Juju is skimming stones to fill the silence. We haven’t spoken about what happened yesterday before dinner. I look at my watch – three hours until her flight back to England. She throws a large flat stone in a particularly haphazard way, very Juju of her, and the water splashes back at us, over the sleeve of my coat, and dots my watch face.
“We should go,” I say.
Juju is going back to university. If any of our parents’ friends ask, it’s one of the good universities, the ones you see on English TV shows, all grand and ornate like something from Harry Potter. “Red Brick,” our dad pronounces, adding extra weight to the d and the k. But I went to visit her last year, saved my wages for months to afford the flights, borrowed a little from our parents in case I had an emergency. When I finally got there, I found her university in some nothing town, an hour away from London. It looks like any other faded municipal building, indistinguishable from the concrete pavements and roundabouts surrounding it. She said I should’ve known better than to believe the things our father tells his friends.
She stands up without looking at me and turns back towards the car park.
We had agreed to come to the beach before she screamed at our parents. I thought about not coming, but I didn’t want her to scream at me, I didn’t want her to be stranded here and for that to become my problem. So, I enacted our sisterly plan as it had been before any incidents occurred. She declined my offer of lunch at the beachside cafe, but agreed to a walk down to the pier, and then I would drive her to the airport, she would go back to England, and I would breathe again for the first time since Juju and Aunty Rho arrived.
Aunty Rho has often described Juju as the black sheep of the family, and she’s always been dead wrong. Notwithstanding the loaded way in which she says black, daring us to challenge it, her pale old lady face almost snarling with pleasure, anyone who truly knows Juju knows she has a loud mouth, a rebellious spirit and a pure heart. Rho thinks she is a black sheep because she dared to leave the family rather than stay home, like I have. And though I won’t say I don’t resent Juju for leaving us; I understand why she did.
We get in the car. Juju disconnects my phone from the Bluetooth without asking and connects hers instead. She blasts Hot to Go by Chappell Roan and I turn down the volume, trying to concentrate on not missing the exit to the airport even though I’ve driven the route a hundred times before. The festivities have bled me dry, and I don’t have any money to lend my sister if she misses her flight and I guess our parents will not give her one single penny after their fight yesterday. She didn’t even say bye to them when we left this morning.
“Have you checked your flight on the app?”
“Do I need to? It’ll either be there or it won’t.”
“How cavalier of you.”
“Big word, big sis.”
I feel like Juju is mad at me by default, which isn’t fair. I wasn’t party to their bust up, I was finishing the last details of dinner when the ambient conversation travelling through to the kitchen from the living room turned to a roar. I opened the door and saw our dad and Juju, mirrored, shoulders hunched, heavy breathing as if they were two kung-fu fighters about to battle each other in a side-scrolling arcade game. Their temperaments were always matched, in calm and in rage, and she looked so much like him in that moment I had to put my hand to my mouth to stop myself from laughing.
My mum sat with her head in her hands, refusing to watch the two of them go at it. Aunty Rho sat in my father’s recliner with her trademark smirk on her face.
“What is all this?” I had said, a few decibels too loud, tea towel slung over my shoulder looking and sounding more like a matriarch than I had ever wanted to. “Juju? Dad?”
“Ask your sister why she can’t keep her mouth shut.”
“Ask your father why he’s such a fucking coward,” Juju retorted, mimicking his intonation to mock the accent he never really lost, and is incredibly sensitive about.
The sound of Juju swearing sent mum off the deep end. She muttered something about her daughter trying to kill her and took herself to bed.
We hit traffic around three miles from the exit I need to take, and I anxiously check my dashboard clock. I never learned how to set it, so it’s an hour and ten minutes slow. I can’t risk looking at my watch whilst driving; people have died for less. So, I do calculations in my head to figure out the right time and how much time we can afford to lose in this traffic jam. It’s not much.
“I’m worried you will miss your flight.”
“Why, because you’ll be stuck with me?”
“Something like that.”
“Just calm down, Kiki, nobody arrives two hours early for a flight anymore. It’s the smallest airport in the world; I will be through it in 5 minutes.”
“We shouldn’t have gone to the beach.”
“It was your idea.”
Juju drums her sharp crystal blue nails on the dashboard and the sound irritates me, like a tap dripping. I feel the muscles in my neck and shoulders wind up and I grip the steering wheel tighter. She turns the stereo back up, Ariana Grande and Lady Gaga singing Rain on Me. I don’t fight it.
“What day do you go back to class?”
“Tuesday.”
Juju is studying political science, but if our parents’ friends asked, it was just science. When she had got in, our father had asked her what she intended to do with this “political nonsense degree”.
Juju had replied “change the world” without missing a beat. If I didn’t know my father better, I’d say he deliberately took a swig of his ginger beer so that he could do a spit-take.
“Alright baby Juju, you go change the world, and let me know how it goes when you’re finished. I look forward to living in Jujutopia.”
