“I think I’ll leave now.”
They each sigh with relief.
* * *
“Fuck. I’ve just been fired.”
No one pays any attention to the woman with wide eyes standing under a bridge, talking to herself.
I look back in the direction of the theater, at the doors I was, to all intents and purposes, kicked out of. I look out at the stream of pedestrians around me; everyone is just going about their day.
Having nothing to do on a weekday has never happened to me before. Whenever I take days off, it’s not to rest but to get other things done: doctor appointments, washing my hair, immigration office visits when we realized Dad’s visa had expired. Even yesterday saw me cleaning the house and sorting through bills whenever Dad slept.
God, I can’t tell Mum I’ve been fired. There exists no greater shame in her mind than forced unemployment. She’d think it was my fault because there’s always a reason someone is fired. What reason do I give her? A missed invite in Katherine’s calendar that I didn’t even accept? She’d never believe me.
Understandably. Because aren’t you supposed to get fired for atrocities like sleeping with the married boss, embezzling money or, you know, murder? All that had died in that office was my will to live; all I did was … I’m still not clear on what I did or didn’t do, but I know it didn’t warrant immediate dismissal. I still had my midmorning snack in my bag. Had I even taken my jacket off since I shrugged it on this morning?
I shuffle on the spot before heading back into the train station. I sit and wait for the 9:33 A.M. train. I have never gotten on the 9:33 A.M. train. At least the carriages will be empty.
Google: What to do when you’ve been fired
Shit! You’ve been fired! Here’s what you need to do next:
Rejoice—you’re free from the repressing, grinding perpetual cog of capitalism.
Search for a new job—you may want to return to the repressing, grinding perpetual cog of capitalism, and that’s okay. It’s never too early or too soon to dust off the old CV and start looking for new jobs. The sooner, the better.
Make a claim to the employment tribunal （p.s. it is a faff and it’s unlikely you’ll win the case） and/or submit a grievance—if you have been unjustly fired, this is the best way to stick it to the man who did the firing.
Start budgeting—because, let’s face it, you’re broke now, or at least will be once you realize your next paycheck won’t come until after interviews, job acceptance, and a full month of employment.
I try a different search result.
What to do after you’ve been fired
Ask for a written and signed statement explaining your termination
Seek unemployment benefits
Have faith in yourself and your future
I place a damp hand on my forehead to cool it down.
A text message rolls down my phone screen from an unsaved number.
Hi Maddie. It’s Ben from the other night. How have you been?
Ben. Of course this is when he’d decide to text me. Then I remember the flat I’ve just paid the deposit and first month’s rent for. I can’t deal with all of this right now. I switch off my phone and take a deep breath.
“Fuck.” I exhale.
The man in a suit sitting two seats from me with grease on his tie looks up from his before-10:00 A.M. burger and says, “Same.”
Chapter Six
Let’s just pause here and take a second to look at my life as it currently stands.
The Life of Maddie
Unemployed
Contractually obligated to pay ?850 rent a month for new flat
Mum’s coming home tomorrow
Savings have taken a hit due to deposit, first month’s rent, and now no incoming paycheck
I’m single and Mum’s coming home tomorrow
I decide to start with the first and most pressing issue. I open my CV and type “PA jobs” into Google. But … do I have to be a PA? What else are you qualified for? I have a first in English literature, thank you very much—that’s got to do something for me. Maybe it’s time to give the publishing industry another try. I applied to so many editorial roles before CGT because … well, I like books, but got rejected from them all with no explanation as to why. Maybe with CGT experience under my belt, I’ll have more of a chance.
Google: Editorial assistant jobs
Search pages upon search pages reveal themselves to me and not just in editorial but roles in marketing, sales, and audio. There are so many to apply to. I can’t believe it. Maybe me getting fired was a blessing in disguise because it looks like hiring season in the publishing industry is— Twenty-three thousand pounds a year?! I thought I was supposed to be making more money as I got older. That was the deal, right?
The doorbell goes and I toss my laptop aside to answer it.
“Auntie Mabel!”
“Baaba, I didn’t think you would be home,” she says. “I expected Dawoud.”
Whoops. “I’ve got the day off work today,” I tell her, repeating what I told Dad. “Holiday day.”
“I see. Then how are you, Baaba? Is your father in?”
Auntie Mabel is the only member of the family to call James and me exclusively by our Ghanaian name days. I was born on a Thursday, so my middle name is Baaba, whilst James was born on a Monday, so his middle name is Jojo.
“I’m fine, thank you,” I answer, taking the heavy bag, currently releasing auspicious smells, from her shoulder. “And yes he is.”
When my auntie asks if Dad is in, what she really means is, is he awake?
I open the door wide so, with the help of her cane, she can slowly climb in. “How are you, Auntie?”
“Fine, by the grace of God,” she says. “You already know about my back and my foot. Living room?”
I nod, then say, “Yes” because when I was eight years old I learned the hard way how rude it is in our culture to address your elders nonverbally, even for the shortest of responses. I never saw that slap on my temple coming, but I’ve never forgotten it. Her name was—wait for it—Aunt Patience. She had short eyebrows and rough palms. I don’t think she was even family; she was married to one of mum’s “cousins” or something.
I love my auntie Mabel, however. She’s blunt and feisty but in a way that doesn’t offend me. She’s younger than Dad but looks just like him, which must be why I can see bits of me in her. We have the same full lips and strong jaw.
Today she has on her customary black cotton head wrap, tracksuit bottoms, trainers, and a jumper before her coat, and as always my attention is first drawn to the marks on her cheeks. “Not scars, Baaba. Tribal marks.”
She lives in North London and has her own list of health problems, not limited to sore joints, so she only comes by once or twice a month. But her monthly appearance serves us better than James’s. She brings Dad homemade pepper soup, which I put straight on the stove, and she sits with her brother for hours talking in Twi.
Dad understands more of his language than English （maybe because he’s been speaking it since he was old enough to） and, these days, even finds it easier to communicate in. I can understand what’s being said, even when interchanged between Twi and Fante, but I wish I could speak the language. My parents spoke it all the time at home, but James and I only got as far as understanding it, always responding in English. We’d be prompted to do otherwise, but we could never grasp it and I didn’t consider it important in my more adaptable, formative years; all my friends spoke English, and I still understood what my parents were saying regardless, so why bother? I never thought a day would come when I felt left out.