Butterfly Fish by Irenosen Okojie Page B

dissent.

Queenie, London 1970
    At Victoria station the train screeched to a halt, jerking Queenie back in her seat. She paused momentarily to catch her breath, then stood, wide-eyed and excited. She’d just turned twenty and had promised herself on her eighteenth birthday that by the age of twenty she’d be in London. She wanted to reach back in time and pinch her eighteen-year-old self. Instead, she pressed her face closer to the slightly dusty, finger-printed window on her right, swallowing the sights of people milling about. Aah ah!
    She’d never seen so many white people. They dispersed like rats into every direction wearing long winter coats, dark colours and guarded expressions. Their eyes looked like pieces of pale sky and their even paler skin seemed thin and fragile. Of course she’d seen white people back home in Lagos. There were the white businessmen her father had entertained in their beautiful, old house. And most of the nuns at Our Lady of Lourdes secondary school were white. Sister Wilhelmina who had a perpetually grey tinge to her skin had a fondness for telling her, “Queenie, you have the disposition of a cockroach! Why are you always where you’re not supposed to be?” And she’d smile back as though she’d been paid a compliment. “Thank you Sister, cockroaches are great survivors.” And Sister Wilhelmina would reply, “Not if you have the correct insecticide.”But secretly, despite her severe nun’s outfit, she was charmed. She’d shake her head at Queenie and smile.
    Queenie grabbed her medium-sized black suitcase and two outsized red checked bags, and waited behind a small group of people. She followed them out of the carriage, marvelling at the smoothness and ease of her journey so far. Even eating on the train had been an experience. They didn’t have transport like this back home. Uniformed stewards pushing trolleys containing sandwiches, chocolates, bottled water and doughnuts amongst other things approached and asked if you wanted a drink. Queenie had longed to try the Queen of England’s tea! She’d ordered a cup and drank it daintily, imagining her girlfriends from home gathered around her, ooohing and aaahing at the sophisticated way she sipped, saying very loudly, “Nah wah oh! You have truly come a looong way!”
    Queenie dragged her bags along, imagining British angels filling her pockets with pound sterling! She was so lost in her reverie she nearly bumped into another one of those uniformed station guards. This one had a whistle in his mouth and held his hand up to signal her to stop.
    â€œWatch your step dear,” he said, eyeing her as though she was an imbecile. “The way out is through the barriers and then down to your right.”
    â€œThank you,” she said, intrigued by the man’s accent, which wasn’t like the Queen of England accents she’d heard on TV. It was rougher. She grabbed her bags tighter, encouraged by the mass of people heading every which way. There was no ambling along or lazy steps, the cold didn’t allow for it. Instead she noticed they all moved with a sense of urgency. People weren’t talking in a leisurely manner either; she caught bits of conversations that were functional, efficient.
    â€œZip that coat Tommy, I won’t tell you again!” a woman ordered.
    â€œMum!”
    â€œI mean it, if you get ill; don’t expect me to waste my time sitting at the GP.”
    The mother tugged at the lapels of her woolly, black coat where a red, lizard-shaped brooch was pinned and marched ahead, her son, a boy of about seven in an ill-fitting navy jacket running fast to catch her.
    Queenie’s stomach rumbled. She noticed a few shops lined the edges around the station. They had brightly coloured signs that read Manny’s Pie & Mash Shop, Beggar’s Feast and Longjohn’s Café where thick-crusted sandwiches heavy with slices of cold