing the effervescence in Darling's narration, often rhythmic and funny in its bluntness, as well as her mischievous mind. She pinches a baby her neighbour dumps on her laps at church without her permission because he is an ugly baby; his face looks shocked, like he has just seen the buttocks of a snake. The child obediently howls and the mother comes rushing back to collect him, fearing reproach from the other churchgoers. Job done.

America is big and the food plentiful. The men under the jacaranda are no longer there, nor the vendors gustily selling their wares, and definitely no gang calling her to go to Budapest. It is just the greedy snow covering everything with a whiteness that stretches as far as the eyes can see. This is America, yo, you won't see none of that African shit up in this motherfucker, her cousin TK informs her.

There is a delicate shift in Darling's tone by the second half of the story. A budding teenager, her views are less playfully expressed and more cynical, yet sharp as ever, as she observes life in America: white liberals breezily lumping all of Africa and its problems into one big country like it isn't a continent of over fifty nations, the conduct of an African marriage outside the confines of Africa, the ease of access to pornography online, the obsession with weight against the ever widening crisis of obesity in the West.

In America, the fatness is not the fatness I was used to at home. Over there, the fatness was of bigness, just ordinary fatness you could understand because it meant the person ate well, fatness you could even envy...
But this American fatness takes it to a whole 'nother level: the body is turned into something else - the neck becomes a thigh, the stomach becomes an anthill, an arm a thing, a buttock a I don't even know what.

The first part of the novel checklists raging issues in our continent such as the plight of street children, AIDS pandemic, political violence, hypocritical preachers as represented in Prophet Bitchington Mborro, child rape and over-dependence on foreign aid (etc..)...

They don't care that we are embarrassed by our dirt and torn clothing, that we would prefer they didn't do it; they just take the pictures anyway, take and take. We don't complain because we know that after the picture taking come the giving of gifts.

...so that without the light, sometimes caustic voice of Darling floating over all this as a narrator, We Need New Names would have been a hugely depressing read that fans the idea that Africa is the world's charity case and is to be pitied.

In America, the story takes a predictable turn - in the heroine's disenchantment with the place she thought would be her Nirvana; being faceless in the system as an illegal immigrant doing mind numbingly boring  jobs; the decline in the hope of ever going 'back home' without correct paperwork for re-entry into America; the weird mixture of estrangement and longing for the childhood friends who now think her a traitor for abandoning her burning house rather than dousing it with water, and finally, the restlessness and resignation that come with accepting that she'd rather be 'stuck' in that situation than go back home to nothing; an even bigger failure.

Props to the author for laying down these issues, though, perhaps childishly, a part of me wishes everything could have been neatly tied to set Darling up for her happy-ever-after. In this regard, the novel bordered on anti-climatic for me. But of course, as we all know, happy endings only happen in utopia.

We Need New Names unsettles and moves - and makes you more than a little sad. A good read, nonetheless.

Book Review: Americanah

I would attempt an answer to the classic 'what is it about?' in summing up Chimamanda Ngozie Adichie's Americanah, but I remember in a flash how much the very question irks Ifemelu, and a sheepish smile lodges itself on my face.

This novel, her newest since the exquisitely written Half of a Yellow Sun, is the story of Ifemelu and Obinze, high school sweethearts finding ecstatic joy in their bond of love until strikes and frustrations in the Nigerian system separates them, each to a life overseas that is winding and revelatory. By the time we meet her in the story, Ifemelu has already 'made it' in America: a fellow at Princeton and well-paid sharp-tongued blogger looking at race and identity in America from the perspective of a non-American black; a romantic and cerebral relationship with her black American Yale professor boyfriend, Blaine, whose elite group of friends incite variously interesting views on being black in America; and Ifemelu herself, an intelligent, self-aware heroine who is often funny in her blunt, unapologetic views which she feels the world is entitled to, however unsolicited. Her blog, Raceteenth or Various Observations  About American Blacks (Those Formerly Known as Negroes) by a Non-American Black,provides the novel's most insightful discussions on race and ethnicity in America.

Obinze, for his part, has become a big deal in today's Nigeria, locked in a marriage that isn't unpleasant, but one which gives the impression of a dying ember someone else valiantly keeps fanning, while his mind thrums with boredom. He, too, has a story from his short-lived experience in the UK, a life that is mired in menial jobs and spurts of the fear and panic that accompanies an illegal immigrant, until his eventual arrest and deportation.

They will reunite years later in a new Nigeria, the home that has become the strange familiar, and reignite lost passion in a time that will test and re-test their morals and commitment.

Though at its base the story of star-crossed lovers, Americanah is an exploration of race, identity and belonging in contemporary cultures, both foreign and indigenous, and the often mindless ignorance and widespread generalizations we make of other races outside of our own. It is in turns derisive (snow falling during a children's Christmas play in Nigeria. Really?) and educative, a novel with fluid movements between the complex and the simple, unafraid to laugh at and examine its characters through their flaws and foibles with a searing honesty that makes them believable.

There is a seamless movement between time and space that allows the story to unfold without throwing the reader into a haze of geographical confusion. In this, Adichie paints a vivid picture of Ifemelu and Obinze and the disorientating alienation and struggles of the immigrant hustle. Ifemelu, after countless job interviews and zero offers, is pushed into a sordid sexual act with a stranger, and Obinze into an underworld of toilet cleaning, counterfeit documents and a frenzied almost marriage for 'papers' which catastrophically backfires.

Less harrowing, but no less a pertinent topic, is the subject of the African woman and her hair. In fact, this is a concurrent theme throughout the novel. Ifemelu's angle of the story is mostly told in flashback sequences while she has her hair braided at a salon in Trenton. The Malian and Senegalese women who work in the salon, can feel no kinship with this their fellow African who is way above them with her education and her airs, and yet, over the course of the time she is there, Ifemelu comes close to a shared bond with Mariama who excitedly tells her she is dating an Igbo man.

