Wirimu and Rita put their second and third fingers together,
bring them to their lips. They pretend
to draw in their imaginary cigarette, enjoying the brief moment as they exhale
clouds of condensation into the cold air of the bedroom they share.
Moisture steadily runs down the inside of the windowpane and
Wirimu senses it’s going to be another chilly morning before he even looks
outside. Rita snuggles in amongst her posse
of now out-of-fashion soft toys and dolls that have long been forgotten about
by the girls whose parents live in areas with high fences and who drive cars
with fancy sounding Italian names.
Rita’s favourite doll is Beach Barbie even if the left side
of her face has all the hallmarks of being tortured by a cigarette lighter, her
face slightly drooping as if she has had a stroke. The other side of her mouth though remains in
permanent grin as if it’s the first day of summer and she has just received the
first kiss from Ken. Mum won’t be up
‘til at least 10.30 and already Wirimu is preparing to get up to make breakfast
for his younger sister. This time the
party was at their house with each person bringing a single bottle with labels
he didn’t recognise, unlike the usual discount beer or R.T.Ds that were the
drink normally favoured by their mother.
“Hey squirt, I’m really sorry I can’t afford to buy a proper
birthday present” he says to Rita, who is busy styling Barbie’s hair into a
ponytail, “but Mum said school fees took all her spare cash and she’s got no
money for pocket money this week”
“That’s okay Wiz” she replies, then adds, “does that mean I
have to buy you one next time?”
“Of course, but you’re not going home completely
empty-handed Rita,” he says in his best quiz show compere’s voice. He reaches into his pocket and brings out in
the palm of his hand a tiny stick with a folded paper surround that he had
found discarded in a glass when he went to see what had gone on the night
before after waking for an early morning pee.
It is not immediately apparent to
her what it is until he pushes up the middle of the stick and the paper becomes
a bright aqua-coloured umbrella.
“It’s not for you though,” he says, “it’s for her,” and he
pushes the stick straight into the hole made for Barbie to originally hold her
camera.
“Wow, that’s so cool Wiz’, I think she’ll need it today,” as
sunlight just enters the room.
It feels warmer already.
Andrew Hawkey
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