Chapter Forty #2
In the centre of the stage is a tall mixed-race boy.
With unruly curls and blackline tattoos running the length of his thin arms under a sleeveless Miles Davis T-shirt, he adjusts the microphone.
Beside him on a pedestal is a laptop and drum machine.
The mic feeds back slightly as he grips it, tipping it towards his mouth a bit more.
‘Easy. How are you lot doing?’ he says in a bored tone that hides a slight shake of nerves.
‘We’re Kwesi. But, um, that’s Rita.’ He points at the drummer.
‘And that’s Fante. I’m Kwesi.’ He shrugs.
‘It’s like a Sade thing, get me?’ He laughs softly into the mic, then turns to his bandmates, who smile back.
Shit.
Anika is certain this should have fallen under the ‘no surprises’ clause in the diary, but there he is.
Her half-brother. Standing on a stage about to begin his performance.
He’s looking down at his shoes, gripping the microphone and moving it in short sharp shakes in time to Rita counting them off for their first song.
When he moves his head back up, his eyes are closed, so Anika just stares at him.
The song is a blistering punk tune supplemented with pounding hip-hop beats. It’s fantastic.
‘Bloody hell,’ Cam says, beside her. In the corner of her eye Anika can see him straightening up in his seat, but she barely notices, unable to remove her own gaze from the mesmerising performance.
Her brother’s voice is pure and melodic, cutting through the significant noise, his eyelids squeezed shut with a passion that wasn’t evident a moment earlier.
A couple of minutes later the song crashes to an end, and Cam claps loudly alongside the few other students and stylish types dotted around the bar space.
He even lets out a whistle, which is what draws Kwesi’s attention over towards them.
The younger man’s eyes lock with Anika’s and he squints a bit, holding up one long-fingered hand to shield his gaze.
The other hand still grips the microphone.
‘Oh.’ His voice echoes around them through the mic, and then Kwesi seems to remember where he is.
Still looking out at Anika, he says, ‘Er, this one …’ He pauses and huffs a cynical laugh, though his eyes seem confused and hurt when he glances back over at her, like he did the last time she saw him all those years ago in the record shop.
She swallows guiltily as the dark centres of Kwesi’s pupils seem to harden and he looks away. ‘This one’s about my dad.’
Her heart pounds at double the speed of the trip-hop-inspired melancholic song that the band begins to play.
Kwesi’s eyes squeeze shut again, but she can feel the unspoken connection reaching out to her across the room as he sings lyrics about loss, family and identity – cryptic explorations of the man who was such an enigma in both their lives.
The music and her brother’s voice invade Anika’s bones, and she fights with everything she has not to let tears escape as the music envelops her.
It’s almost impossible when Kwesi begins to sing the song’s final refrain:
I got everything else
But who am I?
I got everything else
But who am I?
The words she told him, all those years ago: you got everything else.
The anger she felt then rushes back unbidden, because it doesn’t feel any less true.
It seems he got music in the end, too. She wants to argue with him, to justify herself, to explain that she was struggling then.
That she’s still fighting for control every single day, a day at a time.
That it took her thirty years to answer that question he’s asking himself in the lyric – who am I?
– and that before she finally figured it out, she was scared, angry and passive.
And yet her feelings of anger scuffle wildly with the sorrow and joy and beauty and fear of her brother being there in front of her again, singing such an incredible song about something shared between the two of them.
Kwesi holds the final note of the repeated phrase long after the other instruments ring out.
Then he opens his eyes again, his gaze training straight back on Anika.
There are more people coming into the bar to hear what’s happening, and, as the band goes into their next tune, a small group of young women move to stand in the space between the stage and the stools where Anika and Cam are sitting.
‘They’re fucking good, yeah?’ Cam leans closer to brush her braids aside and speak into her ear, pressing a kiss next to it after he does so. Anika nods mutely, still transfixed.
Three songs later, they’re beginning to wind up their set.
‘OK, boom. This is the last one from us,’ Kwesi says, his voice still languorous but more confident-sounding. ‘Like I said, we’re Kwesi. Check out our SoundCloud and all that good shit. Speaking of which, this one’s called “Good Shit”.’
A surprisingly funky groove starts up, and Anika turns to signal the bartender for another drink.
