New life

Critics' corner

Zenga Longmore

Strange, isn't it. the effect that certain people have on • your home? Some people only have to glance around your living- room with an approving nod, and instantly the drabness of the furnishings transforms into plushness beyond the dream of Liber-

ty's. 'I never realised my flat was so posh. Coo,' you hear yourself murmuring.

Amanda, Boko's social worker friend, however, does not possess this built-in home improvement effect. She called round while Uncle Bisi, Olumba, Omalara and I were having dinner. Not that Oma-

lara was eating as such. She was far more intent on groping her way along the wall, like a person in a dark hotel room looking for the light switch.

As Amanda stepped through the door, her eyes only had to pierce the room through those pebble glasses and ghostly arrows seemed to appear pointing at all the damp patches on the ceilings, rusk stains on the carpet and green felt-tip scribbles on the walls.

'Boko's out, Amanda.' But before I could add, 'Thank you and goodbye,' Olumba had ushered her in and seated her at the dining table.

'I really do admire you', began Amanda, helping herself liberally to fried plantain, 'for being able to bring up a family in such a place. You — er — you people are amazing. I couldn't live in a place where the lifts are totally unusable, ind the hallway is infested with fetid rubbish, and when you get inside it's even worse! And yet you don't seem to mind at all. You just put up with it. You're so brave.'

'Why, thank you, Amanda, what a delicate compliment. More bitter leaf soup?'

'Which reminds me about your column (yes please, just a small helping).'

'My column?'

'Your column. It's all wrong. You fail to display an eco-political awareness of the position of the underclass. Shouldn't you be exposing individuals in high places whose interest it is to keep the ghetto marginalised?'

'We are individuals in high places,' observed Olumba, looking through the window at the ant-like people below.

Uncle Bisi laid down his spoon. 'Nephew, this is no time for jokes.'

'Sorry, Uncle, sorry, Uncle.'

'Now, niece, listen carefully to this intelligent young woman — ah — she speaks much sense. Let us meet again to discuss your future articles. It is time this column was taken out of your hands.'

. . . So I found myself once more at the dinner table: same people, same meal.

'Where's my bitter leaf soup? I demand more pounded yam! Call this a plantain? Tchah!' came a peevish voice from the end of the table. 'And speak up, my tape recorder's on the blink.'

Who was this man? How had he got in? Could it be . . . A. N. Wilson?

With a scream I awoke from a tortuous dream. Omalara was making loud gla gla noises in my ear. I knew this must be an omen that the meeting must not take place. Therefore I have at once begun to make arrangements for Olumba, Omalara and me to go to Wales on Tuesday.