Being Amani

grateful!

THAT NIGHT

I lay in bed scrolling endlessly through Instagram and saving images of Black girls with big smiles and long, beautiful braids as inspiration for my next hairstyle. Nao’s latest single plays on repeat in my earphones. My eyes feel heavy and I know that sleep will come soon.

I jolt up to the sound of smashing and crashing coming from downstairs. Without thinking, I look in the direction of my bedroom door. I pause the music, pull out my left earphone and freeze. I wait, hoping that it was just my imagination. I lean up on my forearm and tilt my head, as though it’s going to help me hear better. I keep my eyes fixed on the door. The room is in complete darkness apart from the blue light coming from my phone, which is casting long shadows on the walls.

I realise I’ve been holding my breath and the bedsheets are sticking to my clammy body while I wait for the inevitable. Another smash, louder than the first, but this time I jolt so violently that my phone slips out of my hand and falls on the bed. My heart’s racing and my body begins to shake. Most people would call the police and report that an intruder had entered their home, but I know it’s not an intruder. I know that they live here and I know what’s coming next.

I can’t just sit and listen to them arguing again. I ball my hands into fists as my fingertips fizz and tingle with anger, but I’m rooted to the spot. The quilt shackles me to the bed.

Come on Amani, get up!

Nothing. I take a deep breath and exhale as I force the quilt of my body. I climb silently out of my bed and creep across the room towards the door, being careful not to step anywhere the floorboards creak.

I open my bedroom door, just a crack, and the light from the hallway floods my room. There’s mumbling and another smash, but this time I don’t jump. I’m numb. Their voices gets louder and clearer as they move into the hallway. The footsteps give away the exact location of my parents. I know this house well and I know that they are directly below my room.

I squeeze my lips together and close my eyes, praying that it stops me from crying. I shake my head in disbelief. I can’t believe this is happening again.

A shrill scream pierces through the house and I immediately clasp my hands across my mouth. I want to run downstairs and see if Mum is okay, but I’m scared. Scared of making things worse, and of what I’ll see, but mostly I’m scared that Dad will turn on me.

I glance at my wrist and wince, remembering the pain from the last time. It only happened once, but once was enough.

My heart races as the blood pumps around my ears. It’s making it difficult for me to hear anything else. I take my hands off my mouth and hold on to the doorframe to steady myself.

Mum and Dad have argued a lot recently; it’s got worse since she lost the baby but I thought things were finally looking up. They were fine this weekend, but Dad’s been drinking tonight. Is that what they’re arguing about? Mum hates it when he drinks—we both do. He gets braver and meaner and more… well, more like this.

I creep out of my room to the top of the stairs and look up at the clock in the hallway. It’s 2:13am. I wish I was still in bed, drifting off to sleep as Nao serenades me. My chest hurts and I finally exhale. I didn’t realise I was holding my breath again. They’re still shouting at each other. I crouch down on the top step and I just about make out some of their words.

Kill.

Trust.

STOP!

I use the back of my hand to wipe my eyes. When did I start crying?

The living room door swings open and ricochets against the wall with a loud bang. I jump back so that I’m definitely out of sight. I don’t even know what I’m doing.

Mum runs along the hallway, her boots pounding on the wooden floorboards. I’m relieved when I see her. I feared she was slumped on the floor injured. She grabs a couple of bags from the hallway and violently yanks open the front door and storms out into the darkness. Where is she going?

I run back to my room and race over to the window. It’s pouring with rain and the trees are blowing violently in the wind, casting spindly shadows all over the front garden. This is weird weather for the middle of July in London, and I can’t help but think that the way I’m feeling is somehow affecting the weather tonight.

All the other houses on the street are in complete darkness. I can see Mum across the street putting the bags into the car and closing the boot. Is she packing his things or hers? She wouldn’t leave without me, would she?

She frantically fights against the wind. She runs back towards the house and I sigh, relieved. I hear her coming up the stairs, her boots beating on the carpeted steps. She would never normally wear wet boots on the carpet. She speeds up and slows down, missing steps along the way.

Scared that she’ll clock that I’ve been spying, I quickly jump back into bed and try to slow my breathing. I don’t want her to know that the arguing woke me up. I push my earphones back into my ears, press play and wait.

Mum pushes open the door and quickly crosses the room to my bed. She kneels on the floor and holds my hand. Her touch instantly calms my breathing and although I’m still panicking, I feel slightly better having her here with me. She gently shakes me and pulls out my earphones.

Amani, wake up. We have to go now, Mum whispers.

I slowly open my eyes pretending that I’ve just woke up. Mum? What’s going on?

Come on baby, just put these on. She hands me my beat-up, black and white, high-top Converse, khaki green trench and pair of joggers from the pile of clothes that I threw over the chair earlier.

I’m half expecting her to tell me that I need to clean my room as she looks around and grabs my phone charger and bag off the floor. I pull on the joggers over my pyjama shorts. This coat won’t hold up against the unusual weather outside but I don’t argue.

The car’s running. I’ve got your things, she says as she watches me zip up my coat.

I look around the room, filled with my stuff and wonder what ‘things’ she’s got apart from the bag in her hand.

The light peeping in from the hallway allows me to just about make out her face—mascara is smeared across her cheeks. She looks exhausted and scared, a look I’ve seen many times. There’s a blood-stained bandage wrapped around her wrist.

