New life
Walking amnesia
Zenga Longmore
0 lumba, who has been away in Niger- ia for the past couple of weeks, is being sorely missed here in Brixton. Already the tea level in my blood has dropped to a dangerous low. My evenings are spent watching Omalara attempting to crawl up the sides of furniture like a reptilian Harold Lloyd. A nerve-racking sight if ever there was one. Before he left, Olumba told me he had been a very early walker, but that due to developing some unspeci- fied illness, he was laid up in hospital at the age of six. When he came out, he'd forgotten how to walk. `Chaff! My granny shed tears of lamentation, but I was glad. I never liked walking in the first place.'
For weeks afterwards, to the great amusement of the village children, he was carried to school on his granny's back, 'like a noble Chinese emperor'. He has now taken to walking with more enthusiasm, which is just as well, considering the number of times he has to trudge to the local shops when I find I have run out of various baby requisites. Omalara can learn from his example.
On Easter Sunday, she slept through her first experience of high life. I took her to the Ritz for tea with her beautiful actress godmother, Joy. Initially I was concerned that the surroundings would not live up to the splendour of Omalara's costume but, on entering the rococo world of stucco and parlour palms, my fears dissolved. Whilst a piano tinkled Gershwin, and tourists from all over the world nattered over the Darjeeling, Omalara snored peacefully. The costly affair was made worth it due to the inordinate politness of the waiters, who fussed over Omalara, instead of turning us out, as I had ex- pected. The last time I tea-ed at the Ritz was with my illustrious brother Abbas. Abbas, an architect of high renown, has often been known to lush me up in noted establishments when he has bought a new tie which he feels deserves recognition. You've got to admire a man like that.
Unfortunately, a curious thing happened to Abbas last week. He was on his way to my flat when he was stopped in Brixton Road by a pink-cheeked policeman with twinkly blue eyes. There, in the street, beneath the twitching of lace curtains, he was searched for knives and drugs. To the extreme agitation of young Blue Eyes, none was found.
`What are your previous convictions, Sir?' Abbas was asked.
`Previous convictions, sir? Why, I have none.'
`Oh go on, you must have done some crime. Come on, tell us what it is,' whee- dled the constable, throwing Abbas, so I am told, a most engaging smile. By now, a crowd had gathered, so Abbas, playing to the balcony and, raising a sardonic eyeb- row, asked: `Is it against the law to go around looking evil and suspicious?'
No,' admitted the rozzer smartly, `otherwise I would have arrested you.'
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