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1 Bummi did not foresee the long-term negative impact of her daughter going to the famous university for rich people especially when she returned home after her first term wailing that she could not go back because she did not belong there whereupon Bummi applied a tissue or two to her daughter's eyes and cheeks and asked her outright and forthrightly, Carole, have I raised a fighter or a quitter? you must return to the university and get your degree by hook or by crook or I cannot vouch for the consequences of my actions Bummi did not subsequently expect Carole to return home after her second term speaking out of her nose like there was a sneeze trapped up it instead of using the powerful vibrations of her Nigerian vocal power, all the while looking haughtily around their cosy little flat as if it was now a fleapit did she think her mama did not notice the external manifestation of her internal mind? eh! eh!, you do not raise a child without becoming an expert in the non-verbal signals they think you are too stupid to see that first summer holiday Carole worked in Marks & Spencer in Lewisham, not to start paying off her student debt like a responsible adult,

but to buy clothes from those expensive fashion shops called Oasis and Zara, instead of getting bargains at New Look and Peacock in her second year she barely came home at all and by her final year she was spending weekends and holidays at her friend Rosie's family manor in the countryside, which had more rooms than a housing estate, she said, it's simply divine, Mother, simply divine (Mother – was she being ironical?) when Bummi watched her daughter collect her degree at graduation, tears streamed down her face so heavily it was like rain lashing a car window without the windscreen wipers she wished Augustine was there to witness their little girl making it, she also wished Carole had come home to continue celebrations with the pot of bush stew Bummi had cooked specially, hoping that now her daughter had graduated, she would return to her real culture and even eat with her hands again instead of side-glancing her mama for doing so, as if she was a savage from the jungle before she got on the train back to London, Bummi impressed upon Carole for the umpteenth time that now she had to acquire a high-flying job and then a respectable Nigerian husband in order to give her grandchildren Carole had introduced no boyfriends to her mother thus far, which meant they were of little importance to her daughter nearly a week later, Carole returned to the flat red-eyed and 'exhausted' because she had been out 'partying', Mother what is this partying? Bummi asked, you are too old for such things, are you sleeping around? is that it? no, I'm a virgin (was she being ironical again?) Bummi gave her the benefit of the doubt, and you must stay that way, remember you are Nigerian and not one of these tarty English girls, I will now defrost the bush meat stew for you and we can have it for dinner tonight I'm not hungry, don't bother, Carole replied before going into her room, shutting the door and only reappearing the next morning when Carole quickly found a good job at an investment bank, Bummi was happy that she decided to stay at home to save for a mortgage

where Bummi tried to coax and cajole her into going to church to meet the three young Nigerian men she had picked out for her, all with good degrees and varying degrees of handsomeness (she did not want ugly grandchildren) I'm really not interested at the moment, Carole replied do not leave it too long, Bummi warned her, by the time you are thirty you are past it and so everything was going along quite nicely for a couple of years, although Carole worked very late and stayed with friends most nights, she said, who lived nearer to the City then one morning at breakfast (a cup of sugarless coffee for Carole) while Bummi tucked into the delicious yam porridge her daughter loved before she went to the university, and then began to say it was as inedible as warm cement Carole said, I have something to share (typical English, all this sharing preamble instead of just speaking directly about the matter at hand) I've got engaged to be married, Mother her daughter spoke to the faded lino on the kitchen floor as if she had never seen it before, except it had been there since before she was born to a wonderful man called Freddy Bummi felt fireworks going off in her brain (Catherine wheels and rockets) what is this? she thought, this girl tells me she is going to marry a man she has not yet even introduced to her mama? how long has this been going on? Bummi asked, unable to swallow the lump of porridge in her mouth that really did feel like warm cement a while, Carol replied, oh and he's white, English, she mumbled, we've been dating for ages and I'm really in love with him, so there you have it so there you have it Carole stared directly at Bummi with an expression that said, and there's nothing you can do to stop me, Mother Bummi tried to count to ten, she only got to 9.2 before jumping off her chair so fast Carole sprang up too why you like to dey like cause so much wahala for me, eh? na play you dey play, abi? you don spit ontop your papa life! you don spit ontop your

people! which kain shame you wan bring on this family? you don disgrace me! I no sabi you at all, at all at all Bummi paced up and down the tiny kitchen forcing Carole to squeeze herself into a corner she resisted the urge to slap her daughter about the head, because no matter how naughty she was, even as a small girl, she could never beat the only person in the world who had come into creation for nine months inside her very own womb the child who was delivered perfectly formed and crying for her mama's comforting milk at Guy's Hospital Great Maze Pond Waterloo London, SE1 United Kingdom of Great Britain Bummi wished Augustine was still alive to talk sense into their girl she was not meant to raise a child alone in a high-rise building in a foreign country she felt as helpless now as she had when Carole went through her sulky period at thirteen years of age and started skipping school, her high grades plummeted to low ones, and she shut herself in her bedroom for entire weekends except to come out and wash, eat and go to the toilet what are you doing in there? sleeping, I'm tired, Mama, she'd reply through the door why are you tired all the time when all you have to do is go to school and work your brain, whereas I have to be on my hands and knees cleaning every day? who should be tired? you or me? when Bummi asked the women at church for advice, they reassured her it was teenage hormone problems that would pass which it did a year or so later her clever little girl was no longer sleeping her childhood away and had returned to the top of the class in most subjects one of her teachers, Mrs King, a very considerate lady who took a special interest in helping her daughter, said Carole had the ability to go far if she sustains her current work ethic, Mrs Williams