She has no idea what to expect once Kwesi leaves the stage – it’s not like he hasn’t seen her there.
The band are most likely going to be in the bar area after their set.
‘Er, do you want another one?’ she asks Cam with urgency in her voice.
He gives her a curious look and shakes his head, gesturing to his two-thirds-full glass.
She orders a G&T just as the band wrap up.
The applause is more raucous now, in keeping with the performance they’ve just seen.
A part of Anika is incredibly, overwhelmingly proud.
Yet, other than the trepidation over what might unfold in the next few minutes, she’s baffled at how this could have happened at all.
Must have missed something in the diary.
Taking a long sip of her drink while the bartender waves away her card – apparently Tina has sorted them out with a tab – Anika turns back around, watching tentatively as Kwesi’s band pack up so that the next act can make their way to the stage.
Should she tell Cam why this has suddenly turned weird?
She doesn’t really have time to ponder it further though, because the small crowd of girls parts and suddenly her brother is standing in front of her.
‘Er, hi,’ he says.
The newly adoring fans eye him silently.
‘Hi.’ Anika looks into his handsome, youthful face, still so unused to seeing familiarity in another person.
Some of the fortitude she’s bred into herself comes back to her at last, and she clears her throat.
‘Hey. Fucking hell. Kwesi, it’s really good to see you.
’ Nodding towards the stage, she adds, ‘That? Was unbelievable.’
Unexpectedly, a grin sparks Kwesi’s face alight and he leans down to embrace Anika tightly, giving her a quick but emphatic hug that makes her emit a short laugh, a mixture between pure delight and awkward surprise.
As they pull apart, Cam’s expression is even more puzzled than his usual quizzical demeanour.
‘Cam, this is Kwesi. He’s my … well, he’s my half-brother.’ She flaps her mouth open and shut, wondering whether she needs to elaborate more, but Cam steps in smoothly, his hand outstretched to shake the younger man’s.
‘Oh, OK!’ Cam says, in a manner that acknowledges the revelation of the introduction but with a tone that doesn’t belabour it. ‘Nice one, man. The set was sick.’
Anika watches Kwesi’s face as he begins to register who Cam is, and his other hand reaches to clasp the handshake into a more vigorous sandwich.
‘Wow, big fan, man! I used to listen to you since back when you were on Pressure FM—’
‘Hah!’ Cam says. ‘You must have been a yout those times! I practically was myself.’ He pats Kwesi’s hand then releases it, putting an arm around Anika’s waist casually. ‘Talent runs in the family, I see.’ Anika notices Kwesi’s jaw tightens a little. ‘How long you guys been playing?’
Anika watches her brother’s eyes darting back and forth over to her as he explains the trajectory of his band, and she finally lets herself acknowledge that although this encounter has been a surprise for her, it’s a welcome one.
Hasn’t she been thinking about this for a while?
Maybe she has manifested this reunion. Now that she knows what she’s dealing with, there’s even more opportunity to take back control and make this something good.
But as Kwesi wraps up his summary, the drummer, Rita, bounds over to them, grasping Kwesi tightly around his slender middle and popping up by his side.
‘Who’s this?’ she asks by way of greeting, staring between Anika and Cam, her eyes like an owl’s beneath the lenses of her oversized glasses.
Her voice may simply have been attacking the volume of the music that has started up over the speaker system, but Anika doesn’t think she’s mistaking the hostility.
‘Um … this is Cam Asiedu,’ Kwesi says, beginning with the easier of the pair, most likely. He eyes the girl meaningfully.
‘Oh, OK, cool,’ Rita replies, sensing that this is someone she should know about, but clearly not quite able to access that knowledge. She looks at Anika expectantly.
‘And this is, um … this is Anika.’ The introduction suggests they’ve discussed her before, but Anika reaches out her hand to shake Rita’s. It’s ignored as the girl turns and looks up at Kwesi.
‘As in … ?’ She leaves the rest unsaid, now glaring back at Anika like she’s radioactive.
Kwesi nods wordlessly, and Rita unsubtly leans on his shoulder to whisper something up in his ear, cupping her hand to disguise her mouth like they’re in the playground.
Anika purses her lips in irritation as Kwesi shakes his head emphatically, but his friend ignores him.
