New life

Upping the aunty

Zenga Longmore

Many's the time I have thought that an aunt is put on this earth to suffer. How- ever, it was not until last Wednesday that my most primitive fears were confirmed. My elder sister Boko shattered the tran- quillity of my Brixton flat by phoning me up to talk very noisily at me. The gist of her speech was that I was to collect her chil- dren from school that afternoon.

`Meet them at the school gates, give them their tea, then allow them ten min- utes television time before putting them to bed. Ten minutes; is that clear? I know you let Omalara's eyes become positively square from too much telly, but I'm not that sort of parent. Have you got that? Good. Now I'm off to a meeting.'

`Meeting of what?' I enquired.

`And no sweets. Or, for that matter, chips. See you later.'

The children charged out of school sporting rapturous smiles. 'It's Aunty Zenga! Hooray! Sweets, chips and telly!'

After we had arrived home, Kuba, my six-year-old niece, made up a little jingle which went something along these lines:

Aunty Zeng's our besty Aunt, She gives us anything we want.

Although lacking in a certain poetic artistry, this sweetly sung ditty touched the very core of my heart.

`All right,' announced Elike, the eldest boy, 'I've watched telly for hours and I've eaten too many of those penny chews. Now what can I do? I'm bored.'

`So,' replied Comfort, Elike's four-year- old sister, 'am I. Omalara's asleep, and there's no one to play with.'

`How about playing with one of the edu- cational toys your mother left out for you?' `They give me earache.'

`I know, Comfort,' said Kuba, coming into the room with a pair of scissors. If you want something to do then you can sit still while I cut your hair. Mummy says it's too long.'

`Oh no you don't!' I yelled. But the chil- dren had already become wildly passionate about the idea of a home hairdressing ses- sion.

`But Aunty, we're allowed to. We've done it loads of times before!'

`No!'

`0-o-oh!'

`Well all right, then, but just a tiny bit, do you understand?'

With cheers and squeals, Kuba set to work on her sister's full head of plaits. If I stay in the room to watch, I foolishly told myself, then I can make sure that Boko will not notice the difference. What appeared to be an eyeblink later, Comfort's head uncannily resembled a hedgehog that had recently become entangled with a lawn mower. Model and stylist grinned with smug approval. I made a rasping sound. All of a sudden, in strode Boko. For a second she stared transfixed at Comfort's head, as if hypnotised by the eyes of a spit- ting cobra. Then she asked in a helpless gurgle, 'Children. How could you?' `It was Aunty! She told us to!' the chil- dren cried, as one child. 'She said just to leave a tiny bit,' added Kuba, throwing her mother a piteous glance. `Oh well, must dash!' I shouted, wheeling Omalara through the door. `I'm late for a meeting. Bye.' `Zenga,' said Boko on the phone the next day, 'out of evil cometh forth good.'

`Eh? What was that?'

`Comfort. You know she's always admired the way her Rastafarian class- mates wear brightly coloured head wraps? Well, for the next two weeks she will be coming to school a la Rasta herself, and she's over the moon. Come again tomor- row and meet the kids after school. As aunts go, you're not bad.'