Blood and Gold E-Book

Mara Menzies

• Herausgeber: Birlinn
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 201

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021

Beschreibung

Winner of the Saltire Society Fiction Book of the Year 'a beguiling mixture of poetry, moving prose and magical realism' - Stephen McGinty, The Sunday Times Jeda is a girl on the cusp of adulthood, living in Edinburgh; with a white father and a black mother, she feels self-conscious and out of place. Her feelings of alienation allow the stories of the shapeshifting Shadowman, who embodies all that is negative, to feed on her doubts and insecurities. The death of her mother, Rahami, gives the Shadowman an opportunity to control Jeda through her grief and his lies, but her mother's last gift to her daughter was a box of stories. When the box is flung open, the stories escape, setting in motion an incredible journey. Jeda learns more about her African ancestry through tales of slavery, cruelty and colonisation, but she also discovers pride and love and sacrifice, ultimately embracing her dual heritage and her unique place in the world. Filled with tragedy, wonder and magic, Blood and Gold explores the themes of loss and oppression, while asking us to examine our own identities, attitudes, and humanity.

Leseprobe

Mara Menzies is a narrative artist who draws on her rich, dual Kenyan/Scottish cultural heritage to create worlds that explore contemporary issues through legend, myth and fantasy. Her storytelling performance Blood and Gold, which inspired this book, premiered at the Edinburgh Festival Fringe in 2019 to rapturous praise. She has toured in 27 countries.

Eri Griffin is a freelance illustrator based in Edinburgh who works with publishers and design agencies across the UK and Europe.

First published in 2021 by

Birlinn Limited

West Newington House

10 Newington Road

Edinburgh

EH9 1QS

www.birlinn.co.uk

Text copyright © Mara Menzies 2021

Illustrations copyright © Eri Griffin 2021

The moral right of Mara Menzies to beidentified as the author of this work has beenasserted by her in accordance with theCopyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

All rights reserved. No part of this publicationmay be reproduced, stored or transmittedin any form without the express writtenpermission of the publisher.

ISBN: 978 1 78027 746 2

British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data

A catalogue record for this book is availablefrom the British Library

Designed and typeset by Mark Blackadder

Printed and bound by Bell & Bain Ltd, Glasgow

For my nyanya, who is watching from another world.

For my mother, who is here now.

For Imani and Barasa, who are the future.

With love

A young black man once travelled to Edinburgh for a meeting and sat down at a cafe on the Royal Mile. The waiter pulled out his seat and called him ‘sir’. He was struck by how equal he felt, as he had never encountered such hospitality before.

Another young black man found himself in the Grassmarket, a beautiful, enjoyable part of the city. He had the audacity to speak to a white woman, an act for which he was stabbed to death and, despite the many eyewitnesses and the known identities of the killers, nobody was ever brought to justice.

The first story took place in 1846 – 175 years ago. The young man was Sir Frederick Douglass. He had escaped slavery in the Americas and became one of the foremost anti-slavery campaigners of his time. The second story took place in 1989, not too long ago. The young man was Axmed Sheekh, a promising young student from Somalia.

It’s surprising how little we have moved forward. It is not surprising how little we talk about it because it is uncomfortable to believe that Scots were the majority shareholders in the plantations. It is unsettling to think that many Scottish families benefited from millions of pounds in compensation from the British government for the ‘loss’ of their human property. It is an unpalatable truth that 70 per cent of the Jamaican telephone directory is made up of Scottish names. It is easier to shy away from the fact that portraying black people as sub-human was essential for the success of the colonies and the slave trade, and how in many ways that narrative is perpetuated to this day.

Who would want to speak about things like that? But the thing is, we need to. Because if we don’t talk about it, acknowledge it and learn from it, then the increasing hate crimes, intolerance and racism that we see everywhere will seep further into our society, and a society filled with fear and hate is a lost society. I love our country and I imagine a better future for us.