Adichie observes with a comedic eye the proliferation of weaves and various synthetic styles African women subject their hair to, in a bid to cover up their naturally kinky look. Indeed, the description of the thumping smacks of hitting one's itchy scalp through a weave will resonate with many women, as will the more recent trend towards 'going natural' that many of us have embraced. There is enough fodder for conversations on 'the hair is political' raised in the novel.

Americanah is witty, readable, and not limited to the (mis)adventures of Ifemelu and Obinze, bursting with a rich tapestry of other memorable characters and story lines as it does. It is written with verve in an open yet guarded style that heightens curiosity about its end without causing loss of interest in between. I just couldn't put it down once I started. It thrives on rich dialogues on navigating contemporary cultures in Nigeria and America, and, to a lesser extent, England (spot on with the banal use of 'init' and 'yeah?' that pepper conversations here), and finally, on losing and rediscovering self.

Adichie has done it again, creating a novel that will spark as many intelligent discussions as it will leave a number of toes feeling trodden on in its wake, so gifted is she at stirring up emotions regardless.

Americanah is well worth a read - and then a second.

Have you read Americanah? What are your thoughts on it?

Knock, knock

You never know what could be on the other side of the door...

Jessie wasn't expecting the knock on the door the afternoon it came.

She'd been lost in a dreamless sleep when her phone shrilled to attention, and she'd shot up in bed thinking it was the - frankly rude - alarm clock telling her she was late for her Media Discourses lecture again. She threw a long, slender arm out and felt around her bedside table for her phone. Finding nothing, she reluctantly opened one bleary eye, and was inexplicably irked to realise that the phone had been inside the pillow case of all places. Supremely annoyed to see that the call she'd just missed had been from an unknown number, she lay down again, and attempted to coax sleep back.

Now she was having herself a lazy day; had spent the morning cleaning her little studio flat, and had only climbed out of her pajamas long enough to have a leisurely bath and slip into another pair, from whence she'd ensconced herself back in her bed and proceeded to dive into the world of the novel she'd been reading.

She thought it was Lina from first floor. Lately, the two had got into the habit of turning up uninvited at the other's in that way new friends navigating an easy camaderie do. Lina spoke halting English, Greek being her mother tongue, but somehow, she could paint vivid pictures with the stories she told of her day as she embraced her new student life in London, and Jessie enjoyed her company immensely. Just the other day, she had caused quite a stir when she'd turned up at Jessie's door late at night clad only in a big t-shirt that barely skimmed her upper thighs. A group of boys smoking down the corridor had seen her go into Jessie's room, and the next morning, there'd been knowing looks and hopeful suggestions that two had spent the night locked in a passionate clinch.

Jessie shook her head ruefully. The boys would have been disappointed to know all they'd done was gorge themselves on popcorn and reruns of Friends. But poor Lina was mortified by the variously lecherous looks they got whenever they went into the common room.

She already had a half smile playing on her lips, as she threw off the duvet cover and walked to the door. She was there in five steps. Sometimes she liked to joke that the studio was so small she could sit on the toilet and open her wardrobe with one hand whilst stirring a pot of soup in the kitchen with the other.

Her mother had nearly expired when she saw it the first time. A proud home-maker who had brought up her five children around the kitchen table, she'd turned paler and paler until Jessie thought she was going to pass out  from that first visit.

'But..but..where is the kitchen?!' She'd sputtered, looking around incredulously, fearfully almost - as though she thought the wall behind the microwave would suddenly open up to reveal a stately dining room, and that what she was currently seeing was her daughter's bad attempt at pranking her.

'We're standing in it,' Jessie had said, proudly gesturing at the small sink and white counter with the table top cooker where a newly prepared chicken soup sat.

Just then her father and four brothers walked in, and suddenly there was no more room.

There was a deep, electric silence, and even though she didn't turn around to confirm it, Jessie just knew her brothers struggled to keep a straight face. She dared not sneak a peek at them, for fear of bursting into laughter herself at the horrified expression on their mother's face.

And then Nana Kwame, her eldest brother, said in his most solemn voice, 'Look at it this way, Ma. At least there will be no raucous house parties. I mean where would they even stand?'

He winked at Jessie over their mother's head, and she beamed back at her brothers. She saw similar affection in their eyes as they regarded the baby sister they adored. She shimmied through them and placed her arms around her mother who was valiantly trying not to cry. 'I'll be fine, Ma,' she said gently, but her mother wasn't listening.

'You don't even have a kitchen table...' she was muttering over and over again, barely listening.

Ah, the kitchen table...

When she was a child, Jessie liked to build things. It fascinated her that without realising, her whole existence centred round fragrant pieces that united to form a whole. In her grandmother's house, it was the large compound with the wide expanse of land where, as kids, they played pilolo and fought over who would ride the bike next; the same house that boasted exotic fruit and vegetable trees which she would fearlessly climb for the hell of it. She recalled the day her grandmother had yelled for Baffour to come down from the mango tree this instant, and the resulting shock when the gangly legs had slid further down to reveal their owner: Jessie. Her grandmother nearly had a cardiac arrest.

Over at their auntie's place, it was the small living room with the single three-seater couch which the five of them would all stubbornly pile on, each refusing to budge, or move on to the plastic chair their auntie would proffer. Each played dirty, pinching, squeezing and biting in an effort to get the other to move, until invariably, there were tears - usually Jessie's - calmed only by a placatory bottle of Malta Guiness from their auntie, who, by this time, had come to expect these scuffles, and in fact, kept several bottles chilled for this very purpose.

