Page 69 - The Woven Tale Press Vol. IV #2

tain of mashed potato and vegetable stew in front of him. Mashed potato was a poor substitute for pounded yam, but he did not have the money to buy food from the African food shop, so all he could do was eat it and pretend he was eating the real thing. Her cough made him look up.
“You know this for a fact, eh? You have looked into everyone’s house and seen them eating their evening meal with their fingers?” He pulled out the bowl and continued eating, sucking on a chicken bone.
He did not know why he covered up the food and wiped his hands on a piece of tissue.
Sandra closed her eyes. “I can’t believe you are eating a bone.”
“ Deejee – why are you eating with your hands like that?” Her mouth was open.
“That is the sweetest part of the chicken. You get all the juices.”
He shrugged. “That is how we eat our food back home.”
She looked at him with distaste. “You know what, Deejee? “
“You’re not back home, Deejee. You’re in blooming London!”
What was it now? His eyes narrowed.
“Have you ever thought of changing your name?”
“So what? Whatever part of the world he finds himself, an African man is an African man.”
The muscles in his neck stood up. “Why would I want to change my name? My father gave it to me for a purpose.” He finished the food and covered the plate, washing his fingers in the side bowl on the table.
“I dunno. It just looks so ......” “So what?”
“It’s not sanitary.”
Sandra got up and maneuvered herself into his lap. “I was thinking the other night when you told me about your problems getting a job as a trainee accountant and I said to myself.....if you had an English name and could try and change the way you speak....well people would say ...well he’s almost British and give you a chance.”
“The British want to lecture me about cleanliness. This is a country where warm water comes at the touch of
a tap, yet you people build your bathrooms outside in your gardens and bathe once a week. I come from a country where people walk for miles to bathe in rivers – every morning.”
Oyedeji sat there unmoved. “I could speak like the Prime Minister and it would not change the colour of my skin – and besides I don’t have the time to go for elocution classes. I am not Eliza Doolittle in ‘My Fair
He watched Sandra go red.
“Sometimes I don’t know why I bother with you. What did I say that was so bad anyhow?”
(continued on page 73)
He did not look up from his food. “Sandra, do I com- plain when you eat fish and chips with your fingers?”
She played with a strand of her hair. “Don’t be silly, Deejee. Everyone eats fish and chips with their fingers.”
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