Little Bee

by Chris Cleave

MOST DAYS I WISH I was a British pound coin instead of an African girl. Everyone would be pleased to see me coming.

This was always my trouble when I was learning to speak your language. Every word can defend itself. Just when you go to grab it, it can split into two separate meanings so the understanding closes on empty air. I admire you people. You are like sorcerers and you have made your language as safe as your money.

“Clarissa, you’re wearing yesterday’s clothes.” She smirked. “So would you be, if you’d met yesterday’s man.”

One day the detention officers gave all of us a copy of a book called LIFE IN THE UNITED KINGDOM. It explains the history of your country and how to fit in. I planned how I would kill myself in the time of Churchill (stand under bombs), Victoria (throw myself under a horse), and Henry the Eighth (marry Henry the Eighth).

When I came to the door, the undertaker glanced at the stump of my finger. People generally do, but rarely with that professional gaze that notes: Left hand, second finger, first and second phalanx, yes, we could fix that with a wax prosthetic, a slender one, with a light Caucasian flesh tone, and we could use Kryolan foundation to cover the join, and we could fold the right hand over the left in the coffin, and Bob would be your mother’s brother, madam. I was thinking, Clever undertaker. If only I was dead, you could make a whole woman out of me.

It is a peculiar sensation, as a woman with a very good job, to be pitied by men with tattoos and headaches.

What are you smiling about?” “There are no goats. That is why you have all these beautiful flowers.” “There were goats, in your village?” “Yes, and they ate all the flowers.” “I’m sorry.” “Do not be sorry. We ate all the goats.”