Chapter 36
36
I fluff my rice into my lamb and artichoke tagine, which Wale had in fact ordered from Uber Eats. We’re sitting on the floor beside each other with our backs against the sofa, our legs sprawled out towards the nest of cushions and pashminas. It should be lovely – it is lovely – but Kojo’s call has punctured my mood. I keep asking myself whether I should just bite the bullet and tell him now, but I can’t bring myself to do it.
‘I’ve got another surprise for you,’ Wale says.
I let out an involuntary groan. As sweet as it is, I don’t think I can take another surprise.
Wale laughs. ‘I promise it’s the last one.’ He motions his head. ‘Look under that cushion.’
I crawl over and reach under the teal velvet cushion. My fingers make contact with a slim, cool surface. I pull out an old notebook with his name on the front.
‘You know how I used to journal as a kid?’
My eyes widen.
‘No, it’s not that. The one in your hand is my English notebook from year seven, I believe. I found it when I was looking for the journal.’
I flick through the short pages and get a glimpse of black and blue slanted handwriting. I’ve been so in my head, I’ve forgotten I’m here to interview him.
I clear my throat. ‘Are there stories in here which you think will be relevant to your memoir?’
Wale shakes his head. ‘Not stories, no. Doodles and thoughts, maybe. I used to do this thing as a kid where I would write in the blank pages towards the back – you know, so that the teacher wouldn’t see. Normally I would rip the pages out, but there’s still one in there.’ He motions at me to have a look.
This time I flick through the notebook by starting from the back. There aren’t that many pages, so I turn each one individually.
And then I see it.
My heart stills.
I wish my mum was normal.
I look up at Wale. He is resolute.
‘I’m ready,’ he says.
Shakily, I snap into action and hit the record button. I don’t even know if I’m ready. Wale props a cushion under his head to lie flat on the floor. I wonder if this is how he sits when he’s in therapy.
He licks his lips and then he says it.
‘My mum’s a recovering alcoholic.’
After Kathy told me that he was a carer, I had a gut feeling that Wale looked after his mum. And I knew it must be something taboo or something that had stigma attached to it, because Wale was completely mute about it. So, I had quietly convinced myself she had a mental illness. Alcoholism isn’t the first thing that comes to mind when someone tells you they’re a carer.
The next few seconds are silent. Wale doesn’t say anything or tilt his head to glance at my reaction. Although he’s physically in the room, he’s no longer here. I want to lie on the floor next to him, but I don’t know if it’s the right thing to do. Instead, I remain where I am – sitting sideways beside his feet, one hand clutching my ankle.
‘I’m her carer,’ he eventually says, his voice gravelly.
My throat pricks. I know it took a lot for him to admit that.
‘We all were, are. Me. Dad. Ayo. I’ve been looking after her since I was a kid.’ He licks his lips. ‘It all started when she lost her job. Actually, it began way before then. My mum said she had a traumatic childhood. But the drinking started after she got fired. She worked as a chef at this fancy restaurant. Apparently, she got caught drinking on the job. And it wasn’t the first time either. We all thought she’d get another job. My mum’s a really good cook. But then –’ he lets out a long sigh – ‘I would come home from school and see her passed out on the sofa. At first, I thought she was just mad tired. Until Dad found the bottles.’
My heart squeezes.
‘I can’t remember how it got from there to it being normal – seeing my mum drunk.’ He says the word as though he’s swallowed a mouthful of bleach, his face grimacing. ‘Temi, I was so embarrassed. Drinking was what the homeless people on the streets did, not Mum.’
His pain is unbearable. I put a hand on his leg and give it a light squeeze. The skin-to-skin contact must reassure him because the memories pour out, like an emotional montage: the slow loss of a funny, loving mother; the uptick in concerning behaviour – from the incoherent ramblings and the jarring singing to the sporadic bursts of loud music. Sometimes these behaviours took place behind the four walls of their home. But sometimes they spilled out on to the streets.
‘Everybody knew,’ Wale says with a low sigh. ‘Neighbours, teachers. A few kids at school used to call my mum an “alki”.’ His voice breaks at that. I keep my hand on his leg like an anchor. ‘That’s how I got closer to Fonzo’s family. After school, me and my brother would hang out at the barbershop or Anansi Books. I hated going home. Hated it. And Dad was always working. I guess he hated being at home too.’
‘Did he try and help her?’
‘Professional help?’ Wale sniffs. ‘Yeah, eventually. But mostly, he kept things hush-hush. It was this thing that we just didn’t talk about. But when Mum continued to act … wild, he went to church. Obviously, her alcoholism couldn’t be prayed away. But the people there did float the idea of rehab. The only thing with rehab is –’ his chest rises as he exhales heavily – ‘you have to be willing to go. You can’t force someone. It’s never effective when you do. And so, when Dad was at his wits’ end, he gave Mum an ultimatum: you either get sober or I’m leaving you and taking the kids.’
I stop overthinking. I crawl nearer and curl up next to him, resting my head against his chest – a little, helpless gesture to acknowledge his pain. Wale wraps his arm around my shoulder, and as I sink into his warm body, I feel him physically relax.
‘The ultimatum worked for a bit. Until it didn’t,’ he carries on. ‘Dad tried to get her back into cooking by enrolling her in these classes. Not like she needed it. It was his way of keeping her busy. But whenever she was out, she couldn’t resist.’ His words come out faster now, like water flowing through a burst pipe. ‘When she got caught, she would promise that she’d do better next time, that we should give her grace, that she loved us. And I would think, “Yeah? Then why do you keep drinking, then?” I dunno. Maybe that’s why I struggle with that word.’ I feel his head shift to look down at me. My breath hitches in my throat.
I think back to that day when I told him I was falling for him. He told me he did have deep feelings for me but would rather express them through actions than words. At the time, I couldn’t understand why he wouldn’t just say it – after all, I wasn’t expecting him to use the L-word. Now I know it’s a much bigger story. Much bigger than me.
‘Cammie said she loved me and she cheated on me. And then you have my dad who never said the word at all. I think he thought saying it would make me and my brother weak. Less of a man.’
Lacing my fingers with his, I twist on to my side and look at him. He doesn’t make eye contact.
His throat bobs as he swallows down the pain. ‘My dad – he’s one of those strong African men who shows no emotion. I frustrated him ’cause I was sensitive and cried all the time. He didn’t think I was setting a good example for my younger brother. I will never forget the first time my mum went to rehab; I cried when my dad came home without her. Ayo too. When my dad saw, he didn’t hug me. He told me off. He told me to stop crying. That he didn’t raise his son to be weak …’ His voice trails. I rub small circles between his thumb and finger to let him know that I’m here.
Wale doesn’t say anything for a very long time but his jaw hardens as he delves deeper into his thoughts, his features writhing with anguish.
‘My therapist,’ he says, changing tack, ‘thinks I have a skewed perception of what it means to be a man. She says the boy in me and my adult self are at war with each other. A part of me wants to lean in to my sensitive side but another part wants to hold back because as soon as you show your soft side, people take advantage of you. It’s exhausting constantly having to rein yourself in. I just wanna be able to feel, y’know?’ He licks his lips. ‘I dunno. Maybe my memoir will help another Black man who feels as though he has to be strong all the time.’ And with a small laugh, he turns to me and says, ‘No pressure.’
And that’s when I see it.
His eyes are shimmering with tears, a dam waiting to break.
My lips quiver. ‘You don’t have to be strong now.’ I’m crying too.
Finally, Wale blinks. A single tear falls.
And as I lean in and hug him tighter, more tears come – tears he has been holding back for years. At last, he allows himself to feel. At last, he takes his armour off.