New life

Free at last

Zenga Longmore

When Oluniba, Omalara and I called round at Boko's flat on our way to Por- tobello market last Sunday, we found Elike, Boko's eight-year-old son, lying on his bed in tears. Olumba was most con- cerned.

'What's up, oga boy?'

'Mr — hic — Benson told us that the Russians aren't communist any more.'

`So why the tears?'

'Well — sniff— that means the Russians and the Americans are no longer enemies so there won't be any more Russian spies so . . . .'

`So?'

`So there won't be any more spy films. No more James Bond. Waaah!'

Olumba patiently explained that, fortu- nately for film-makers, baddies feature in every nationality.

'Are you sure? Even in countries like Holland?'

'Yes,' I butted in. 'At this very moment I expect there are Dutchmen in all corners of the globe bugging hotel rooms, making watches that emit poison gas, living in underground caves filled with nuclear robots, stroking fluffy white cats and plot- ting to destroy the universe.' .

'Do you really mean it?' squeaked the overjoyed boy.

'Of course, wait and see,' I was forced to whisper this conversation for fear of Boko overhearing. Boko doesn't hold with people filling the heads of her offspring with nonsense. She even wanted to know why we were off to the market when there was a perfectly good Freed Mandela Rally to go to in Trafalgar Square.

'And anyway,' she boomed, recovering a lump of chewing gum from her daughter's hair, 'how can you go to the market on public transport with the baby, the push- chair, and all the shopping? I'll take Omalara to the Mandela rally.'

Too stunned to move, I unhinged the jaw as Boko whisked Omalara from her buggy, strapped her to her back, and marched from the house with her three children in tow.

'Close your mouth, fly coming o,' said Olumba as*the door slammed.

All the way to the number 52 bus stop, I wondered how I could survive knowing my baby was somewhere else. But once on the bus, a demoniacal change overtook me. For the first time in I don't know how long I was able to clatter to the top deck, sprawl out on the back seat and smoke my heart out. With my hat tilted in a rakish manner, I found I could flip the conductor a saucy wink (while Olumba searched for change) and not worry about there being enough space for the pushchair. A heady sense of guilt and wickedness swept over me as I gazed through the window.

How odd, I mused, looking down at the populace, how no one seems to be preg- nant any more. Have you noticed how when you're pregnant, so is everyone else? You waddle into the post office and the whole queue is in various stages of preg- nancy. 'When are you due?' you ask mechanically, and within minutes it is discovered that you're .much less pregnant than anyone else, yet three times larger, so you leave the post office in a state of infinite depression. A strange fact of life to be sure.

Portobello market was closed, as it apparently is every Sunday, so we hurried back to Boko's in the rain. When Omalara returned, she leapt into my arms with a gurgled squawk. `Ah,' said Olumba wisely, 'mama hen no sorrow but joy too much, when chick done go for road.'