But in their house, it was the kitchen table. It was where they would find their mother when they returned from school in the afternoons. Looking stately in a colourful bubu, her fingers moved deftly as she put final, intricate touches to the dress she was making for her small, handpicked clientele. She would shoo them away as they made to grab something to eat from the counter, and insist they changed and washed their hands first.  Family meetings were held there, meal times a noisy affair which went on for hours. Kofi liked to joke they could never leave the table because the food was always just two steps away on the stove! And when his girl friend had a pregnancy scare whilst they were in their final year of high school, it was where their parents sat Nana Kwame down to have 'a talk'.

Jessie shook her head wryly as she walked to the door presently. Glancing automatically through the peephole, she felt her heart skip three beats and do a somersault at the same time.

Holy shit!

It wasn't Lina.

Calm down, Jessie, she told herself, struggling to stop her shaking hands. You could be out. You don't have to open the door.

'Holy shit, Jessie swears!' came his laugh, sounding amused.

Holy shit, she didn't know she'd said that aloud.

For a brief, crazy moment she wondered if she should change quickly. Then she straightened her back, and, putting on her most dignified look, opened the door.

'Marc, I wasn't expecting you!' she breathed in one whoosh, almost immediately hating how squeaky her voice had gone.

He stared at her a moment, and Jessie quailed a little inside. She knew exactly how she looked: the pajama top with the cute kitten asking suggestively, 'wanna cuddle with me?', the barely-there shorts, and her feet tucked snugly into a pair of red socks, her braided hair pulled messily into a pile atop her head, and the red-rimmed reading glasses she still had on.

'Have I caught you at a bad time?' He smirked, looking very satisfied.

'Nonsense,' she said breezily. 'I..er..was just stepping out, actually. But you may as well come in.' She thought she'd done a good job of sounding bored at the interruption. She flung the door open wider, and he brushed past, walking easily into her space without concern for the pounding heart that now threatened to burst out of her chest.

Holy shit, I've got a bra hanging over that chair! 

He turned around. 'You're awfully sweary this morning. Tut tut.'

Had she said that out loud again?

She groped for something smart to retort. 'Um..er..'sweary' is not even a word!' Ooh, nice, Jessie. Very punchy.

She raced past him and flung the bra into the wardrobe. Somewhere in her head, she could almost feel another detached part stepping out of her flushed self watching the present Jessie frantically moving around.

He stopped in the middle of the room and moved his eyes slowly from her rumpled bed to the only chair in the room. 'I'll take the chair, shall I?' There was mischief in those coal eyes and as Jessie met and held his gaze, she felt warmth spread through her body.

Marc.

Jessie had heard about ridiculous notions like 'love at first sight' and had often been scathing in her dismissal of the very idea. But she remembered the first time they met very well. It wasn't so much love as a seismic feeling of desire at first sight.

It was downstairs in the communal mail room, where, Marc, walking in to collect his post, had been confronted with a view of Jessie standing on her recently bought six-pack carton of water in an attempt to reach her mailbox. He'd stood there, quiet as a mouse, and watched as she lifted herself with a light and easy grace and inserted the key into the lock.

He hurried over just as she was about to open it, and said with exaggerated politeness. 'Let me help you with that. Don't want you straining your back, do we?'

She could hear the laughter in his voice even before she turned around, could feel his warm breath on her neck, and an unmistakeable feeling of disorientation settling over in a way that she didn't quite like. She felt herself bristling.

'I'm not that short, you know?' she snapped, uamused.

'Oh yes, I can see your Afro adds another two inches,' he teased, and Jessie's hand automatically went to the hair she kept natural, combed out that day to its fullest halo as she contemplated a  trip to the salon to get it braided later that week.

She was still pinned between his arms, one placed casually on the mailbox next to hers, the other lightly fingering the key to her box which he still hadn't unlocked yet. She watched the dark fingers, mesmerised.

'You have an interesting accent,' she said at last, turning to him.

He made a sound. 'Caernarfon.'

'Bless you,' she said.

'No, no, that's where I'm from. It's in Wales.' He was laughing at her again.

'Wales?' she echoed, a bit startled.

He nodded. 'Via Dakar. I'm not sneezing again,' he said, his face straight.

Jessie glared at him. 'Oh, shut up,' she said hotly.

He never let her forget that acutely embarrassing afternoon. That had been three weeks ago.

Marc lived at the end of her corridor, on what was commonly referred to by the students as 'the other side'. The studios there, decidedly more luxurious, were normally reserved for postgraduate students.


'Are you hungry?' she asked presently, beating a hasty retreat from his distracting stare in two steps. 'I've got some spaghetti...and I made this meatball thing yesterday which is pretty good. It's divine, if I do say so myself -' she was rambling, she knew.

He was suddenly behind her. 'Jessie.'

Her breath caught in her throat, and she was reminded of how little she had on. She loved the way he said her name. He used it infrequently, so that when he did say it, it always gave her a small shock of pleasure.  She turned, and smiled into eyes that were already crinkling at the corners in response.

'What?' she breathed.

He opened his mouth. 'I -'

He was interrupted by the sound of something bumping hard against her door. She made to move towards it,  but he held her a bit tighter.

Puzzled, she looked up. What was going on?

'You'll never guess what...' his eyes were twinkling.

'What??' Jessie had never been known for her patience levels.

'Nothing. It's probably just workmen delivering something..'

'What is it? A bed? They darned near broke my door down!' Jessie retorted.

He was teasing her again. 'A bed? Don't be silly. It's only the best piece of furniture in any house...'

She went still. 'A kitchen table?' she hadn't meant to, but the words came out hushed.

This time, his smile was very soft. 'So I have been meaning to invite you round...'

She cocked a perfectly arched eyebrow. 'No kidding,'

'Don't go all defiant on me. You know you wouldn't have given me a second look if I didn't have a decent table!'