Mara

HOW THE STORY BEGINS

It took Rahami, Jeda’s mother, two hundred and eighty-three days to die. Two hundred and eighty-three days from the moment Dr Harrison first told her she was sick to the moment Jeda placed her head on her mother’s chest and gently felt her soul fly away. Jeda was eight years old. Her mother had held her close, stroking her hair and singing her favourite tune. The tune had grown fainter and fainter until Jeda could no longer hear it at all. She then noticed her head no longer rose and fell with her mother’s breathing but lay as if resting on a warm pillow that had gradually lost its softness. It had been slow, as though Jeda’s mother had simply given herself away.

At first Jeda didn’t understand. Then her confusion slowly turned into a silent rage as she realised that her mother had lied. She had told her she would always be there, but she wasn’t. She was gone.

Jeda looked around and saw the solemn faces of her father and Aunty. The little white room overlooked a cold, grey sea, and the tubes and plastic chairs suddenly felt like they were all closing in on her. She needed to get out. Now! She clenched her fists and felt every ugly thought, every bad word that she had ever heard, building up inside her, ready to explode. She wiped a strand of mucus from her nose, stood up and headed towards the door.

‘Come, darling.’ Aunty’s words were as soft as the snowflakes falling outside. She reached out her arms to comfort the little girl, but Jeda pushed past her and raced into the corridor of the hospital where nobody ever seemed to get well. She was filled with rage at the sight of two nurses in blue uniforms sitting at their perfectly sanitised station having a chat. Their job was to keep people safe. They hadn’t. Instead they were talking about their children, or last night’s dinner, or some other entirely irrelevant event.

The bad words rose from her chest, through her throat, filling her mouth, wrapping themselves around her teeth, her tongue, her lips until finally they were released . . . a wave of filth that bounced off the pale blue walls. Jeda screamed them all. Every word she had heard on the television but wasn’t allowed to repeat. The word that a boy in her class had used, landing him in trouble with their teacher. The word that her father had used when he was watching football one day and the other team scored. She understood that such words were used to express pain and anger or some other intense emotion, so now they poured out of her and it felt good. She screamed until there was nothing left, then stood there breathless. The nurses stared at her, open-mouthed in disbelief.

Aunty appeared in the corridor and called her name. Jeda bolted. She ran down the stairs towards the main door and pushed desperately against the glass, but it wouldn’t open. A nurse arrived and asked if she needed help. Jeda whipped round and glared at her, baring her teeth like a trapped animal before diving through her legs in an attempt to escape. She kept running, running, till she found herself in a place she suspected she wasn’t supposed to be. It was not perfect like the rest of the building. The walls around her were of thick, grey stone and in the patches where there was plaster it peeled off in untidy strips.

She found herself at the bottom of an old, winding staircase with an intricately carved wooden handrail. Her footsteps echoed loudly as she sprinted up the steps, which eventually led to a long corridor. Frantically, she tried door after door, each one locked tight, until finally it seemed one took pity on her and creaked open. It led to a tiny broom cupboard, dark with thick cobwebs in the corners. She squeezed herself in, slamming the door behind her. She reached out gingerly, her fingers pushing everything they encountered to the side, creating a little space in the corner, where she wrapped her arms around her knees and sat. The only sound was that of her breathing as she tried not to gag at the odour of the musty old mops that surrounded her. As she tried not to think of anything at all.

•        •        •

It was a cold day for a burial, so it took place quickly. Rahami had insisted that she would return to the earth in her purest form. There was to be no embalming and she thought a simple cardboard coffin would do nicely. One on which those who wished to do so could inscribe messages of love and affection. She wanted a tree planted as tribute. Just a simple goodbye. Jeda’s father had carried out Rahami’s wishes with help from their friends. Jeda now thought how different this was to the burials that she had seen on television, where most people wore black – Rahami had insisted that this would be a celebration of life, so those who attended wore pinks and golds, blues and yellows. Chris had gently asked Jeda if she wanted to be there for the burial. Of course she did! How could her father ask such a thing?

