THE KNOCKS SOUNDED FAR AWAY. Short calculated knocks. You had a long night. You toss around in bed. The previous night was not just your third night shift in a row; it was one of those nights that lacked peace, one of those nights when Angela, your service user – the eighty-year-old woman with dementia – felt that she was a secret agent held in a foreign prison against her will. And you, her carer, were the prison warder or a government agent spying on her.
The second round of knocks wakes you up. No one in your house knocks like that. Your sons knock with their entire bodies. Your husband knocks in a trinity, triple sounds in a quick sequence. You drag yourself out of the bed groggily. Your eyes are on the clock. 2pm. It is not yet school closing time.
You open the door. Two police officers. One male, the other female. Fully kitted, the handles of their small guns visible from the holsters around their waists. Your brain is everywhere, wondering what police officers want from you this Spring afternoon.
‘I assume you are Mrs Ade-g-bo-ohla?’ the female officer stutters, murdering the third syllable of your surname. That syllable, always throwing non-Yoruba tongues flat before it in frustration.
‘Yes?’ you respond, your brows furrowed. ‘Mrs Adegbola,’ you correct.
‘Can we come in?’ It is the male officer now. ‘There was a report about one of your children.’
Your heart begins to beat faster, of its own accord. It thumps hard, threatening to break through your rib cage.
‘Which of them is it now?’ you think to yourself. Your seven-year-old son, Adebayo. Or his nine-year-old brother, Adebola. You always warned them about their rough play, but now it seems it has caught up with you all.
The officers are now inside. Their eyes dart around frantically, from the family pictures on the wall to your sons’ trophies from football games, before resting on you.
‘Please sit down,’ you say, swallowing hard. You have heard many stories of children taken away from their families on the flimsiest excuse: beating, scolding or saying the wrong thing at school. You’ve only spent two years of your healthcare visa in the United Kingdom and hoped to get your Indefinite Leave to Remain in three years.
‘Is this the end?’ you ask yourself as tears begin to gather around your eyes. ‘It has to do with a black cat.’
You sigh in relief. Your children could not have anything ‘criminal’ to do with a cat. Although cats – just like squirrels and small rats – waltz in and out of your garden at will, you never get close to them. You usually scrunch up your nostrils, as the malodorous stench of their poop rose up whenever you mow your lawn. You always warn your children off them because no one knows where they have been or what diseases they carry. Back home, only a few people kept them as pets and black cats were said to carry evil in their eyes and pain in their arched backs. And if they crossed their boundaries in some people’s compounds, they would end up in pots of pepper soup.
You rearrange yourself in your chair. You stare firmly into the two pairs of eyes looking at you.
‘A neighbour reported that your son posed danger to their cat.’
In your first week on Cranbourne Road, you went door-to-door, introducing yourself to each neighbour. You had lived in peace even though you are the only Black person on your entire street. You wanted to be a good neighbour.
To your right is the white woman in her fifties who always has a smile for you every time you bump into each other whenever you take out the rubbish bins. You even wheel the bin back into her compound after the rubbish is emptied. To your front is the old couple who walk together every morning, arms locked. You are yet to meet their own neighbour. You know someone lives there, but who it is, what they look like, you cannot tell. Every time you knocked, no one answered.
‘What happened exactly?’ you demand.
‘Your neighbour said one of your sons,’ he brings out a blurry picture, which he passes to you as he continues speaking, ‘chased their cat around for a few metres while riding his bicycle to school.’
You take a look at the picture. It is Adebayo, your younger son. He is wearing his thick black jacket, his school bag on his back and there is a black cat in his hands.
‘They said that the cat was in so much distress before your son pinned it into a corner, picked it up and then dropped it with a crash.’
It is your son in the picture, quite all right. You can see the cat in his hands, true. But that is all you can tell. You do not want to argue.
‘Okay,’ you respond, your mind fleeting quickly through your neighbours, wondering which of them it might be.