Jessie burst into laughter.

So he remembered. She recalled the afternoon in the mail room. Long after he'd taken her letters out, and helped her off her makeshift stepladder, they'd sunk onto the floor as she regalled him with some of her mother's dotty suggestions on how to make the studio 'homely'.

'You big silly! You got a kitchen table?!' Jessie was very amused.

He looked sheepish. 'It's an important thing! People really shouldn't underestimate its power. I mean where else would I eat? And anyway, the thing is, I..I -' he drew a shaky breath '- shit, Jessie. I'm trying to ask you out. Can you stop laughing?'

She was touched. 'How about you go see to the delivery guys?' she said softly.

He bent and gently kissed her cheek. 'See you later?'

She held on just a bit. 'Yes.'

Jessie had several thoughts as she raced about getting ready, but she was particularly warmed by one.

Mother is going to love him!

She hugged herself, happy.

The Second Coming

The bedroom curtains were open.

Naa Abia did not know how long she lay there until sunlight flooded the room. Through the open window she could see the blue sky, mocking in its brilliance; she could make out the sound of children walking to school, of travellers in a hurry to get to the stations, their shoes click-clacking on the pavement with a rhythmic beat that immensely irritated her. But she heard it all faintly, as though from a great distance.

It was a beautiful morning. The sun's rays cast a playful shadow through the haphazardly parted curtains, but it was in stark contrast to the despair that overwhelmed her and brought tears to her eyes.

She heard the bedroom door creak inwards. Moses was home.

She wanted to turn and smile a greeting, to ask if he wanted breakfast. But she felt a heaviness weighing her down, pinning her so that the very thought exhausted her. She shrunk into the bed more.

It was hard. Seeing him brought it all back with a vividness that gripped her heart tightly until, gasping and heaving with the pain of it, she thought she might die altogether.


 
Naa Abia remembered well; sitting, waiting, listening for the sound of the doorbell – but it was only in the instant she saw the look on Moses' face that she knew all there was to know.


                                                                           *** 
'Baby…' It had almost been an anguished, agonising plea. The pain on his face was indescribable.

'No, NO..'

Her body went rigid with shock. And then abruptly she turned and wordlessly climbed the stairs to their bedroom. She was trying to remember how many clean underwear Moses had. She hadn't had a chance to sort out the laundry since arriving from a work trip in Geneva that morning.

When she reached the bedroom, she opened the drawers and took out fresh underwear and laid them on the bed. She remembered pausing to look down at them. She remembered the sun. She remembered it casting a warm glow on those Calvin Klein trunks. They were gloriously white.

There was a lump in her throat, but her eyes remained tearless.

'Moses –' She whispered brokenly.

But he was there, folding her powerfully, gently, in his arms with aching tenderness, and she knew she had her husband back. She felt the energy vibrating between them with an overpowering force that neither could fight against.

He released her and locked the door. She stumbled towards him as he came to her and softly kissed the tears that had been silently falling. And then with a softness that belied the white-hot grievous rage coursing through them, he held her and slowly began to make love to her.

It seemed the obvious natural thing to do. It was their passionate, unbridled attempt to defy death by celebrating life.


Max was dead. Their beautiful little son had fallen to his death at school.

She felt a pain so intense that for a while she was incapable of imagining life without it.

Afterwards, she began to cry. Deep, wracking sobs shook her as she wept for the seven year old boy they would never see grow; for the impudent coal eyes that could go from mischievous to teary in one cutely manipulating blink; the gummy smile that had the power to melt her heart as soon as it was switched on. She wept for his three year old sister, Rosie, who in one knife-twisting moment had lost the big brother she hero-worshipped…



The tears fell till she thought there would be none. And still there was more. But Moses was there, her best friend and rock.

She'd had an unsettling feeling. There had been a pressing need to be home with her babies, so that by the time morning came, she'd already decided to fly out of Geneva and be home in time to say bye before their father whisked them off to school.
She'd dismissed her fears after speaking to them the night before. But the next morning she'd sat uneasily in the work conference. Until half past eight, when, unable to bear it any longer, she'd shot through the crowd of attendees networking over coffee, breathless and gripped with a sense of impending pain.

And suddenly, without knowing why, she was running for a taxi; running into the airport as fast as her legs could carry her. She was running through the security checkpoint, and the official was asking her to take her laptop out of her bag, and she was looking at him with fearful eyes that were already filling with tears and she was begging, 'Please hurry up, I've got to get home to my baby…'



She wasn't to know that at that very moment, Moses was being called to the school…


Max.


So much mischief, so much charm, so much intelligence – all obliterated in one heart-wrenching swoop. Naa Abia was lost; caught up in a terrible abyss of suffocating, inconsolable grief, gripped by visions of a slow, torturous suicide.


                                                                              *** 
The door closed quietly as she heard his soft footfalls approaching the bed.

'Baby, are you awake?'

She felt the bed tilt a little as he sat down heavily, and gently placed a kiss on the side of her neck. He slipped a hand under the covers and gave her shoulder a warm squeeze.

Naa Abia sniffled. 'Yes…' She paused, unable to keep the tremor out of her voice. 'Did Rosie get in alright?'

Moses regarded her with understanding eyes. 'She's fine.' He took her hand in his. 'Listen to me – 'He began

'Shh…' Naa Abia nodded. It had been nine weeks and two days.

                                                             
                                                                                ***
The days immediately after had been a blur. Moses wanted to hold her and console her, but Naa Abia had withdrawn to her room. His sister, Aba, had temporarily moved in with them to manage the household, but it was in shambles. The relatives and friends who visited moved in a daze of unbelief, as mindless as lost sheep. And Moses, caught in his own private hell, was shattered by this new evidence that without Naa Abia the house fell apart.