However, as the celebrant raised one hand to the sky, she began to wonder if she had made the right choice, for a black crow settled on a branch above her. Although its head appeared to point away into the distance, Jeda couldn’t shake the unpleasant sensation that it was staring right at her. She saw black clouds rolling across the sky. They cast terrible shadows on the coffin, which rested on the bright green grass.

‘Real grass would have been better,’ thought Jeda, annoyed at the artificial blades that were so horribly vibrant, in such stark contrast to the deep, black hole beside them.

When the pallbearers raised the coffin and began to lower it into the ground, the crow opened its beak and cawed loudly. Jeda felt something was terribly wrong. The hole was too dark. Her mother would not be able to see. The box was too small. How would she get out? This was wrong. All wrong. The crow must be an omen. The clouds, everything. She ran forward and tried to grab at the coffin.

‘Mummy, Mummy!’ she sobbed.

Her father was right behind her. He gently placed a hand on her shoulder, then knelt down.

‘It’s okay, darling. Mummy’s resting! It’s time for her to go.’

Jeda realised there was nothing more she could do, so she stood and simmered with anger and confusion as those around her threw handfuls of soil into the dark hole where her mother now lay. She wanted to yell at them all, but the hand on her shoulder reminded her that she was a good girl and certainly no troublemaker, so she forced the rage to remain within, slowly tightening around her gut.

In the weeks and months that followed, Jeda saw her father struggle. She found him clutching a framed photograph of Rahami, weeping in the living room. She didn’t want him to be bothered any more than he needed, so she tried her hardest to be strong. She helped more around the house. She cooked the meals and tried to keep her room tidy. Her show of strength was so convincing it was easy for her father to believe that she was coping well.

But from behind the crevices in the walls, in the moments of restless sleep when she tried to pull her mother from the black hole that had swallowed her, the Shadowman was watching.

He could see the cracks in her soul.

He understood her rage.

And that was when he spotted an opportunity to slip into her world.

•        •        •

Jeda knew about the Shadowman long before she met him.

‘Be aware, my darling,’ her mother would say. ‘He comes in many forms and can be hard to recognise. His greatest wish is to control you, so always be aware!’

At first he came to her as she slept, whispering to her and guiding her dreams. He conjured a beautiful picture of a princess with long, straight, icy-white hair and a golden crown.

‘She’s beautiful, isn’t she?’ he would ask, his voice soft and gentle.

‘Yes,’ Jeda would whisper, her eyes shut.

‘The most beautiful in the world?’ he suggested.

‘Yes,’ she would reply, believing it.

As the years went by, he began to watch her during the day, accompanying her wherever she went. He fed her tiny suggestions of which billboards to gaze upon – the ones that would make her feel less sure of her beauty, of her ambitions, of her place in the world.

‘See how wonderfully thin she is!’ he whispered in her right ear, and she would suck in her belly.

‘What a beautiful smile!’ he spoke softly into her left. Her tongue pushed against her teeth and she noticed that one of them jutted out just a little further than the others. For a moment she wondered whether it could be fixed.

He hinted at which groups to avoid, insinuating that surely they must be speaking about her.

‘Did you see how they looked at you? How they turned away?’

Soon, out of habit, she began to notice these things for herself, leaving him very little work to do. Yet there were times when he saw things going the wrong way.

When Jeda was twelve, Aunty came to visit, her loud, irksome voice somehow eliciting joyous laughter from the young girl. When she began talking about Rahami, he saw a change come over the child. Her eyes grew misty as she listened to Aunty speak of her mother. Of Rahami’s annoyance at being caught at the airport with a suitcase full of dried fish and having to throw it away.

‘Your mother was heartbroken. Like throwing a bag of gold in the rubbish!’ Aunty laughed, the gap between her front teeth proudly exposed. ‘And, daughter, the way she blasted me for feeding you porridge when you were just a baby. I told her, “A weaning baby that does not cry aloud will die on its mother’s back!” Daughter, the noise you were making! She knew I was right . . . and look how strong you have become!’

Aunty was in full flow, regaling Jeda with all kinds of stories, her eyes bright and shining.

