Here's Lesley's story...
Running away, when you live
in West Africa, is a tricky business. If, like me, you read a lot of Enid
Blyton as a child, it was made even trickier. The Famous Five only had to pack
a sandwich or two and hop in a boat and they were invariably back by teatime,
anyway. For us, it was an awful lot harder. To begin with, the heat made it
impossible to run, so you had to walk
away. Not very dramatic or effective. ‘I’ve had enough! I’m walking away!’ Then there were the
snakes. Back in the day, when Accra was a lot less crowded than it is now,
there were huge swathes of ‘bush’ everywhere. Our house backed onto one such
swathe and it was crawling with snakes. Dangerous ones, too. There are no grass snakes in West Africa, only
mambas. Fifteen minutes is all you’ve got between bite and death which makes it
pretty much instant. And if that weren’t enough, there were the grown-ups. In
West Africa, all adults are in loco parentis – even complete strangers
– and as such, are fully authorised
to step in at any point and deliver a
slap or a sermon if they feel you’re up to no good. The sight of three children
determinedly marching away from the
house with sticks (with which to beat a snake) and a bottle of water (to pour
over your head in case of sunstroke) is a clear indication of ‘no good’. And so
it came to pass . . .
At the age of nine, after an
argument with my father (not that you could actually argue with him. Ghanaian children do not, I repeat, do not talk back. You just listen.), I stomped
(slunk) off to my room, determined to run away. I had no idea where I’d run to, just that I’d run away. George was always running away:
why not me? I packed a bag: pair of knickers, a clean T-shirt, a book (Enid’s,
of course) and, incongruously, a box of aspirin – I’ve no idea why. I begged
the cook for a fried egg sandwich (at 5pm? Why?) and I left. But before I
reached the gate, my two younger sisters begged to be allowed to come along too.
I had to wait for half an hour for them to pack the same: three pairs of
knickers, three T-shirts, three books and three boxes of aspirin. We’d run out
of eggs so they had jam sarnies instead.
However, the sun sets in the
tropics at 6pm on the dot and by 5:45pm it was already getting dark. Suddenly
running (or even walking) away didn’t seem like such a good idea. We made it as
far as the first corner. A rustle in the undergrowth sent us shrieking back to the
gate. We decided to eat our sandwiches in the garage (don’t ask me why). It was
usually cool and dark in there and quite Famous Five-ish, in a petrol-smelling,
secretive kind of way. We dragged open the doors, determined to make the most
of our adventure and Make A Point . . . and then we froze. Curled up in the
middle of the floor, seeking a warm spot of concrete where the heat of the
tires had seeped, was a snake. I don’t actually remember what sort of snake – green, black, blue,
orange? – we fled, screaming, dropping
the aspirins, knickers, T-shirts and sandwiches en route (but not the books).
Jabbering like idiots, we burst into the living room where my father was having
a nap.
‘What’s
the matter?’ he roared, annoyed at having been woken from his precious
pre-dinner snooze.
‘A
snake! A snake!’ My two sisters shouted, pointing to the garage.
‘What
were you doing in the garage?’
‘Running
away!’ they shouted in chorus.
‘Hmph.’
My father looked at me, frowning exasperatedly. ‘Is this another one of your
silly ideas?’
‘No.
Yes. Sort of.’
He
sucked his teeth in that way that only Jamaican mothers and African fathers can
do. A sort of ‘tshchew’ sound that combines exasperation, irritation,
disappointment and forbearance in equal measure. It’s the ultimate,
gentle-but-effective put down. ‘Next time, tell the driver to drop you.’
I
never ran away again.
Here's Lesley's latest book...
In a gorgeous beachfront mansion in Martha’s Vineyard, Annick and Rebecca have left their young children in the care of their life-long friend Tash. Tash has made millions from her fashion business and treating her friends to a luxury holiday makes all the hard work worthwhile. But by the end of the afternoon, one of the children will have vanished . . .
As the daughter of an iconic actress and an assassinated president, Annick has spent a lifetime running from the truth of her family’s wealth. For her, Rebecca and Tash have always felt more like family than friends. But can she truly trust them with the secret of her past?
You can find out more about Lesley and her books
here.