He sat Rosie on his laps and told her how her brother had gone up to heaven to watch over her. Even now he felt the corners of his lips lift in a bittersweet smile at her response: 'Okay, Pappy. Chocolate!' she'd opened her palms, revealing a mushed up chocolate bar which she proffered up generously. He kissed the top of her head. She was too young to understand.


                                                                              ***
Naa Abia turned and faced him. He met her searching eyes and held it.

'Thank you,' she whispered at last. And then almost girlishly she said, 'I've something to tell you...'

He held her hand tighter. 'I know. I know.' He said softly, 'It's extraordinary. I wonder when – '

'The day Max died. It's the only date that makes sense.'

He leaned down and kissed her slowly, exactly how he wanted to. She teased him sweetly, shyly, with her tongue, and he was reminded of the woman he had fallen for eight years ago. She had a strong streak of modesty and a natural enthusiasm for closeness, but there was a certain reluctance to let herself go, in a way that intoxicated him.

She broke off the kiss, and regarded him with playful, suspicious eyes. 'How did you know?'

His smile was enigmatic. 'I know your body quite well, m'lady,' he deadpanned.



I seem to have missed again this month, but it's probably down to grief and stress. The other day I had the oddest craving for beer and ginger. It used to be one of the weirder cravings I had when I was pregnant with Max and Rosie…

And then two days later: I'm pregnant!



It had been such a lucky find, that journal under the bed. But it was probably not a good idea to mention it now...


Moses looked at his wife and smiled.


 
The End

Boy meets girl - Something Fishy

(....the concluding part of the story that began here)


The second time Bitsy and Gabe met was purely by chance. Or so she thought. 

She wasn't to know that three times Gabe had turned up at their house under the pretext of discussing a 'work point' with his colleague friend, her brother Paapa, in the hope of running into her. Gabe, convinced by how smoothly he had orchestrated things, thought Paapa was none the wiser. 


Until the third day. 


Whilst the two discussed the merits of the digital marketing proposal they had put in place for the communications company they  worked for, Paapa broke off suddenly, and stated in a very quiet voice, 'She's my favourite sister. If you ever hurt her...' He'd trailed off, and then calmly resumed his argument on branding and logistical alliances.


Gabe would have thought he'd imagined it if it wasn't for the eerie intensity that had pulsed within the words. Paapa had since watched him with growing bemusement, although he was careful not to give anything away. Bitsy, he knew, had the nose of a bloodhound and could smell a story before it was even told. It also meant that he had become the unwitting rosy-cheeked cupid. He wasn't particularly amused by this role.

Bitsy was sitting on a hand-woven mat in the back garden at home when she was startled by a face peering at her through the net door of the kitchen.

'Gabe! Hi. Kinda startled me there..' she said, almost accusingly.

He flung the door open and walked the short distance to where she sat, and with characteristic cheekiness, plonked down noisily on her mat, uninvited. 'Here I am! What was your second wish?'

'Oh shut it.' She gave him a Look.

'Sorry. Aunty Adzo let me in. In any case, you don't look like a girl who scares easily..'

'Oh really? Just what kind do I look like then, oh great expert?'

He laughed, 'I love the experts. They haven't got a clue.'

She smiled.

'Hey, I was hoping to catch Paapa...is he here?'

'Out and about with his girlfriend,' Bitsy shrugged.

Perfect. Just perfect.

He gestured at her book. 'Any good?'

She held it up - Kiss and Tell, A Collection of Awkward First Kisses.


'Interesting,' he drawled slowly. 'I wouldn't have had you down for this kind of book...'

She sighed audibly. 'You have this idea of me, and it's a real pain to live up to it!' she retorted hotly.

His mouth twitched. 'So...first time?'

'First time what?' 

He smiled into her eyes. 'You're the one reading a book on first kisses...so tell me about yours.'

'Oh, that.' Bitsy closed the book. 'Why don't you tell me yours!'

'Okay, I'm going to let you in on my secret. I used to practice on my arm..' He closed his eyes hard as though preparing for a torrent of abuse from her.

'Your arm?!'

He nodded solemnly.

Bitsy laughed. 'Ew why would you do that? Didn't you have a cousin or something?' As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she realised what she had said.

'A cousin, huh?' Gabe echoed, intrigued. He leaned closer. 'That what you did? Or rather...who you did?' He grinned mischievously.

'She told me that's what people did if they wanted a baby!' Bitsy laughed at the memory. She'd fallen for Maame's lie as quickly as she'd become besotted with Naana, the newest baby in the family whose arrival had prompted her curiosity about where babies came from. 

She was tickled further when years later, Maame rang her in a blind panic in the middle of the night. 'Peter thinks he's my first kiss. For goodness' sake, DON'T tell him about us!'

And Bitsy had injected a hurt note into her voice, 'I know we were kids but did I really mean that little to you?'

Maame, ever the softie, had been immediately contrite. 'No, no! It ..er..meant a lot to me..it did..'

Bitsy nearly asphyxiated with laughter.

Gabe was staring at her with amusement. 'Tongues?'

'Gabe!' she shoved him playfully, 'we were kids...we didn't even know the tongue had other uses except to lick alewa!'

He threw his head back in laughter. 

Bitsy feigned a chastising look. 'Do I amuse you?'

Gabe stared at her a moment and grinned. 'You amaze me, astonish and astound me, and yes, you do amuse me.' You do everything for me, he wanted to add.

She felt the beginnings of a silly smile working up the corners of her lips, but she lowered her eyes demurely, deliberately breaking the moment. 'Do you want to stay for lunch? Paapa and Beryl will be back in the next hour or so.'

He expelled the breath he'd been holding in one quick whoosh, 'Actually I was hoping to..to..take you to try that new place that's opened on Beach Road...'