The Shadowman didn’t like this. The girl was listening, and smiling. The cracks were thinning.

He slithered behind the wall and pushed a large daddy-long-legs into the light. It peered around, then quickly moved its long, spindly shape, scuttling back to the safety of darkness. Jeda was distracted by the creature.

‘Aunty, did you see that?’ she gasped, pointing at the wall.

Aunty heaved herself round, but there was nothing to see.

‘See what?’

Jeda shook her head. ‘Nothing, I guess.’

The spell was broken. The conversation ended. Aunty stood, stroked Jeda’s face and embraced her tightly. As the door closed behind her, the Shadowman settled down. For him, it was safe again. For the time being. He would have to be careful. Some people were dangerous.

RAHAMI ANDA NEW WORLD

It is commonly known that death is the most absolute thing in the world. Even though it may arrive at an altogether inconvenient time, it will most certainly arrive. Rahami, Jeda’s mother, had never considered the possibility that it would happen to her. She was a young, beautiful woman. Beautiful because she was sure of herself. She walked with grace and poise. She moved through the cobbled streets, glancing upwards at the exquisite stone buildings, their spires, domes and turrets disappearing into the haar, that thick, magnificent fog that rolled in from the sea and hung low over the city. Wherever she walked, people turned to marvel at this woman whose skin glistened like the midnight sky. They noticed the thickness of her lips, the sway of her hips, the casual confidence she exuded with a flick of her wrist or a slight tilt of her head. She smiled, for despite the differences she knew she loved this place as much as the distant land of her childhood.

Rahami loved words. As she peered through the ghostlike haze she mouthed haar. She had learnt it from a talkative stranger eager to share the wonders of his city. She liked the sound of it. It rolled off her tongue so easily. It was soft and gentle.

She thought of the old stories she had heard of this place. Women accused of witchcraft and sentenced to death. Fresh bodies stolen from their graves and sold for the advancement of science. Murder, torture, incredible wickedness! She imagined that in this magnificent city many of these stories had likely taken place under the cloak of the haar. It lent an air of mystery to everything it touched. Quite perfect for committing a crime.

When she had first arrived, she had tried to fit in, changing her clothes to mirror the grey and the dark. After a few years she realised that even though she was now of this place, she would likely never be seen as fully belonging, and so she decided there was absolutely no need to blend in at all. This city was hers regardless, and so she returned to wearing the bright clothes that spoke to no era or trend. She danced as the buskers played, her body remembering steps from a different world but which matched the rhythms so perfectly. She laughed loudly in places where silence was expected, spoke her mind regardless of who was present.

One day, as she meandered through the streets, she was struck by the striking red stone exterior of an ancient building close to the city centre. Realising it was a portrait gallery, she walked in, keen to learn more about the people so greatly admired for having contributed to this great city. A young man with scruffy brown hair was looking around and was drawn to her inquisitive spirit. There was a curiosity about him that appealed to her. He was nervous and made a terrible joke. She laughed. He smiled and told her of some of the faces he recognised in the paintings. She seemed genuinely interested. He asked if he might take her out. When she agreed, he planned the perfect date, a slow meal and a walk on the beach.

As the sun set, he found her fingers enveloping his. She smiled, and as he gazed into her sparkling eyes he thought that she was perhaps the most beautiful person in the world. They spoke, sharing stories of their lives, their thoughts, their dreams, their ambitions. They agreed to meet the following day, and then the next. They spent increasingly more time together, and Rahami began to notice how the blue of his eyes reminded her of an ocean she once knew, many thousands of miles away. Her eyes followed the curve of his jaw, and when she noticed the thinness of his lips, she began to wonder if those thin lips knew what lips were supposed to do.

Those lips must have spun a web of sweet words around her, as soon the two of them were inseparable. A few years later her skin tingled and trembled as those thin lips sealed their marriage with a kiss and it was not long after they were blessed with a beautiful daughter. They named her Jendayi, for though her birth had been long and arduous, she had arrived safely with a sweet smile. As her grandmother’s name had been Jendayi, which meant gratitude, it appeared to be a perfect fit.

