Girl, Woman, Other. Bernardine Evaristo

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Chapter One

Amma

      1

      Amma

      is walking along the promenade of the waterway that bisects her city, a few early morning barges cruise slowly by

      to her left is the nautical-themed footbridge with its deck-like walkway and sailing mast pylons

      to her right is the bend in the river as it heads east past Waterloo Bridge towards the dome of St Paul’s

      she feels the sun begin to rise, the air still breezy before the city clogs up with heat and fumes

      a violinist plays something suitably uplifting further along the promenade

      Amma’s play, The Last Amazon of Dahomey, opens at the National tonight

      she thinks back to when she started out in theatre

      when she and her running mate, Dominique, developed a reputation for heckling shows that offended their political sensibilities

      their powerfully trained actors’ voices projected from the back of the stalls before they made a quick getaway

      they believed in protest that was public, disruptive and downright annoying to those at the other end of it

      she remembers pouring a pint of beer over the head of a director whose play featured semi-naked black women running around on stage behaving like idiots

      before doing a runner into the backstreets of Hammersmith

      howling

      Amma then spent decades on the fringe, a renegade lobbing hand grenades at the establishment that excluded her

      until the mainstream began to absorb what was once radical and she found herself hopeful of joining it

      which only happened when the first female artistic director assumed the helm of the National three years ago

      after so long hearing a polite no from her predecessors, she received a phone call just after breakfast one Monday morning when her life stretched emptily ahead with only online television dramas to look forward to

      love the script, must do it, will you also direct it for us? I know it’s short notice, but are you free for coffee this week at all?

      Amma takes a sip of her Americano with its customary kickstarter extra shot in it as she approaches the Brutalist grey arts complex ahead

      at least they try to enliven the bunker-like concrete with neon light displays these days and the venue has a reputation for being progressive rather than traditionalist

      years ago she expected to be evicted as soon as she dared walk through its doors, a time when people really did wear their smartest clothes to go to the theatre

      and looked down their noses at those not in the proper attire

      she wants people to bring their curiosity to her plays, doesn’t give a damn what they wear, has her own sod-you style, anyway, which has evolved, it’s true, away from the clichéd denim dungarees, Che Guevara beret, PLO scarf and ever-present badge of two interlocked female symbols (talk about wearing your heart on your sleeve, girl)

      these days she wears silver or gold trainers in winter, failsafe Birkies in summer

      winter, it’s black slacks, either baggy or tight depending on

      whether she’s a size 12 or 14 that week (a size smaller on top)

      summer, it’s patterned harem pants that end just below the knee

      winter, it’s bright asymmetric shirts, jumpers, jackets, coats

      year-round her peroxide dreadlocks are trained to stick up like candles on a birthday cake

      silver hoop earrings, chunky African bangles and pink lipstick

      are her perennial signature style statement

      Yazz

      recently described her style as ‘a mad old woman look, Mum’, pleads with her to shop in Marks & Spencer like normal mothers, refuses to be spotted alongside her when they’re supposed to be walking down the street together

      Yazz knows full well that Amma will always be anything but normal, and as she’s in her fifties, she’s not old yet, although try telling that to a nineteen-year-old; in any case, ageing is nothing to be ashamed of

      especially when the entire human race is in it together

      although sometimes it seems that she alone among her friends wants to celebrate getting older

      because it’s such a privilege to not die prematurely, she tells them as the night draws in around her kitchen table in her cosy terraced house in Brixton

      as they get stuck into the dishes each one has brought: chickpea stew, jerk chicken, Greek salad, lentil curry, roasted vegetables, Moroccan lamb, saffron rice, beetroot and kale salad, jollof quinoa and gluten-free pasta for the really irritating fusspots

      as they pour themselves glasses of wine, vodka (fewer calories), or something more liver-friendly if under doctor’s orders

      she expects them to approve of her bucking the trend of middle-aged moaning; instead she gets bemused smiles and what about arthritic flare-ups, memory loss and hot sweats?

      Amma passes the young busker

      she smiles with encouragement at the girl, who responds in kind

      she fishes out a few coins, places them in the violin case

      she isn’t ready to forgo cigarettes so leans on the riverside wall and lights one, hates herself for it

      the adverts told her generation it would make them appear grownup, glamorous, powerful, clever, desirable and above all, cool

      no one told them it would actually make them dead

      she looks out at the river as she feels the warm smoke travel down her oesophagus soothing her nerves while trying to combat the adrenaline rush of the caffeine

      forty years of first nights and she’s still bricking it

      what if she’s slated СКАЧАТЬ