Can we try again?

Seventy-two

The rest of the week was pretty much the same routine. Getting Jameel to school, bringing him back, lingering around the school premises for a quick chat with Bernie.

The weekend that followed we visited her at her house. Jameel wasted no time in making himself feel at home. He scooted off upstairs to play with Gaby as though he'd visited before. It was a lovely house; much bigger than my tiny flat. Various photos of her family hung on the wall. And I scrutinised each one, admiring the smiles on each of their faces in the photo. Bernie invited me into the kitchen where ingredients were sprawled across the counter; she was clearly ready to cook.

She introduced me to her other two children, Abi, her 12-year-old and Mikey who was 7. Then there was little  Gaby who I'd already met and was now technically Jameel's 'best friend ever.'

"Kyle is my eldest. But he's not here. He's at work at the moment." She shook her head. "God knows when he'll be back. The traffic from Central London is bloody horrific. Hopefully, Michael would be able to pick him up on his way back."

I presumed Micheal was her husband, but I didn't ask.  

Bernie and I had a really good conversation. She told me she was originally from Ghana but she moved here to the UK with her parents and older brother when she was 13.

Little wonder she had the British accent, I thought. She was very wayward and misbehaved a lot, she told me. She messed around a lot much to her parents' demise. She told me her parents had threatened to send her back to Ghana, although they didn't

"I was just carried away you know. The fact that I was now in the UK just got into my head." She said, sipping the drink she'd poured earlier for herself. "I thought that my parents couldn't tell me nothing. After all, they would get arrested if they ever laid hands on me. I was a dumb kid." she chuckled mirthlessly. 

And at the age of 18, she got pregnant for a "stupid Jamaican Rastafarian,"

"God knows where the bastard is now." She said spitefully.

But then she had to deal with it all by herself. Her parents weren't supportive at all.

I nodded slowly as she narrated to me, knowing fully well the feeling. We had that in common.

"I struggled, you know," she said, a plaintive look crossing her face. "I was basically estranged to my parents. Especially, my dad, he was having none of it, that man."

She shook her head, rolling the ball piercing she had on her tongue. "I moved from house to house with Kyle, squatting with friends, going to mother and baby units. . . My brother was at uni in Cardiff at the time, there was nothing he could really do to help me out, other than try and talk to my parents. But they were just too pissed at me to listen to reason."

"That must have been awful," I sympathized.

She exhaled and then took another swig of her drink, finishing it all up.

"Need a top up?" She asked.

I looked at my glass which was still half full. "No, I'm fine for now."

She grabbed the bottle of wine from the fridge and poured some in her glass again

"But you know what," she continued. "I'm happy I made it out of the mess I was in. It's made me stronger. Made me the woman I am today. I mean, do I regret misbehaving? Yes. But do I regret having Kyle? Hell no. I have no regrets about him at all. I love him. I love all my children"

It was true. One look at her, and I could see the fierceness in her eyes. Love. A mother's love for her son. For her children. That was something I could definitely relate to.

She took another sip of her wine. I did too.

"Although as a parent now, I understand their frustration. I wasn't an easy teenager to tame," she admitted after a while.  "But I think they went a bit too far, my parents. It damaged our relationship big time. I'm still not good terms with the both of them till date."

I thought of my parents how difficult it was for them at first to accept me. I remembered the fury in my dad's eyes, the disappointed look on my mum's face. How my dad was ready to kick me out of his house, but my mum was ready to step in and intervene for me. From what Bernie was saying to me, it felt like she had it worse than me. I felt for her.

I reached out and touched her hands. "But like you said you made it out and it's made you the strong woman you are."

She grinned. "Yeah. I've met a wonderful man who cherishes me, and I have three other gorgeous kids. What more can I ask for?"

"Exactly."

I told Bernie my story as well. There was no judgemental look on her face when I talked about the one night stand, and I was grateful for it. Although, from what she'd told me, it seemed like what I went through was nothing compared to what she had to put up with. But she listened intently anyway, nodding every now and again, sympathising with me.

"African parents are just too extra." she stated and I couldn't agree more.

I told her about Oma and how supportive she was all through. I didn't forget to mention Kenny and my failed attempt to get back on the dating ladder.

She scoffed. "He sounds like an arse." I giggled because it sounded like a phrase Oma would use. "Girl, don't worry, the right man is on his way if I can manage to find love, I'm sure you can as well." 

It was a simple statement, but it meant a lot. "Oh, I hope so." 

Soon, dinner was ready. One by one she called her kids, including Jameel, and they came trooping down the stairs, clearly hungry. Dinner was homemade lasagne. It was a meal I'd heard of but obviously never tried. It smelled lovely and I was eager to have some. 

As expected, it was delicious and filling, and I wasn't the only one who thought so, because Jameel came back to request for more. 

"I like this food, mummy. Can you make it when we get home?"

I laughed. He should know by now that the skills involved in cooking weren't something his mother was blessed with. "I will darling," I reassured him. "I'll ask aunty Bernie to teach me." I glanced at Bernie and winked at her.  

After dinner, Bernie brought out from the oven, a large tray of chocolate fudge brownies for dessert. By now, I'd already gathered that she was one who could cook and loved doing so too. She was my own Ijeoma in England. I smiled at the thought. 

Jameel and I were about to leave when Bernie's husband and son walked in. Bernie introduced us briefly before we walked out. I hugged and thanked Bernie profusely for the food and good hospitality, and like I've noticed she always do, she waved it off. 

"Oh it's absolutely nothing. You two are welcome here, anytime. And hope it all goes well on Monday." She pulled me into a hug again.

I went to bed that night feeling a lot more hopeful for the first time since I arrived in England.