Reading the Ceiling by Dayo Forster Page A

simple.’
    â€˜I’ll do my best, Ma.’
    â€˜Don’t forget he’s leaving on Tuesday night, with British Caledonian. You’ll need to take it to his house in Richmond. That’s not too far for you, is it?’
    â€˜Just a bit out of my way.’
    â€˜But you’d do it, won’t you? And I’ve just thought – maybe you could add some stockings in the package. You know my colour – if you match it to the colour of your elbow skin, I think that would suit me.’
    She keeps going as I interject with Yes, Mas . And then she finishes with, ‘Make sure you try to get a proper hat box. Uncle Sola won’t mind bringing everything as hand luggage. I’ve asked him already.’
    After our first set of goodbyes but before we put down our phones, my mother says, ‘You’ve heard the news about that Chinese friend of yours?’
    â€˜Yuan?’
    â€˜He died in a motorcycle accident two weeks ago. His parents closed their restaurant and went off to the States to sort out his funeral.’
    â€˜Why didn’t you tell me?’ I interrupt.
    â€˜I’m telling you now, aren’t I?’
    The next round of goodbyes is quicker, and ends our conversation. After I put the phone down, I squeeze my ear lobes together to block out sound, try to turn off the noise of traffic, of people outside on the street. We can’t die yet, we’re much too young. There’s so much we want to do. I hate how time and distance are breaking me up from people I once cared about. I wonder how Remi is? Amina? Moira? Death has upped the stakes. A friend has ceased to exist, and I didn’t even know.
    I press on the bell to the right of the dark-brown door with the number 36 in gilt bang in the middle. There is a long trembling silence after the bell rings, as if the house itself is indecisive, unsure whether to reveal itself or not. I take a few steps back, onto the pavestones that lead up to the door, and look up. There are a couple of lights on upstairs. It’s in the middle of the week, and I know the children will be in, doing their homework, practising their piano, life drawing... or whatever new project my aunt has thought up as an educating pastime.
    I see a quick triangle of light, then a hurried shadow eclipses it. Soon I hear footsteps thudding down the carpeted stairs, and a few muffled steps down the corridor towards the front door. Ade opens the door with red-rimmed eyes.
    â€˜We didn’t know who it was,’ she says by way of explanation.
    â€˜I rang yesterday to say I’d be dropping off some stuff for your dad to take home.’
    â€˜Come in. Mum’s crying.’
    â€˜What happened?’
    â€˜A woman came to the door and now mum’s all upset.’
    â€˜Can I help?’
    â€˜Go up and see her if you like.’
    â€˜I’ll leave these things on the dining room table, so your dad’ll see them when he comes in,’ I say, walking through the open door to the dining room, where I leave the huge green and white carrier bag declaring where ‘good things cost less’.
    In Aunt Abi’s room, the lights are turned low. She’s in bed on her side, her checked pink and green Krio scarf skewiff over her set of bright purple hair rollers. Her face is puffy as she turns to my greeting,
    â€˜Good evening, Ma.’
    â€˜Ayodele.’ Her voice is wispy, swallowed thin. ‘Sit down.’
    I perch on the buttoned velvet stool she usually tucks in under her dressing table, and lean forward.
    â€˜Is there anything I can do to help, Ma?’
    She exhales in shudders and lifts up a shoulder.
    â€˜Your uncle . . .’
    I wait.
    â€˜Oh, I can’t talk. Let the children tell you.’
    â€˜Can I bring up anything for you? A snack or a drink?’
    â€˜Not now. I’ll sleep.’
    â€˜I’ll go downstairs then, but I’ll come back up before I leave.’ She nods.
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