'Something Fishy?'

Gabe was a little flustered. 'Honestly, got nothing fishy planned..Paapa mentioned that you like seafood..and - ' he stopped talking, noticing her growing bemusement.

Oh. 

'Something Fishy is the name of the place..?' If he were any fairer, he'd be blushing a beetroot red right now.

She nodded solemnly, trying - and failing - to hide her pleasure at his obvious discomfort. 'I suppose you've asked quite a few women to this place, haven't you?' She meant to tease, but to her horror, it came out sounding jealous.

'Only one,' Gabe supplied calmly, recovered from his faux pas.

'Oh?'

'Dark eyes, great wild hair, the best smile..' He paused. 'Someone a bit like you, really,' he added conversationally.

Very, very slowly she turned to look at him.

'Someone exactly like you, in fact.' He said, his eyes lit with warmth.

'And what did she say?' Her voice was a little breathless.

'Something along the lines of 'when hell freezes over,'' Gabe said, completely straight-faced.

'I did not say that!' she protested, laughing.

'No? What did you say then?'

'I said..er..' Bitsy frowned, 'hey, not fair! Objection! You're leading the witness on!'

'Oh really? Now it's my fault?' He looked at her with wide, innocent eyes.

She shook her head, smiling as she leaned over his knee and grabbed her book. 

'Did you know two babies could be made at once?' He drawled lazily as she stood up. 'Bet your cousin didn't teach you that...'  

'No, really?!' She smirked

He nodded with mock seriousness. 'Incy Bitsy spider...' he started in a nasal voice.

Bitsy whirled around. 'Hey,' she murmured softly, 'that's the first time you've called me Bitsy..'

'Oh I'm sorry...I meant Elizabeth, of course,' he smiled.


Bitsy smiled back. She did fancy some tilapia after all...

THE END

Boy meets girl

The first time Bitsy met Gabe, he leaned forward and playfully tugged at her mop of wild, unruly hair and demanded with insouciance, 'what kind of silly name is Bitsy?'
The gesture was so familiar that it immediately annoyed her, yet she was unnerved by just how natural it had felt too.


'It's short for Elizabeth actually.' She replied coolly.


'It sounds like something you might call a cat,' he mused to himself.


Bitsy gave a small, grudging smile. That's exactly what she secretly thought herself. 'The only person who calls me Elizabeth is my great-grandmother.' She raised her eyebrows warningly at him. 


'Oh I see. And you're way too modern for that, are ya?' he teased.


'No, I just hope you are not ancient enough to call me that too,' she shot back crisply.


He laughed, 'So it's like that, huh?'


She smiled back. 'I would probably think of you as a fossilized relic if you called me that, in fact....' she nodded solemnly. 


There was something vaguely familiar about him, yet, try as she did, she could not remember where she knew him from.  She was struck by his two front teeth which were so close that they overlapped slightly in a way that gave his face a cocky, boyishly mischievous look, as though he was always a second away from playing a naughty prank. She had seen this face before...but where?  

'It was on the night of your brother's party,' he said,  as though reading her exact thoughts.


'What?'  

'Yes, we've met before,' He looked like he was considering whether or not to put her out of her misery and jog her as yet dormant memory.

There was a teasing, challenging glint in his eye that dared her to deny forgetting about their first meet. Bitsy did not like teasing, challenging glints in people's eyes.

'I know we have met before,' she managed smoothly, injecting the right note of disgust in her voice so it could translate her apparent displeasure at having her memory questioned. Her smile masked the frantic search going on in her mind. Something in his eyes made her not want to admit to having completely forgotten. 

He regarded her. 'You don't remember,' he said slowly. Was that a triumphant look on his face..?

Bitsy remembered little about the night in fact. She had been tottering about in a pair of unusually high heels that her best friend, Funmi, had persuaded her to buy. A teetotaller, she had unwisely crowded around the bar in the living room with the party crowd, and while her brother's friends laid down shot after shot for the birthday boy, Bitsy too explored the heady, intoxicating world of alcohol. She remembered stumbling blindly into her bedroom, an urgent need to kick off the shoes and lie down carrying her drunkenly to her destination.  Had he slept over at their house that night? More importantly, had she run into him sometime during the night while she padded around the kitchen in just a t-shirt? This last, she suddenly remembered disturbingly.

Gabe was staring at her. The teasing smile was gone. 'Do you have any idea what you look like in the morning?' His voice had gone soft. So she definitely run into him then...

'Like I slept in the barn,' Bitsy answered promptly. If this guy spewed any nonsense about her being the most beautiful thing to behold with the rising of the sun, she was so out of here.

'Yes!'

Oh. 


It's not like she would have minded hearing that she was the most beautiful thing to behold with the rising of the sun.

'You look warm and sweet. Your voice is a little husky and your eyes are barely open. And you smell good...like lazy, sleepy perfume.'

'Like what?' 


He met and held her gaze longer. 'It's very lovely to meet you properly...Elizabeth,' His eyes danced with amusement.

'Bitsy,' she snapped automatically.


That was the beginning.

Piano keys in London - A short story

Sophie Johnson lived on her own in a basement flat near Primrose Hill, and operated her life with a series of sub-routines, for she liked to think that if nothing at all, she was a creature of habit. She arose everyday at six fifty-five, hit the snooze button on her alarm and allowed herself the extra eight minutes it took for it to ring again. Whilst she waited, she permitted herself the small luxury of pretending to think of what to wear to work that day, and then invariably, she would burst out laughing at the very thought - because she would never have been able to fall asleep without knowing what to wear the next day. If for some reason Sophie became the subject of CIA surveillance, it would only have taken seven days to work out her movements and habits for the rest of the working year. Having had her inevitable breakfast of bran flakes and banana, she would leave her basement flat, glance briefly skywards to see if she needed to keep her umbrella handy, and, regardless of the weather, begin the thirty-minute walk to her job as administrator at a literary agency.

