‘Nice place, man,’ he says, swinging his beaten-up backpack off his shoulder and looking around, peering into Anika’s bedroom as he moves down the corridor. ‘Neat,’ he adds with a chuckle, glancing at her. He then doubles back. ‘Ah, kitchen through here?’
‘Yeah,’ she replies, trying her hardest not to either grin crazily, or start crying at the very fact of Kwesi being here. She watches him amble in, shrugging his oversized, vintage-looking wool coat off and throwing it onto a stool. He seems surprisingly at ease and she’s very glad that he doesn’t seem to be finding this as overwhelming as she is. Maybe it’s the guilt that she’s still contending with – but if there’s anything Anika has promised herself these days, it’s not to get too ahead of herself.
Underneath his coat, Kwesi is wearing oversized jeans and a threadbare-looking Floetry tour T-shirt.
‘Wow,’ Anika says, pointing at it as he leans against her counter with his hands in his pockets. The bobbing of his Adam’s apple as he swallows shows her that he might not be quite as at ease after all. ‘That takes me all the way back,’ Anika continues. ‘I used to be obsessed with their first album. South London’s finest!’
Kwesi looks down at his chest. ‘Found it in a charity shop. I actually only listened to the album after I got this,’ he says. ‘I’d never heard of them. Before my time, innit. Love them now, though.’
‘Fuck me,’ Anika says, chuckling. ‘I still think of that as, like, a modern record, you know.’ They both laugh then Kwesi turns, picking up his bag to heft it onto the kitchen surface.
‘So, I brought soup and whatnot,’ he says, and Anika smiles to herself at how often people come round to her flat bearing foodthese days. She’s barely had to cook. Probably just as well, really.
‘Ah, nice one, Kwesi. You didn’t have to do that.’
He waves a hand, but once he’s removed the tubs from the depths of his bag he looks a bit lost. ‘Shall I chuck these in the microwave?’ He looks at it, frowning. ‘Rah, this is more complex than ours – that just has, like, a dial …’
She rubs her forehead, dreading his diet. ‘Give it here.’
Kwesi pulls himself up to sit on the kitchen surface while she heats up the plastic containers of carrot and coriander soup from M&S. ‘How long you been here? I’m jealous, man. Sick of my flatmates a lot of the time.’ He laughs before adding, ‘That sounded like I’m angling to move in here. I’m not.’
Anika smiles, but can’t help asking cautiously, ‘Is Rita one of your flatmates?’
He nods, holding her gaze. ‘Yeah, she is.’
Anika bites her lip. ‘It would be good to, um, get a chance to apologise to her sometime. That was really shit, what I did.’ She opens the microwave to stir the soups before closing it again and continuing. ‘Kwesi, I don’t know what came over me then, or all the other times we’ve tried to make this work.’ She can see that he considers protesting but then thinks better of it. He obviously needs to hear this and she doesn’t blame him one bit. She’s relieved to have the chance.
Turning fully towards him, Anika clasps her hands together, wringing her fingers but making sure to look him in the face. ‘I was selfish.’ That word again. It’s fitting though. ‘I think I was jealous of you. I’d react in anger, but it was misdirected. I was angry about not having had Dad around and I was pissed off at the universe for taking him away. None of that was your fault. And obviously the money stuff wasn’t either.’ A tear escapes as she watches Kwesi, his own eyes shining. ‘Going through all this … health stuff? At first I thought it was some cosmic sign that I needed to seize life, grab and snatch everything I’d everdreamt of. Like, just be strictly about achieving all that. And, yeah, there were positives about that mentality, but it was also … fucked.’ She looks at him and they both laugh a little. ‘The thing I regret most is not seeing that havingyouin my life would be this amazing thing. That you’re my brother and you’re … you’re incredible. God, maybe I’m not making loads of sense, but basically I want to say thank you for even talking to me still. I don’t expect you to forgive me but if we can move on fresh from here, then—’
Her speech is interrupted by the loud beep of the microwave. Kwesi jumps down off the surface and tears drop down his cheeks as he does. Ignoring the insistent electronic noise, he scoops her into a massive, tight hug. When he speaks, his voice is muffled as he stoops to press his face into her shoulder.
‘Don’t worry about it, yeah? I’m just glad I get to be here now, and that, like, you’re doing OK. You’re going to be OK.’ She can tell he’s crying harder now as his voice wavers, and she lets herself sob a little too. It feels like a huge release and oddly helps calm her. Rubbing her brother’s back, she pulls away slowly as the microwave beeps again. Dragging her sleeves down over her hands, she wipes Kwesi’s cheeks. He smiles as their tears begin to subside, his green eyes ringed red. He reaches out to swipe a thumb underneath her eyes too, and they grin at one another.
‘Come on, let’s eat.’
They carry the bowls of soup gingerly through to the living room, where Kwesi quickly abandons his on the dining table so that he can fully inspect her decks and vinyl collection.
‘Wow!’ he says, scanning along them. ‘I know these aren’t all Dad’s, right?’
‘Well, my Volume Records days helped boost my collection too. I still crate dig when I get the chance,’ she says, crossing her legs as she settles onto the sofa, spooning soup into her mouth. Kwesi crouches down and picks up the album that is leaning onthe floor against the shelves. She got it in the post today.
‘Al Green? Sick.’ He holds the record up towards her. Al Green sits in his all-white outfit in a big white wicker chair, the wordsI’m Still in Love With Youemblazoned above him.
‘Took me ages to find an original pressing,’ she says. Putting down her bowl, she goes over and takes the vinyl from Kwesi, sliding the disc out from its case. ‘This … this was the first record Dad ever gave me.’ Her voice is soft, and she opens one of her decks to place it onto the spindle. ‘I lost it, but … well, music never disappears, right?’
Kwesi nods, watching her, his soup getting ever colder. Anika lifts the needle and drops it onto track three – ‘Love and Happiness’. The record begins to rotate and Al’s voice comes in, sounding like a lament at first until the upbeat guitar line kicks in alongside the rest of the instrumentation.
‘Willie Mitchell,’ she says to her brother. He looks a touch confused and she adds, ‘The producer,’ pointing at the record.
Kwesi’s expression lights up. ‘Ah, OK. Nice …’
Anika closes her eyes and smiles, beginning to sway. Opening them, she turns and starts to shimmy towards Kwesi, who’s smiling too. He starts to move and together they dance in the middle of her living room, united in rhythm.
For Anika, the song has never felt truer.
Chapter Forty-Nine
An hour and a half later, Anika rings the bell on the bus that she’s got with Kwesi as far as Herne Hill and then hugs her brother tightly.
