New life
Den of iniquity
Zenga Longmore 0 n the question of whether Omalara's first birthday party should be held in my Brixton flat or at Boko's Harlesden abode, opinion amongst my friends was sharply divided. Olumba, who was assigned to spend the day wearing his caterer's hat, felt that, although Boko's flat has a garden, and I live ten floors away from any form of vegetation, he could not possibly do his foo-foo justice anywhere outside Brixton. My sister Boko said that the party ought to be held at her place, so would we kindly be there by midday to prepare for it.
Clawhammer Jones Bingo, who had
threatened to bring his seven-strong brood along, announced that he and his `pickney dem afraid to walk 'pon the streets of Harlesden' because, according to him, they are 'pack full of tief men and ginnals'. Historically speaking, Clawhammer may have a point, for he believes that harles is an ancient word for villains, and that the sleepy north London area was once a Den of Harles.
Be that as it may, although the tide of opinion flowed towards Brixton, Boko, if you remember, had said she wanted the party to be thrown at her flat. So, 12 o'clock Saturday morning found myself and Olumba in Boko's kitchen, preparing savouries in a harassed manner. Omalara sat in the paddling pool in the garden, splashing Boko's three children. Although the temperature was officially 99 in the shade, you would never have thought it. What with the steaming egusi and ground- nut soups, Boko's kitchen thermometer must surely have hit the 150 mark.
The guests were a motley collection of trendy actors, their offspring, and Brixto- nians such as Mrs Starman, who came bearing an earthenware jar of 'seaweed mash'.
`Seaweed w-w-w-?'
'Mash, sweetness, made from seaweed I colleck in Margate and bwile up. It a herbal remedy for stomach pain. You'll need it later y'know. Taste it.' I started hack.
Luckily, Boko saved an otherwise awk- ward situation by shooing Mrs Starman into the garden to join the throng. Then she placed the seaweed mash under the sink along with other bottles purporting to kill all known germs.
Now I'm not sure when it happened, but halfway through the party games a sensa- tion was caused by the entrance of two children who looked as if they had stepped down from a Michelangelo ceiling. All they needed was the wings. A chorus of, 'Oh,
aren't they divine!' sounded from the trendy actors, as the curly-headed cherubs
made their way into the garden to partake of hot and cold collations. Boko smiled fondly. I presumed them to be friends of her children. All the prizes were won by the two boys, who being complete Renaiss- ance cherubs excelled in every game and finally left bearing armfuls of toy trains and teddy bears.
It was only after they had gone that I realised that £20 was missing from my purse. 'It must have been those two golden-haired boys,' said Boko. 'I saw them playing round your handbag."What!
Who were they? What were their names?' `What do you mean? I've never seen them before in my life!' Mummy,' wailed Boko's son Elike from the next room, 'my He Man calculators are missing.'
There was a long silence. Next time you're in Harlesden, look out for two curly-haired children with winning lisps. Steer well clear. For they are the Harles.
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