‘They seemed quite upset about what your son did to their baby.’
Cat-a-stro-phe!
‘You mean the cat?’
‘Yes, yes, they called the cat their baby.’
Now, you want to laugh. Your shock has melted away but this appears to be important to them. So, you try to keep your face serious by straightening it up quickly. The same way you pretended to be interested when Rose, your colleague at work cried when her German Shepherd died suddenly.
‘My condolences,’ you told her even though all you wanted to do was to laugh out loud because why would anyone be crying because a dog died. Back home, dogs are pets but they knew their place, usually in the small cage outside the house.
‘The dog is now at peace in dog heaven,’ you consoled her.
‘We will place your son on an action plan for animal welfare.’ The female officer spoke.
You knew about the plans in your sons’ school because those were important. The plans depended on the gravity or frequency of the offence: the Yellow Plan for a first-time offender, the Orange Plan for a repeat offender, and the Red Plan for an unrepentant offender. Each plan had its own commensurate punishment.
‘So, this your plan; what is the punishment?’ you ask.
The two officers look at themselves, then at you. So, you know they do not understand your question well, so you ask again. This time slowly and with example.
‘You know, in school if a child is placed on a plan, there is an offence, and there is a repercussion.’
‘No. No. It is not a punishment. We understand he is a child. So, it is just a way for him to better know how to treat animals.’
‘Okay.’
‘Mrs Ade-g-bo-ohla, can you please write your phone number here?’ He hands you a small jotter and a black pen.
‘Give me a minute,’ you say as you yank out your phone to check the number. You always joke that in Nigeria, you knew all your five phone numbers but in this UK, your brain is too full to have space for your only phone number.
‘The animal protection team will call you to schedule a time that works for you and your son. That would be all.’
They both rise, a half-smile, half-wrinkle at the corner of their lips.
‘I will be expecting their call,’ you say as you shut the door behind them. What you really wanted to say was, ‘First world problems to be dealt with by first world methods.’
Now, you do not want cats around you. Not in your garden, not close enough to your children. So you grab your phone, head to Amazon and begin to search for cat repellent. You pick the cheapest one.
‘You cannot be spending so much on an animal that isn’t yours,’ you think and hiss as you move the item to your Amazon basket.
You open the door. Two police officers. One male, the other female. Fully kitted, the handles of their small guns visible from the holsters around their waists. Your brain is everywhere, wondering what police officers want from you this Spring afternoon.
‘I assume you are Mrs Ade-g-bo-ohla?’ the female officer stutters, murdering the third syllable of your surname. That syllable, always throwing non-Yoruba tongues flat before it in frustration.
‘Yes?’ you respond, your brows furrowed. ‘Mrs Adegbola,’ you correct.
‘Can we come in?’ It is the male officer now. ‘There was a report about one of your children.’
Your heart begins to beat faster, of its own accord. It thumps hard, threatening to break through your rib cage.
‘Which of them is it now?’ you think to yourself. Your seven-year-old son, Adebayo. Or his nine-year-old brother, Adebola. You always warned them about their rough play, but now it seems it has caught up with you all.
The officers are now inside. Their eyes dart around frantically, from the family pictures on the wall to your sons’ trophies from football games, before resting on you.
‘Please sit down,’ you say, swallowing hard. You have heard many stories of children taken away from their families on the flimsiest excuse: beating, scolding or saying the wrong thing at school. You’ve only spent two years of your healthcare visa in the United Kingdom and hoped to get your Indefinite Leave to Remain in three years.
‘Is this the end?’ you ask yourself as tears begin to gather around your eyes. ‘It has to do with a black cat.’
You sigh in relief. Your children could not have anything ‘criminal’ to do with a cat. Although cats – just like squirrels and small rats – waltz in and out of your garden at will, you never get close to them. You usually scrunch up your nostrils, as the malodorous stench of their poop rose up whenever you mow your lawn. You always warn your children off them because no one knows where they have been or what diseases they carry. Back home, only a few people kept them as pets and black cats were said to carry evil in their eyes and pain in their arched backs. And if they crossed their boundaries in some people’s compounds, they would end up in pots of pepper soup.
