New life
One problem licked
Zenga Longmore
Clawhammer Jones Bingo suggested I throw a surprise party, the surprise being that the guests would all be forced to paint the flat. The idea seemed wondrously good
at the time, but far too cruel to actually carry out. Instead I gave my friends ad- vance warning that an evening of slave labour lay ahead and much to my delight they were more than compliant. Come four o'clock on Saturday afternoon, no less than 12 people were milling around my flat, fetchingly got up in overalls and brimming with good will.
Before the workers turned up, I had spent five hours painting the walls of Omalara's room in what is known as Angelina Pink. This was done to show everyone the standard of excellence re- quired. So pleased was I with the result that I walked round and round the room with Omalara, gloating over my skill.
Beejay, the Rastafarian poet, was the first to arrive. A dour man with a black bonnet and pebble glases, he wordlessly set to work, rollering Omalara's ceiling with Hint of Okra white emulsion. Worried that he could have been in the room for so long without gasping with noisy praise, I peeked through the door. The sight that met my eyes all but caused me to drop Omalara in my shock. Beejay was splashing white paint all over the walls.
`Beejay! In heaven's name, man, what are you doing? Look at the walls!'
`Why, what colour are you going to do them?'
I staggered ,brokenly to answer the doorbell, but Olumba's friend Adamu had got there first. It was one of the hippies next door who, hearing clanking buckets and loud curses, had decided to say hello to the new neighbours.
`Good to see you've moved in, man. The woman who lived here before never gave us a moment's peace. She had this cra-a-zy baby. Far out!'
Adamu giggled, then returned to my bedroom where he, Olumba and a few more of his cronies were pouring great globules of wallpaper paste on to the adhesive-backed paper.
`We have to use extra paste because our mouths lack the strength for this paper-o.'
It took a good while to explain to Olumba that you weren't supposed to lick the back. His friends began nudging and winking at one another as if to say, `Women! What do they know about, such things?'
I left them all to it, and took Omalara down to Mrs Wright's flat on the ninth floor. In the soothing sanctuary of her cluttered kitchen we discussed when Oma- lara would grow her first tooth. Every so often, Omalara would grab Mrs Wright's gnarled finger and chew it with gurgles of contentment. Mrs Wright said that to teethe in the fourth month of life is a sure sign that the baby's future husband will be a redhead.
From above, ear-shattering bangs and crashes and the sound of paint being spilt on the carpet came over loud and clear. Could that have been an omen, signifying that my flat will one day be habitable?
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