A Bit of Difference by Sefi Atta Page A

of Sidestep . She has a nose ring and her lips are thick with gloss.
    â€œSorry,” she says, wrinkling her brows.
    â€œMy pleasure,” he says.
    He autographs his novel on the nearest table, shakes her hand and returns. Deola predicts he is about to make a rude comment and she is right.
    â€œLet’s go,” he mumbles. “I can’t take much more of this.”
    A group of people has formed a bottleneck by the door. She enjoys the close contact and mix of scents, but Bandele grips her hand until they are outside, where he breathes out.
    â€œWas it that bad?” she asks.
    â€œYou have no idea. I’m sitting there pretending to listen to their inane discussion.”
    â€œAbout?”
    â€œAbout being marginalized and pigeonholed. Then some writer, whom I’ve never heard of before, starts yelling at me during my
question-and-answer session.”
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œSomething about Coetzee’s Disgrace .”
    â€œWhat about Coetzee’s Disgrace ?”
    â€œOh, who cares? Coetzee’s a finer writer than that dipstick can ever hope to be. What does he know? He writes the same postcolonial crap the rest of them write, and not very well, I might add.”
    Deola laughs. “Isn’t our entire existence as Africans postcolonial?”
    â€œThey should give it a rest, the whole lot of them. Africa should be called the Sob Continent the way they carry on. It’s all gloom and doom from them, and the women are worse, all that false angst. Honestly, and if I hear another poet in a headwrap bragging about the size of her ample bottom or likening her skin to the color of a nighttime beverage, I don’t know what I will do.”
    He is a Coetzee enthusiast. Sidestep was about a nineteen-year-old Nigerian who slept around. She found it funny and sweet. He never denied it was autobiographical and the women in the novel were skinny blondes with AA-cup bras. They wore ballet flats and had names like Felicity and Camilla.
    â€œWhat a waste of time,” he says, as they approach her Peugeot. “I should never have come. That’s why I’ve never liked going to these black things.”
    â€œBlack things?”
    â€œBlack events. They always degenerate into pity parties.”
    â€œWhere do you want to go now?” she asks, shaking her head.
    â€œHome.”
    â€œHome?”
    â€œIf you don’t mind. I’m worn out.”
    She paid for two hours’ parking, but she is used to him changing plans.
    They pass a man who is shouting out theater shows in an Italian accent: “Lion Keeng!”
    The Lion King posters have African faces covered in tribal paint. The street is teeming with cars and people. There are cafés and shops on either side.
    Bandele lives in a council flat in Pimlico. His estate has a community center and launderette. He was in Brixton temporarily, but he threw a tantrum and demanded to be moved. He told his social worker he was only familiar with Belgravia and black people scared him, which was true, but his social worker just assumed he was showing signs of paranoia.
    â€œHow’s the job going?” he asks.
    â€œNot bad,” Deola says, turning into Charing Cross Road.
    â€œSo you’re doing charity work.”
    â€œNo, I work for a charity.”
    â€œIn Brent.”
    â€œWembley, actually.”
    He sighs. “Why Wembley?”
    â€œWhat’s wrong with Wembley?”
    â€œIt’s zone four!”
    â€œIt’s an easy commute for me.”
    â€œI’m just saying. With your qualifications, you ought to be working right here in the city for… for Rothschild or something.”
    â€œRothschild is not an accountancy firm.”
    â€œSaatchi and Saatchi, then.”
    â€œSaatchi and Saatchi is not an accountancy firm. And who says they would employ me?”
    â€œCome on. You’re selling yourself short. You’re always selling yourself short. Stop selling