She would take a tea break at eleven, and over her second cup, read the feature articles of the previous day’s Evening Standard (having left them for this very purpose), and return to her desk at a quarter past eleven. At five-thirty on the dot, she would lift her handbag from under her desk, bid a cheerful ‘bye!’ to her colleagues, and be out of the door in time to see the shutters of the hairdresser’s across the street from the office come down. This was how Sophie’s life panned out in the course of the year. Needless to say, she had separate routines for weekends and holidays.
But a chance encounter was about to change all that.

Life is full of coincidences in ways that are almost unbelievable. And if everyone wrote about theirs, it would appear to others as pure fiction. On the weekend that one of her friends organised a party to celebrate Ghana’s independence (a party which Sophie had attended after a reluctant re-adjustment of her weekend routine), she had come away feeling happier than she had been in a long time. It had felt good to meet up with friends and reminisce, and for some reason, she basked in a renewed sense of being black. Suddenly, she was aware of her kinky hair, the dimple on her left cheek, and her hour-glass figure. She was a black girl and proud of it.

So it was that when November 4 rolled by and every newspaper in the world screamed Barack Obama’s victory in the United States presidential race and its implications for black people, it coincided with Sophie’s recent self-pride, and she too celebrated.

In retrospect, Sophie realised that that day had not began any differently from previous days. It was a crisp autumn morning, the sun was out, and it was one of those days that made you feel as though London really was the best city to live in. She had read in the week’s papers that Borders, a bookstore, was closing down, and though she was sad that she would soon not be able to spend countless hours browsing through the books there, she was heading to the Islington branch to hunt for bargains. The one passion in her life was books. She devoured everything from Chinua Achebe to Jean-Paul Sartre, and considered herself well-versed in the works of Guy Débord. When she came out of her flat that Saturday morning, she swung her red and green print tote bag over her shoulder and joined the throng of people on the street, heading for the underground station.

Within a short time, she was at the station, swiping her oyster card, and slipping it smartly into her bag afterwards. As she made for the down escalator, a huge advertisement caught her attention. Or at least that’s what she told herself. Over its black background, she caught sight of herself, and gave a small ‘oh’ of pleasant surprise. She had put her hair in braids to go to bed the previous night, and this morning when she’d undone them, it had made a halo around her face. Now, she held it back with a black band. She looked girlish…almost beautiful, in fact.
Sophie realised she was still rooted to the spot, transfixed by her own reflection. Giving it an uncharacteristic cheeky smile, she made her way down, a spring in her step.

The tube was unusually empty when it finally came. Perhaps it was this realisation, or the fixed indifferent masks that people wore as soon as they entered the tube, or even still, her acute sensing of a presence opposite her that made Sophie raise her head.

Whatever it was, she saw him at once.

It was his shoes she noticed first because her eyes were cast downwards as she rooted through her bag for something to read. She saw immediately that he had stepped in what looked like dog excrement, and even before she had lifted her eyes, she felt her nose twitching, and a sudden need to quell laughter that was building up in her. Raising her eyes further still, she noticed that his jeans sat rather nicely on him. Hastily moving away from that thought, she clocked his t-shirt which had the inscription; if you can read this it means you have had the benefit of an education. When she finally dared sneak a look at him, she did a mental double take.
Blimey...he was what one of her friends would have described as ‘mmm..yummy’. Sophie hastily averted her gaze, but not before she saw a flash of – was it amusement? – on his face, as though he knew exactly what she was thinking. She pretended to study the tube map on her lap, even tracing the length of the Northern line with her finger. To anybody else, she was the very picture of indifference! Surreptitiously, she lifted her eyes again, and to her consternation, locked eyes with him again. He was openly staring at her, and this time, he was exposing perfect white teeth in a smile.

Sophie felt her quickened heartbeat, and cursed her treacherous body. What did he have to be so bloody smug about? She groped about mentally for a scathing putdown to wipe off that self-assured smile and bring him down a peg or two.
‘You stepped in dog poo!’ she said defiantly, and promptly regretted it. What was she doing? He could have been smiling about anything, Sophie, she told herself.
‘Ah..so it’s not my cologne then…’ he trailed off, a teasing smile creeping back up his face.
His voice was dry, with an accent that Sophie couldn’t quite place. He had dark curly hair, and as he leaned slightly forward, she thought his eyes might be a molten brown colour. Her eyes followed his hand as it dug into his shoulder bag and brought out a book.
‘Huis Clos!’ Sophie exclaimed before she could stop herself.
‘You read it?’ he asked, a surprised smile on his face.
‘Only about a thousand times!’ Sophie replied. It was her favourite of Sartre’s plays. Peering closer she said, ‘Is that in the original French?’
A sheepish look appeared on his face. ‘Guilty. I tried to read the English version, but I enjoy it more in French.’

Of course now he’d mentioned it, she could hear the unmistakeable French accent, but she was almost sure that he spoke other languages because his accent wasn’t so pronounced. But before she could dwell on it further, she became aware that the train had pulled into Angel station where she was meant to get off, and it looked like it had been there for a while. Scrambling frantically, she dumped her book back into her bag and made for the door. The alarm had already sounded the warning for the closing doors, and even as she hurried, she had a mental picture of being crushed in the doors. Needless to say, she was relieved when she made it on the platform in one piece. Amidst the throng of people on the platform, she paused by one of the seats to gather her wits about her. That was really close she thought. I could have been -
‘Hey..uh..’ a hesitant voice interrupted her thoughts.
She felt a warm glow when she turned and saw that it was him, the guy from the train.
‘So, I had my lines all ready…I was even going to say, ‘I bet you’re getting off at Angel, because you look like one’…only you run off so fast…and it took about four guys to hold the doors back for me to get out…’ he trailed off, a mischievous little smile playing on his lips.
Sophie threw her head back in laughter.
‘So, I think you have to make it up to me…’ he continued, eyes boring into hers ‘it’s only fair. What do you say to a cup of coffee?’
She had really been looking forward to Borders, yet her response was immediate. ‘I’d love to.’