A tiny girl with skin the colour of gold, the thick, full lips of her mother and the round wide eyes of her father. Jeda, for that is how she came to be known, was very much loved. She was a wanted child, and she knew it, for her parents did their best to fill her life with joy.

Jeda and her father would spend the days creating wonderful new things together, using glorious shades of colour and light to bring them to life, but in the evening her mother would fill her world with words. They would snuggle in close together, and Rahami would take a comb and braid her daughter’s hair. She would reach back into her childhood, remembering the stories her father had told her. Stories of the hyena men and the snake women who disguised themselves as beautiful strangers, arriving in villages and tricking gullible young people into marrying them before stealing them away to their fate.

While Jeda had never travelled to the place of her mother’s childhood, she knew it vividly through these stories. She heard of talking chickens, eagles with sparkling, vibrant feathers and a magic needle to whom the rainbow willingly surrendered her colours. Her eyes widened in wonder as she imagined the sheer power of the deities who hurled each other across the Universe: the Mother of Fish in her robes of blue, the awesome power of the deity of beauty and divinity whose yellow skirts flowed as she danced around the world. Time and time again Jeda would insist on hearing the tale of the old hunched woman who, tired of the sky weighing down on her shoulders, furiously knocked it back up into the heavens with her walking stick, where it remained to this day.

But often Rahami would share the stories she had learnt in her new world.

‘Tell me, Jeda,’ she would begin, ‘what would you do if you met a wolf in the woods?’ Then she would weave her story, leaving the child spellbound.

The child grew up with stories of changelings and selkies, of the bogle, of the wandering poet who rode on a horse through the skies holding on to the fairy queen, wondering at the rivers of blood and tears below. She learned of the soldier forced to leave his loved one and how they would never again meet by the bonny, bonny banks of their beloved loch. She heard of princesses flinging their hair out of tall towers and children abandoned to the forest because there was not enough food for them to eat at home.

‘Did the witch die?’ Jeda asked, after hearing what happened following the discovery of a gingerbread house, but Rahami would extend the mystery and leave things unsaid. Fuelled by these stories, Jeda many a time imagined herself playing the roles of warrior, ruler and healer, her dreams being so intense she woke up exhausted. Other times, she lay there, awake, a silly smile plastered over her face.

‘Sleep, precious one,’ Rahami would say, as she gently kissed her daughter’s cheek and stroked her hair before closing the bedroom door behind her. Years later, Jeda would remember these moments as perhaps the happiest times of her life.

•        •        •

How wonderful it would have been if everyone loved those stories as much as Rahami and Jeda, but that was not the case. Rahami’s best friend was Aunty, a larger, more opulent version of herself. While Rahami was quiet, Aunty was loud. While Rahami was not overly keen on shopping, Aunty would often arrive laden with bags, exhausted but happy. While Rahami preferred the natural look, Aunty would deftly fold the fabric of richly coloured headwraps into magnificent shapes that framed her face perfectly. Her mascara was thick, her lips a bright red and her numerous handbags were filled with all kinds of interesting niceties.

‘Aunty is coming, sweetheart!’ her mother would say.

‘You’re going to Aunty’s house!’ said her father.

‘Come, greet Aunty!’ Aunty would exclaim as she threw her arms out wide to embrace Jeda. As a child, Jeda never knew her by any other name. The comforting smell of warm bread and cinnamon surrounded her.

Jeda sometimes had the feeling that if Aunty squeezed a little harder she would be sucked into her enormous bulk and disappear forever. But she loved Aunty. There was always something to eat whenever she was around. In fact, if there was no food available within five minutes of Aunty requesting some, she would become visibly annoyed. And if Jeda refused to sit and eat with her, out would come one of her famous sayings: ‘Jeda, if someone eats alone, how can they discuss the taste of the food with others?’

Jeda never knew how to respond to that one, so she would always feel obliged to have a little something, even if it were just a bite.