You rearrange yourself in your chair. You stare firmly into the two pairs of eyes looking at you.
‘A neighbour reported that your son posed danger to their cat.’
In your first week on Cranbourne Road, you went door-to-door, introducing yourself to each neighbour. You had lived in peace even though you are the only Black person on your entire street. You wanted to be a good neighbour.
To your right is the white woman in her fifties who always has a smile for you every time you bump into each other whenever you take out the rubbish bins. You even wheel the bin back into her compound after the rubbish is emptied. To your front is the old couple who walk together every morning, arms locked. You are yet to meet their own neighbour. You know someone lives there, but who it is, what they look like, you cannot tell. Every time you knocked, no one answered.
‘What happened exactly?’ you demand.
‘Your neighbour said one of your sons,’ he brings out a blurry picture, which he passes to you as he continues speaking, ‘chased their cat around for a few metres while riding his bicycle to school.’
You take a look at the picture. It is Adebayo, your younger son. He is wearing his thick black jacket, his school bag on his back and there is a black cat in his hands.
‘They said that the cat was in so much distress before your son pinned it into a corner, picked it up and then dropped it with a crash.’
It is your son in the picture, quite all right. You can see the cat in his hands, true. But that is all you can tell. You do not want to argue.
‘Okay,’ you respond, your mind fleeting quickly through your neighbours, wondering which of them it might be.
‘They seemed quite upset about what your son did to their baby.’
Cat-a-stro-phe!
‘You mean the cat?’
‘Yes, yes, they called the cat their baby.’
Now, you want to laugh. Your shock has melted away but this appears to be important to them. So, you try to keep your face serious by straightening it up quickly. The same way you pretended to be interested when Rose, your colleague at work cried when her German Shepherd died suddenly.
‘My condolences,’ you told her even though all you wanted to do was to laugh out loud because why would anyone be crying because a dog died. Back home, dogs are pets but they knew their place, usually in the small cage outside the house.
‘The dog is now at peace in dog heaven,’ you consoled her.
‘We will place your son on an action plan for animal welfare.’ The female officer spoke.
You knew about the plans in your sons’ school because those were important. The plans depended on the gravity or frequency of the offence: the Yellow Plan for a first-time offender, the Orange Plan for a repeat offender, and the Red Plan for an unrepentant offender. Each plan had its own commensurate punishment.
‘So, this your plan; what is the punishment?’ you ask.
The two officers look at themselves, then at you. So, you know they do not understand your question well, so you ask again. This time slowly and with example.
‘You know, in school if a child is placed on a plan, there is an offence, and there is a repercussion.’
‘No. No. It is not a punishment. We understand he is a child. So, it is just a way for him to better know how to treat animals.’
‘Okay.’
‘Mrs Ade-g-bo-ohla, can you please write your phone number here?’ He hands you a small jotter and a black pen.
‘Give me a minute,’ you say as you yank out your phone to check the number. You always joke that in Nigeria, you knew all your five phone numbers but in this UK, your brain is too full to have space for your only phone number.
‘The animal protection team will call you to schedule a time that works for you and your son. That would be all.’
They both rise, a half-smile, half-wrinkle at the corner of their lips.
‘I will be expecting their call,’ you say as you shut the door behind them. What you really wanted to say was, ‘First world problems to be dealt with by first world methods.’
Now, you do not want cats around you. Not in your garden, not close enough to your children. So you grab your phone, head to Amazon and begin to search for cat repellent. You pick the cheapest one.
‘You cannot be spending so much on an animal that isn’t yours,’ you think and hiss as you move the item to your Amazon basket.
Temitayo Olofinlua is a writer and editor based in Birmingham. She is the founder of Stories Click, a content studio that tells stories with words and pictures. Find her on social media: @writewithtayo
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