Queenie(55)

I got off the bus outside KFC and went to cross the road, but stopped when I saw a familiar face sitting in all-too-familiar black BMW at the traffic lights right next to me.

“Hello, you,” I said to Adi, leaning on the rim of the open window, not caring if he found me attractive or not but still hoping that I didn’t look completely shit.

Adi looked up at me. “Fuck,” he said, terror flashing across his face. He faced forward and went to drive away, but a steady stream of people walked in front of the car. He looked at me and mouthed something that I didn’t quite catch.

“Huh?” I asked, leaning down closer to him.

He mouthed again, and I moved even closer. “What?” I asked again.

“Say nothing,” I thought he said, before—

“AH!” I heard a woman shriek. “This must be her, huh?”

I followed the sound of the voice and saw a tiny Pakistani woman jump out of the passenger side. Her hair was as huge as her head and her makeup was impeccable. Her thick, sharp eyebrows framed her doll-like features.

“This must be the big girl, yeah?” screamed the woman who I made an educated guess was Adi’s wife.

She walked around the front of the car and over to me. I looked at Adi for help. “This must be the big kala bitch whose big size fourteen knickers were in your glove box, yeah?” she shouted, grabbing a handful of my twists and yanking them. “I knew it! I’ve seen you when you think I’m not there, throwing stones up at her window, chatting all nice things to her thinking nobody was watching, yeah?”

I grabbed my hair back from her and rubbed my sore scalp, looking around to see if any of my twists had been pulled out.

“Leave it, baby,” Adi said, jumping out of the car. Drivers honked angrily behind him.

“You think I’m dumb, Adi?” his wife shouted, her voice shrill. “I’ve seen you talking to her like you’re brown South London Romeo and Juliet, and you go out late one night and then I find those big XL panties in your car? Thought I didn’t see them, didn’t you?” she screamed. “And you’re telling me it’s not her? And now she’s coming over to your car? In front of my face? Are you both crazy?” She swiped at me, and I ducked out of her reach. I guess karma was here for me; I could hardly fight back.

“I told you I don’t know where the knickers came from, baby, it must be because my friend, he borrowed my car, innit, he’s the one who messes around,” Adi pleaded. “Him and his missus, they had a beef, and he must have checked some girl, baby.” I would have laughed at his terrible lies if I hadn’t almost lost a section of my scalp.

“Which friend?” Adi’s wife asked, her nostrils flaring. I watched, panic keeping me rooted to the spot, as more cars lined up behind, beeping furiously. “If these fat girls are what you like, then be my guest.” She snorted in my direction. “You got me going to the gym every day, and this big bloated kala bitch is what you want?”

I reached down to my soft stomach defensively.

“Get back in the car, baby, come on, let’s go home. I don’t know her, I swear! You think I would choose her over you?” Adi said, grabbing his wife’s hands. “Look at her!”

I watched as they got back in the car and sped off, Adi skidding away so fast that he left tire marks on the road. I looked around, expecting that everyone watching films in the Ritzy opposite would have come out to watch the drama, but instead, people were getting on with their commutes.

Rejection was fine, rejection was a huge part of life—but twice in one day I’d been completely dropped by two men who had really put the hours in to make sure they got to fuck me. When I got on the bus, I googled kala with unsteady fingers.

Meaning black in Urdu, the official language of Pakistan. Refers to any black masculine object.

Bit harsh.





chapter


SIXTEEN


JANUARY HAD HIT me hard. I was trying to write stronger pitches for Gina, but every time I tried my head would start buzzing. Work was made worse by Leigh moving to our rival newspaper to work on their fashion magazine. I just wanted my old life back. I wanted my boyfriend, and I wanted to not be fucking up at work, I wanted to feel good about myself. I was so far from that, so far from being who I was, but I couldn’t seem to stop myself from self-destructing. Tom still didn’t want to talk to me despite his promising New Year’s text, and my social life was a myth; and on the days I was too tired to drag myself out of bed, I’d end up browsing Tumblr page after Tumblr page, reading piece after piece on police brutality. I was reading an article on protests in St. Paul, Minnesota, that had followed the shooting of a black man named Philando Castile, when my phone rang. I answered it, anger pulsing in my chest.

“Kyazike, are they going to kill us all?” I asked angrily. “For doing nothing. Nothing at all. For just being. For being black in the wrong place, at the wrong time? I hate it,” I said breathlessly. “It’s unfair, it hurts my heart. Who will police the police?” I was getting hot and stressed. “I can’t understand it, and it makes me scared and confused, and it makes me feel like we don’t belong, like we have to prove our worth just to be allowed to exist.”

“Relax, fam,” Kyazike said. “That’s why I’m calling. I’m getting ready. Black Lives Matter march. In Brixton, Windrush Square. I’ll meet you outside the Ritzy at two.”