Bummi was so proud when Carole got into the famous university for rich people that she photocopied her university acceptance letter not once, not twice, but thrice framed and mounted them – one on the wall in the hallway, one on the door inside the toilet and one above the television where she herself could glance up at it while watching the box she could not have predicted it would lead to Carole rejecting her true culture Bummy regarded her daughter standing in the corner of the kitchen like a trapped animal who did not think it was safe to move she did not want her child to fear her Carole, she said, sitting back down, come, listen to me, you hardly know this Freddy-come-lately character whereas I have known you your entire life, who is he to you when you are everything to me? there is no point getting on in this country if you lose who you really are, you are not English or did you give birth to yourself? you are a Nigerian, first, foremost and last-most Carole you must marry a Nigerian for your poor papa's sake, abi? when that did not produce the required results, Bummi decided to henceforth ignore Carole, starting that very evening when Carole came into the kitchen hoping to prepare their Sunday dinner together as usual the fridge was empty, with not even bread, milk or margarine, all of which Bummi had thrown into a garbage bag Bummi continued to ignore her daughter on the three-seater settee in the sitting room where they usually jostled up against each other while commenting raucously on whatever Nollywood DVD with shaky camerawork was playing on the flat-screen TV in the corner, she refused to let Carole massage her tired feet with cocoa butter as usual, and played deaf when she gingerly asked if she could make her a hot mug of Milo, Mother? Bummi sat at the other end of the sofa in stony-faced silence, sniffing at regular intervals and wiping her eyes until the girl left the room thereafter Carole stayed out of her way and when she shouted out good night through the door when she came home late, Bummi did not reply, kept on reading The Joys of Motherhood by her countrywoman, Buchi

Emecheta, a novel Sister Flora, her friend from church, had recommended when Bummi had unburdened her woes to her Sister Flora told her that the mother in the novel, Nnu Ego, was a sufferer too, read it and you will feel better about yourself, Sister Bummi later, she heard Carole's feet pad out of the kitchen into the bathroom and then into her own bedroom, shutting the door noiselessly Bummi hoped she was crying herself to sleep every night then one morning as Bummi sat in the kitchen plucking out the bad grains from a supersize sack of Basmati rice she'd bought in the Bangladeshi minimart on the high street that was twenty times cheaper than the small-small packets of rice sold in the rich people's supermarket at the corner Carole came in before going to work looking all English, as usual, her navy blue raincoat tied tightly to show off her reduced waist, her hair slicked back into a bun, pearls around her neck you'll be pleased to hear I'm moving out and in with Freddy, Mother, you'll never have to see me again she stood there, expecting Bummi to ignore her, except something shifted in that moment and Bummi felt it was right to give her a ticket back from Coventry, it had been hard not talking to her, as the weeks progressed into two months and nearly three, her hurt had deepened and she was afraid of what might come out of her mouth I dey vex so tey I no fit talk and she did not want to disown her daughter the only person left in her life who she loved you see here, Bummi said, gesturing at the sack of rice, English people like to waste their money in expensive supermarkets on overpriced goods in fancy packaging, and then dare to complain in the bus queue about the economy going down the drain while giving me filthy looks, when it is them, yes, them who are going down the drain with their susceptibility to fancy advertising that causes a slump in their personal finances as a consequence you English people, I want to tell those dirty-lookers, should ask me how to shop in this country because we immigrants are much cleverer at it than you, we refuse to pay ridiculous amounts for spices simply because they are

in pretty little glass jars with 'a scattering of cardamom pods' or 'fine strands of saffron' on the label what is a 'scattering'? tell me now? or 'a generous pinch'? is it a pound or a kilo? no, it is a pinch, you fools, then they have the cheek to turn their noses up at our good-quality money-saving immigrant shops into which they dare not venture in case they are kidnapped by terrorists or catch malaria moreover, we people know how to haggle for a good price in the market instead of paying the extortionate amounts on display with 'rob me, I am a fool' written across our foreheads why pay a pound for a pound of apples when you can get them for less if you stand your ground and out-talk the market trader until they are so vanquished they will practically give them to you for free just to get rid of you? with such savings accumulated over time, you can purchase a whole chicken if you similarly haggle with the butcher one chicken can last several meals if you make soup and are watching your waistline my point is that you are a Nigerian no matter how high and mighty you think you are no matter how English-English your future husband no matter how English-English you yourself pretend to be what is more, if you address me as Mother ever again I will beat you until you are dripping wet with blood and then I will hang you upside down over the balcony with the washing to dry I be your mama now and forever never forget that, abi? by the time she had finished, Carole had tracks of black mascara running down her cheeks and Bummi was grateful to once again feel the warmth of her child's body when they held each other the child who left the flat in tears that morning thanking Mama for talking to her again because, she said, when your own mother pretends you don't exist, it is like you are dead

Bummi watched Carole as she stepped into the urine-smelling lift to take her to ground level her daughter would soon belong completely to them.