New life
. . . and snail soup
Zenga Longmore
It was astonishing to discover what a nonentity I became when I ventured forth alone, without a child. Since the birth of Omalara, I have become used to attracting attention whenever I travel in a public place. Old ladies, when seeing Omalara and me, fall instantly into two distinct cate- gories. Category A will mutter something along the lines of, 'If parents can't control their children then they've no business tak- 'The tip's small but beautifully presented.'
ing them out in the first place!' Category B clucks gooily, 'Who's going out with mummy, den, eh?' Fellow mothers never fail to ask how old Omalara is, and, on receiving the answer, will smirk surrepti- tiously as they compare her size unfavourably to that of their Timmy, who presumably is the same age. Local shop- keepers cannot resist proffering sweets and crisps, 'for the kiddy, bless her', then whisk- ing forth a hand, just in case I was under the misapprehension that I was about to get something for free. Whenever I am standing up in a tube train with Omalara in my arms I naturally expect to be given a seat.
How unpleasantly different life becomes when one travels alone. Last Wednesday, while shopping in snowy Brixton, Olumba, Omalara and I parted ways for a simple but unsavoury reason, namely snails. I don't know if you have come across the Nigerian snail vendor, who sits behind a basket of live snails, each one the size of a man's fist. If you have, then you will understand why my blood flowed in the opposite direction when Olumba insisted on purchasing five of the monstrous molluscs as a present for Uncle Bisi. I hotly refused to go within a feeler's distance of the snail basket, just in case one of the creatures made a dramatic slither for freedom.
'But Uncle Bisi love snail soup-o too much! I go buy them with Omalara and you go-go alone.' I readily agreed to this intelligent proposal.
It was then that I discovered that a lone woman stirs about as much interest as a pebble on a rainy beach. I was outraged to find that no one offered to carry my shop- ping bags on to the bus. Young mums looked right through me with unfeeling eyes, and as far as old ladies were con- cerned I might just as well have been trans- parent. I spent the entire journey home quivering in a fit of affronted pique.
One thing that impressed me, however, was the number of schoolchildren mooch- ing about the snowy streets.
'No school today, sonny?' I asked a freckled child, who leant against a tree for want of anything better to do. `Nah,' he replied, staring into the middle distance. 'Don't tell me you're playing truant!' I gasped, deeply shocked. 'Nab,' he replied, and chewed on a matchstick in such a way that I was compelled to accept that conver- sation had reached saturation point.
A more elegant explanation was deliv- ered by a perky nine-year-old miss: 'There's no classes for ages, right, 'cause the roof's leaking, innit. All the pipes have burst so there's no water, and none of the teachers can teach 'cause there ain't no heating in the classrooms, right. Miss Beanstock blames the Government,' Much as our government ministers may be on the wrong side of perfect, it seems a bit thick of Miss Beanstock to blame them for the snow. Besides, hasn't Mr Major often said that his aim is a classless society?
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