What I could see, but Juju couldn’t, was that our father was proud of her. Incredibly proud. But he thought of Juju as his mini-me, his little cling-on, his right-hand girl. The idea of her choosing to be thousands of miles away from him felt like a dagger to his heart. But he didn’t know how to say that; his parents never taught him how to express the difficult emotions, so he just distanced himself from her, telling her that her plans were churlish, that she was a big-eyed dreamer. And she was, but he loved that about her.
I was always a serious, maudlin child. When Juju was born, even I could tell the light inside my parents grew brighter. She was a curly-headed marvel to them, always giggling and getting into things. My parents weren’t in the business of being disciplinarians. They’d never had to be with me. I kept myself in line. When little baby chaos burst into the world, eight years later, they were expecting another me, and they hadn’t developed the tools required to deal with her, so they simply didn’t. My dad laughed when she ripped her school uniform after getting caught climbing over a fence. He defended her when she punched a boy in the face at school for upsetting one of her friends. He took photos when she broke into the pantry as a toddler and covered herself and everything else in icing sugar. I was the one sweeping up after her, combing the sludge out of her hair, sewing patches onto her school uniform, telling her to be careful.
I pull away from the drop-off point and round to the airport car park. I search the signs for the cost of parking and find that an hour’s parking is two hours’ wages, more than enough encouragement to leave, and quickly. I park at a grocery store a mile or two away. I text Juju, “let me know when you’re on the plane, please,” and she reads it but does not reply. I turn on the radio, switch to a talk station, my brain fried and unable to process melodies. I recline my seat a little, check my dash clock, then my watch, then my phone. Nothing from Juju. Still one hour till the flight.
When Juju had first arrived home, she’d said I seemed “even more tightly wound than usual”. I had been preparing the house, getting her room set up for Aunty Rho, trying to magic space up in my room for the two of us to sleep. I’d been cleaning fish, seasoning meat, vacuuming the floors, and mopping the kitchen whilst my father drove to the airport to collect Juju and my mother went to the train station to collect Aunty Rho. After dinner, Juju tried to show me some mindfulness techniques she’d learned from some YouTube yoga guru.
“He’s white, but like, not in a bad way.”
I laughed.
“You know what I mean. It seems like he respects the thing. He’s learned the thing. He’s not all namaste and blonde dreadlocks.”
“I get it,” I said.
I’d tried to do the breathwork, get lost in it like Juju did. But it made me self-conscious, hyper-aware of every part of my body. I got hot and restless. I opened my eyes and watched this man, shirtless and limber in his yoga studio. I thought, of course he’s calm, in a space like that, filled only with light and the scent of essential oils. I became overwhelmed by the clutter in my bedroom, most of it mine, some of it Juju’s. I tried to stay as still as possible so as not to disturb Juju. I leaned forward slightly and moved the cursor on her laptop to see how long the video had left.
“Stop fidgeting,” Juju said without opening her eyes and I gave up. I laid on the floor until that shirtless man rang his little bell and told us we’d been cleansed.
I try to remember those exercises now. I can’t recall if I am supposed to be breathing through my nose or my mouth. I try to look up the video on my phone, but I can’t remember his name. I settle for just breathing deeply with my eyes closed. I am disturbed by a buzz. Juju? No, a takeaway restaurant that my parents like reminding me that as their loyal friend, I can get 20% off my New Year’s feast. I tap on Instagram, look at Juju’s story. A photo out of the plane window, looking down at the tarmac. Window Seat by Erykah Badu plays over the top. Followed by 4 memes about family trauma. I hold the screen to pause on the last one, a screenshot of an old Tweet which reads, “Is it even Christmas if your family isn’t starting some shit?”
My stomach lurches, then rumbles. Since Juju declined our lunch plans, I haven’t eaten since yesterday’s mad, silent dinner. I turn off the radio, wander into the supermarket. The shelves are almost bare, cleaned out from everyone buying food they don’t need for family they don’t like. I pick up a packet of plantain chips and a bottle of water. I pay and head back outside, eating the chips whilst leaning against my car bonnet so I don’t drop any crumbs inside. I walk back to the entrance, dispose of the packet in the bin beside the automatic doors. They open as if to welcome me inside again.
The sun is low in the sky as I drive home, so I feel around in the driver’s side door pocket for my sunglasses – my hand comes back empty, so I move my other hand from the gear stick to grab the frameless shades with the pink heart-shaped lenses that Juju had forgotten in the central cupholder instead. I feel ridiculous putting them on, seeing Juju’s rose-tinted world for the first time. They barely help me see, but it’s better than nothing.
I get halfway in the front door and my mother appears, shushing me, although I am not making any noise. I look round the door and see Aunty Rho asleep in my father’s armchair. I mime exaggerated sneaking movements to placate my mother, go upstairs to my room and look up jobs, houses, restaurants in other parts of the world. I imagine the me I could be in England, in Brazil, in Japan. I pick out the furniture I would have in my airy, colourful, imaginary apartment which is spacious enough for pets but too small for anyone to stay with me.
