New life
The eerie English
Zenga Longmore
It is surprising the people one meets when wheeling a baby through Brixton. Only last week in Electric Avenue, Oma- lara, now nine months old, attracted the attention of a large, beturbaned woman who asked me if she could paint a picture of the child. 'I do art classes, you see, darlin'. Me cyaan wait to start on the portrait. The pickney sweeter than honey `n' better than money.' During our stroll around the market, it was revealed that the lady, Mrs Starman, was on her way to have her fortune told by a 'mystic prophetess', advertised in a West Indian newspaper. Always keen to become aquainted with mystic prophetesses, I asked if I could come along for the ride. `I don't know if the `oman'll let you in, `cause you didn't make no appointment, don't it, but you can walk me there, darlin'. The prophetess live in the heart of Brixton,' she added impressively. So saying, she adjusted the art materials under her arm and we wanded our way through the crowded back streets. After ten minutes' wandering, we found ourselves in a bleak concrete land, an area of such arid gloom that it struck me as odd that any prophetess, mystic or otherwise, could live in such surroundings. On closer inspection, the collection of grey blocks turned out to be my very own estate, and yes, we were approaching my own tower block.
`Er — Mrs Starman — are you sure this is— erm—' `Come darlin', don't be afeared. This is she home of abode.'
Something mystical was definitely afoot, because the lifts were working. I shud- dered with the occultism of it all. We clunked to the ninth floor. A strange swimming feeling came over me as Mrs Wright, the old lady whose flat lies under- neath mine, opened her door and admitted us.
`Didn't know I was born under the caravan, did you, dearie?' she asked, with a sly wink.
Not knowing what to make of this, I sat bemused as tea was brewed and cups were arranged.
`Keep the pickney quiet or you'll blur the spiritual vision,' muttered Mrs Star- man.
`You're very artistic,' began Mrs Wright, eyeing the drawing pad. `True a true, y'know.' :You are very interested in the mystic science of tea-leaves.'
`Eh eh, you s000 right.' `You lean towards gullibility, you tend to believe everything you hear.' `True true! What wonderful prophecy.' Leaving Mrs Wright and her client with the excuse that Omalara needed changing, I slipped away. As I did so, I reflected on the strange fact that mystic powers are always bestowed on another nationality to one's own. If you are English you look to the mystic East. But if you are West Indian, you may look to the most occult, soothsaying nation of all, the prophesying English, with their dark, eerie powers of necromancy. If you don't believe me, turn to the back pages of any West Indian Paper.
How soothing to come home to a cheery letter from Olumba, the envelope covered in Nigerian stamps which I peeled off to give to my little nephew Elike. Last time I did this, mind you, he screwed the stamps Link) pellets and fired them at his sister. He has yet to learn that all small boys love stamp albums.
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