His name was Jude Phillips. He was twenty-eight and a photographer for Discoveries!, a travel magazine. Over steaming cups of coffee across the street from the station, she said,
‘Tell me about yourself.’
He laughed. ‘That would probably take all of five minutes.’
Sophie pretended to consult her watch. ‘Hmm..I’m not going anywhere right this minute…’
He took a deep breath. ‘My parents have lived all over the world. Dad is English and Mum is French. My father spent about twenty years as an English teacher in a secondary school in Kenya. My mother was working there already as a doctor when they met and fell in love –’ he paused ‘it’s where I was born.’
She stared at him. ‘You were born in Kenya? Wow! Do you speak Swahili?’
He gave her a look that told her that he’d experienced that kind of reaction countless times.
‘I sure do.’ There was obvious pride in his voice. ‘We moved to France when I was about seven, but I found the life a little different. I missed Kenya terribly, I had no friends in Paris, and when I went to school, the other kids teased me about my accent.’
‘Did you not speak French well, then?’
‘I did. My parents had always made sure that both English and French were spoken at home. They never actually tried to help me with Swahili, because they were sure I would learn that anyway. But you see…kids can be mean. I guess to them I was just some exotic kid from Africa.’
Sophie could not help the indignant emotion surfacing for the poor seven year old Jude thrust into a new life. She took a deep breath. ‘Did you always know you wanted to be a photographer?’
His eyes lit up. ‘Yes. My dad gave me my first camera when I was eight.’ His tone had gone soft, ‘We had left Nairobi then, but I vowed to myself that I’d return as soon as I had enough money. I wanted to capture the stunning beauty of the Kenyan landscape and bring it alive through my photographs –’ He looked at her, suddenly embarrassed. ‘That sounded corny. Sorry.’
‘No!’ Sophie protested ‘That is absolutely beautiful.’
‘You could say I fell in love with capturing things on camera –’ he gave a little shrug. ‘– and well, here we are.’
Sophie was thoughtful. ‘What’s it like photographing London?’
‘It’s never dull. Mostly I like to capture everyday scenes…interesting things that draw my attention and make me think. You know how sometimes something jumps out at you in a way which makes you forget that it had been there all along, only you’d been too preoccupied to notice?’
‘Er..yes.’ Sophie replied uncertainly.
‘I mean that type of photography is what I do as a hobby. Work, though, requires me to capture photographs that make a place look like the place to be. Outside of it, I fancy myself a bit of a situationist on a dérive…’ he looked at her to see if she had understood what he meant.
‘Ah, I knew there was more than a passing resemblance to Monsieur Débord himself!’ came Sophie’s impish reply, and he smiled broadly in return.
‘I wish I could experience the city like that…but work, life, gets in the way.’ Her tone was suddenly wistful. She marvelled at the turn of events that had brought them to this point. She, who never made any unplanned move, was surprised by her own impetuousness and warming to this new side of her. For now she lived for this stolen moment, this charmed piece of time that was a sharp difference from the drudgery of routine her life had come to be. It was as if there was no past or future, but just the beauty of the present.

He was silently looking at her and then abruptly, he grabbed her hand and practically hauled her up.
Sophie was startled. ‘Hey! What are you doing? Where are we going?’
He was bounding towards the door of the coffee shop, taking long purposeful strides. ‘We’re going to people-watch at Piccadilly Circus. How else can you let your imagination run wild?’
‘Er…apparently no other way,’ she said meekly, allowing herself to be dragged back to the underground.

Coffee had turned into a people-watching session, followed by a long leisurely lunch which neither had wanted to end. At Piccadilly Circus Jude had amused her immensely by creating a ‘storyline’ out of each chance phrase they had heard from people walking by them. So there had been the 'honeymooners', 'the barbecuers', 'the shopaholics', 'the anally retentive' and many others.

She began to see what he had meant about experiencing the city in a familiar yet strange way. How could she never have noticed the buzz and activity that brought the city piercingly alive and made it rich with possibilities? Now as she made her way home, she recalled the last moment with Jude as they parted, she to get the underground, and he to Notting Hill.
He had come up to her, standing close and looking down with dark intense eyes. Her senses were assailed: the smell of his body, the sound of his voice, at once teasing then serious, and his incredible nearness.
‘Kwa heri.’ He had whispered. ‘Goodbye.’ And then a moment later he added, ‘This has been the longest first date of my life.’
And Sophie had raised her eyebrows, suddenly conscious of a pleasant warm feeling. Had they been on a date? She did not know what you called it when you spent the whole day with a very attractive stranger who had quickly made an impression on you.
‘And you know what happens at the end of every date?’ His lips were moments from hers.
‘What?’ she asked breathlessly.
‘Show, don’t tell,' he whispered, 'didn't your mother ever teach you that?’ And then he’d kissed her.

Now as she let herself into her flat, Sophie remembered how Jude had described the two of them. Piano keys – black and white and ready to make music. Corny, she knew. But she liked corny. She grinned goofily at her reflection in the hall mirror. No amount of careful planning could have accounted for the day she had just spent. And that, she realised, was the beauty of it all – the sheer unexpectedness.

She felt her phone vibrate. Her smile widened as her caller id showed it was Mmm..yummy calling. It was the sound of the start of something new.