A knock at my bedroom door. My mother’s voice from the other side.
“Kiki?”
“I’ll do dinner in a minute; I am just catching up on my emails.”
She pushes the door open with her behind and shuffles in backwards, never a woman interested in the privacy of her children. She presents me with a tray holding two cups of tea, Shirley biscuits arranged in a flower. She shifts the papers on my desk with one hand and places the tray down in the space she’s made, situating herself in my office chair.
“Did Juju make her flight?”
“She’s fine.”
“Good.”
“What were they fighting about, anyway?”
In her own, sideways, rambling way, our mother tells me the story in hushed tones, her eyes darting around the room as if someone is hiding in here.
“It was your Aunty Rho,” she says, eager to establish blame. “Rho was getting at your father, about his two wayward daughters. She said nobody would marry Juju with an attitude like that, and that she finds it strange that you have no suitors at all, that something must be wrong with you.”
I try to maintain a neutral face. This is the most she’s said to me in one go in several years, so it’s important I don’t spook her by letting my rage escape.
“Anyway, Juju came in from the backyard as Rho was speaking about you. She shouted at us, ‘How can you let this woman speak so badly about Kiki after everything she does for you?’ and then she shouted at Aunty Rho, ‘Why does it matter to you that Kiki isn’t married? You aren’t married either!’ Your father lost his temper then, told Juju to be quiet and show some respect to family. Juju said, ‘That woman isn’t even family, Kiki is our flesh and blood’. That was when you came into the room.”
My insides feel tight. “Why didn’t you stick up for me, though?”
“Oh, you know what Rho is like. Your father and I don’t take her seriously. It’s better to just let her say things and ignore it.”
“Is it?”
My mother picks at her fingernails and lowers her gaze like a guilty child. “Well, usually it’s quieter. Easier.”
“Aha,” I say.
“Anyway,” she says, standing up and gathering our cups placing them back on the tray, even though neither of us has finished drinking. “Don’t worry about dinner. I will do it.”
She takes the plate of biscuits off the tray and leaves them on my desk, a peace offering.
I check my phone when I wake up, still no word from Juju. I WhatsApp call her, and she answers, groggy.
“Kiki, it is the middle of the night. Why do you hate me?”
“You didn’t even tell me you got on the plane.”
“You worry too much.”
“You could try worrying more.”
“Go away, I love you.”
She hangs up on me before I can say it back. I send her a message; “I love you too, idiot. Thanks for sticking up for me.”
I head downstairs and start taking down decorations. Aunty Rho calls to me from my father’s chair.
“Taking them down so soon?”
“The celebrations are over, Aunty Rho, I suppose you will be leaving very soon? I imagine someone back home must be missing you by now?”
“Well, yes, I do have a lot to be getting on with.”
“Don’t let us keep you from it, then. I will fetch you the train timetable from the kitchen.”
I walk away before she can retort, laughing to myself at all the things Juju would have said if she were still in the house.
In the kitchen, my parents are hunched over the dining table conspiratorially. I take the train timetable from the menu drawer and deliver it wordlessly to the side table next to my father’s armchair. Aunty Rho does not say thank you.
When I go back to the kitchen, my parents are giggling. I feel as though I have interrupted two teenagers. They flick through the pages of an old photo album, pictures of me and Juju at the beach, pictures of little me with tiny Juju on my hip, the picture of Juju covered head to toe in icing sugar in the pantry.
I call Juju and leave my phone on the table.
“Talk to her, please?”
My mum looks panicked at me as if I have handed her a live grenade. Juju answers the phone.
“Kiki, please! What is it now?”
My dad takes the phone from my mother “Juju?”
The line is silent.
“I am sorry for all that nonsense. You know your aunty is mad. I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“Did you apologise to Kiki?”
My father looks at me, lost. “Yes Juju, I will apologise to your sister.”
“Okay, good. I have to sleep, papa.”
“Sleep well, baby Juju.”
They hand me back the phone. Juju sends me a WhatsApp message “That is the first time either of our parents has ever apologised for anything in the history of the world. What did you do to them? Are you holding them at gunpoint? PS. STOP CALLING ME IT IS 3AM”
I understand that the implication that my father will apologise to me is the apology itself, and that’s enough. In her own expression of apology, my mother offers to cook me eggs and I accept, sitting with them in the kitchen eating breakfast and poring over the photo album.
My father leaves the room briefly and comes back to announce he will be driving Aunty Rho to the train station. I go upstairs to avoid saying awkward goodbyes. I begin moving Juju’s stuff out of my room, back into her own. I strip the sheets and as I open the window to air out the bitter old lady smell, I see my father’s car pull out of the driveway through my bedroom window. I think about what it truly means to leave.
Painting Courtesy of Our Featured Artist Fahed Mohammed Shehab
