My mother’s bright throw was slung deliberately over the blue sofa smothering past indiscretions. We moved down the wood floor hallway, the smell of damp clothes heavy in the air, past my messy sitting room with the previous evening’s Chinese takeaway containers stacked on the floor, a large black and white picture of Jimi Hendrix blowing smoke into the lens commanding one wall. I nodded reluctantly, stepping aside to allow entry. Along the street, the sound of doors shutting heralded the morning rush hour. “He’s gone missing.” The sky swirled a moody grey. She smelled of an odd combination of cigarettes and baked bread. That morning, she stood at my doorstep, hair slightly damp, clutching a small dark blue container with the word “tea” peeling off at the corners. Her green eyes rippled with laughter and mischief. A chicken pox mark on her left cheek looked like a teardrop. Snow white hair hung past her shoulders in an unruly mess, shrouding her heavily lined face. A slight woman who chatted enthusiastically about all kinds of subjects, she lived alone and dressed like a hippy.
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Mrs Harris was my new next-door neighbour. Although, she’d added, there may have been a slim chance the fat, sepia-coloured cat of a neighbour was the one skulking around fighting her roses, who in turn offered only their blooms in scented, decorative peace offerings. The first time I met Mrs Harris, she’d told me she was certain that Buddy, her garden statue Buddha, had been eating her roses. Inside the flat the young woman tossing in her sleep remained unaware of her breath clouding the surroundings, of turning her head towards two paths lined with coloured, broken glass, of the tiny people from the palm wine bottle pleading against her thumping heartbeat. It spun slowly on the thick, straw-coloured welcome mat. Small movements fractured then reassembled as it hauled onwards stopping outside the chipped, wooden door of a quietly dark flat where only the sound of the trembling shrubbery flanking the recycle bin passed through the keyhole. The scene continued to evolve, fragments of moonshine gleamed between puffs of red dust. The bottom half of the bottle lay shattered on the ground. The boy’s pupils were swimming in beer and he was uncertain of the picture before him as the scene dragged itself up the pavement, with bits of glass embedded in its outline. He yelped as the contents spilled out, an amorphous mass, images flickering like ancient film reel. Slightly unsteady on his feet the boy swiped the bottle up and threw it against the wall, watching it smash. Out of the dark London night a teenager being chased by two raucous friends, leaning for breath under the lamppost noticed the green glass glinting in the grey light. Reluctant to draw blood they formed a black net above the bobbing heads. Buzzing mosquitoes were winged witnesses.
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Fallen branches lining the twisting path cracked loudly. The man and woman were being led by soldiers who could perform the nifty trick of building distances between bodies in close proximity. Then the image in the bottle spun like a revolving door. The man spoke in a calm, measured tone, his fate already hardened inside the Adams’ apples in the room. The woman’s head was bowed and she clutched a pink beaded bracelet, rubbing it repeatedly between thumb and forefinger. An emerald-eyed man and a young woman attired in traditional Nigerian cloth were before a more ostentatiously dressed committee who bore glum expressions. Lick the edges of the picture presented and you could taste the sour, sweet traces of palm wine and trap your tongue in a different time 19 th century Benin, Nigeria.Ī court was on display. The image unfurling inside the bottle shimmering like moonlight trapped in glass mattered. It didn’t matter how the bottle had arrived at its location under the curious yellow gaze of the lamppost or whether the messenger had been a postman delivering for both God and the dancing devil.
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Its movements were audible gasps made of glass. The Yeah Yeah Yeah BlueprintĪ green palm wine bottle rolled on the wet London Street. Modern London, London 1970s & 19 th Century Benin. To my favourite usual suspects mum, dad, Amen, Ota and Iredia, thank you so much for everything.