Mum! I point at her wrist. I immediately look down at my own wrist and grimace. Seeing her injured wrist instantly brings back the ache in my own arm.

I place my hand over her bandage and she looks away from me. For a moment we’re still but then she sighs and pulls her wrist away out of sight.

What has happened? Where are we going to go? Are we finally leaving him? I have so many questions that I want to ask her but the words are stuck in my throat.

I take one last look at my room before Mum pulls me down the stairs and along the hallway. We’re moving so quickly that I stumble several times and have to grip the bannister to balance myself.

I take large awkward strides along the hallway trying to avoid the shards of broken glass strewn across the floor and this time I don’t think this was due to Mum being ‘clumsy.’

In the corner near the door, blood is splattered on the wall and carpet. I gasp and my heels dig into the floor. My body refuses to move, but Mum ignores me and just pulls even harder.

I look up as we pass the living room and there he is. Dad stands tall in the doorway. He doesn’t look hurt and there’s no blood on him so it definitely came from Mum. He always come out of their arguments unharmed. What have you done? I ask him with my eyes.

He stares back with a blank expression but his fists are clenched. That’s when I notice that one side of his is face is swollen.

Good, I’m glad he’s feeling a little pain. It’s just a fraction of the pain that he’s put Mum through for years and years.

Come on, Mum says to me.

I look at Dad up and down, I try to speak, but nothing comes out. Why can’t I speak? I try again. Nothing.

I can see his chest rising and falling quickly. His breathing is irregular as though he’s a toddler trying to calm down. I’ve never seen him like this before. He usually looks in control of the situation with an amused curl at the side of his lips, as though he is proud of himself, but tonight, he has none of that. He looks almost remorseful. For once, Mum looks like she’s the one in control. What has happened?

I step towards Dad. I want to look into his eyes and inspect his swollen face. I want to make sure it really hurts. His eyes brighten and widen as I move closer, but Mum cries, No!

She finally pulls me out of the front door.

Where are we going? I want to ask but it’s like my voice, along with my peace, has been stolen by the night.

The car is already running, as we step out into the bitterly cold, windy night. We run across the street and Mum slips into the driver’s seat.

Hurry up, she says, already buckling her seatbelt before she’s even closed the door.

I jump into the passenger seat and Mum drives off with no hesitation. We’re already at the end of the street before I turn around to look back at our house. I can see Dad’s silhouette in the front door. He’s completely still and watching as we leave.

Mum’s breathing is fast and erratic. She turns the corner and wipes her eyes with her bandaged hand. She never drives this fast.

I feel nauseous and my stomach is in knots. My face is soaked in tears but at the same time I feel strangely numb.

Mum, where are we going? I finally ask in a voice so quiet I hardly recognise myself, but Mum doesn’t say anything.

The street lights temporarily shine on her. I can see little hints of her face, like the straightness of her nose, the plump of her lips and the hollows of her eyes. Even in this moment of madness, with mascara down her face and a cut on her cheek and a swollen bloody lip, she’s still the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. Her hair is wild and messy and her curls frame her face. She’s silently crying but she somehow manages to look stronger than I’ve ever seen her.

The street lights whizz past and London becomes a blur in the background. Mum reaches out and grabs my hand. I squeeze it and finally, for the first time in months, I feel safe.

AUGUST

ONE

Grandad let me have his room; the best in the house. It’s huge, with built-in wardrobes and a bay window with a view of the whole street. I can see right to the park at the end of the road. The street is different to the one we used to live on in London, it’s a much busier road and the terrace houses are more tightly packed together.

She dun need to fall behind inna studies, just because of wh’appen. She gon need a space to work in. It’s fine, me ‘ardly even in der hennyway, he said to Mum when we first arrived.

I smiled, gratefully. I was shy around him at first. I didn’t know him that well and it had taken me a moment to decipher his accent. Despite living in the UK for over sixty years, Grandad still says some words with a thick Jamaican accent and drops some words altogether.

Now, me and Grandad are super close and I wonder how I’ve even gone through life without seeing him every day. He’s so kind and humble. The complete opposite to Dad.

When I was younger we used to come up to Manchester every couple of months to visit Grandad but when Mum would have bald patches in her hair and scratches on her face after fighting with Dad, we stopped. We stopped visiting a lot of people when things started to change at home.

I could see the relief on Mum’s face the minute we arrived at Grandad’s. It was like the shame and guilt that she had been carrying around instantly melted away.

I love living here. There’s no fighting or weird tension. I can breathe.

In the first few months after that night, Mum made a few trips back to London with Grandad to collect more stuff from our old house. I hadn’t gone with them though; I wasn’t ready to see our old life again. But before I knew it, I had missed my chance. There were no more trips back and forth to London anymore. No more chances to confront my dad or see how much he was suffering without us. A few months later, Mum and Dad’s divorce was finalised.

When we first got here, I would worry that he was going to turn up and make us go back to London with him. I had nightmares leading up to my sixteenth birthday that he would storm the party, making a scene, but he never came. He didn’t even call me to wish me a happy birthday, so I deleted his number. We can both pretend the other doesn’t exist.

TWO

I spot my friends Leo and Sanaa as soon as I walk into Fabio’s. We’ve been meeting at the ice cream parlour every Friday since we started