‘Look, kismet or whatever,’ Rita is saying more loudly, and then turns back to Anika. ‘You should know he was really fucking hurt by that shit you did. Thinking he must’ve done something wrong?’ She shakes her head vigorously. ‘The number of times I’ve had to talk him out of trying to get in tou—’
‘Drop it, Reet,’ Kwesi interrupts sternly.
‘He was hurt, though? Like … d’you get it?
That was fucked.’ Rita continues, slurring a little and ignoring him, squinting her eyes accusingly at Anika.
‘He could have done with a proper sister after losing his dad like that. Someone to look out for him, not one that just shovels more rejection in his face.’
Anika steps away from the tightening grip of Cam’s arm to stand closer to the blonde girl’s face. She can smell wafts of liquor on Rita’s breath, which goes some way to explaining her behaviour, but does nothing to quell Anika’s reaction to it.
‘We don’t all get whatever we want, sweetheart.
’ Anika’s voice is a growl. ‘Some of us go through stuff, OK? Things you could never imagine.’ Flashes assail her mind: her dad, frail.
Herself, lying on a hospital bed trembling and vulnerable.
The word gone. The word dead. ‘Maybe don’t chat about shit you know nothing about!
’ Anika’s voice escalates as she speaks these last words, and a background part of her registers spittle flicking between her teeth.
Rage has burst up so abruptly it almost frightens her.
Rita squares her shoulders, her small frame wide and sturdy-looking.
‘Tell yourself whatever you want – end of the day, you’re still a selfish bitch.
’ The last word thuds between the two of them and Anika can’t let it lie.
She faintly hears Cam saying her name, attempting to placate her, but like a thunderbolt Anika’s hand flies out and she pushes the younger woman smack in the centre of her forehead.
She feels the heel of her palm connect hard with Rita’s brow bone, sending the girl toppling backwards into a low table full of drinks and empty glasses.
The fall is almost silent due to the carpeted area of the bar and the pounding music surrounding them, but there’s an audible gasp from the patrons nearby.
‘What the fuck, Anika!’ Cam shouts, pulling her backwards at the same time Kwesi folds his tall frame down to help his friend as she quickly starts to sit up, unhurt but indignant. Kwesi glares back up at Anika, his face incredulous.
‘You should learn to speak for yourself,’ Anika tells her brother through gritted teeth, the rage still thrumming every pulse of blood in her veins.
But it’s misplaced, so misplaced. Again.
Fuck, Anika, she thinks faintly. She’s been angry for so long that it’s hard to know why any more, even when she thought she left it behind. Angry and scared and …
No matter where it came from, the energy still needs to be displaced.
She wants to kick and scream at the world, wishing she punched Rita, wishing the violence of what she’s done was ten times worse just to get all the pent-up feelings out of her body now that they’ve surged up like a tsunami from some unknown hiding place.
‘What’s going on?’ Tina was at their side now, partly ready to back her friend, but also eyeing the customers in need of placating, already complaining about their lost liquids. ‘Neeks, what happened?’
Anika only realises she’s still struggling to lash out when she feels Cam’s fingers grip her biceps tighter, restraining her against his body and letting go only to wrap his arms around her waist – but not in an embrace, more in an attempt to keep her immobile.
‘It’s OK, Anika! Anika, shh. Shh. Calm down, it’s OK.
’ His words are urgent at first, then pacifying, gradually allowing her to diminish the fervour in her muscles.
She spins around within his grip, allowing Cam to squeeze her tightly into his body, hiding her face in his neck.
Anika wishes his arms would tighten and tighten and never stop.
Each expanse of her ribcage to breathe feels better against the restriction of his unmoving embrace.
‘Jesus, is she all right?’ she hears Tina ask, sounding a bit scared, but Anika ignores it. Hot tears streak down her cheeks. Out of control. Out of control. The words thrum in her ears. This isn’t how it’s meant to be. She sucks in one last breath then wriggles free of Cam’s grasp.
‘I’m sorry,’ Anika whispers in the vague direction of him, then again at her friend. She’s not able to assess the damage to the girl, and absolutely not willing to look back and see any more of the reaction from Kwesi.
Instead, Anika grabs her coat and bag and runs for the exit, out into the street.