“Actually, I thought . . . perhaps in your flat?”
Zawadi looked at her watch and said, “Ten minutes, then,” and she led the way to the tower. Inside the building, she rang for the lift, and while they waited, she said, “I expect your dad saw the television interview.”
“He’s followed the story from the start. It’s to do with my being his only child. He feels for her dad. He believes him.”
Zawadi looked at her, head to toe in that way she had, telegraphing disapproval and dislike. “What about you?”
“I’m on your side completely when it comes to FGM. But if you don’t mind . . . ?” She indicated the lift, meaning, Can we wait?
The lift arrived and once inside, Zawadi pressed the button for the seventh floor. There, she led the way down a dim corridor. There were lights aplenty hanging from the ceiling, but more of them were burnt out rather than actually illuminating the space. The walls were a bit of a patchwork, where tagging had been painted over without bothering to match the colour exactly or even—in some cases—remotely. Originally, the walls appeared to be yellow—one of those depressing shades that make an appearance in council housing throughout the country—but they were now mottled: cream, beige, mint green, pink, and white doing the honours. Nothing hung on them save a cork bulletin board halfway down. Zawadi’s flat was next to this.
Inside, things were in the kind of disarray that attends the presence of a child, a jumble in need of someone to straighten it out. Most of it consisted of items belonging to an active boy: a small drone, a remote-control racing car, Rollerblades, board games, a skateboard, an Xbox, trainers, several footballs. There was a single bedroom with two beds in it. There didn’t seem to be an adult male in residence.
Zawadi appeared to read Deborah’s mind because she said, “It’s the two of us, me and Ned. His dad found someone he liked better.”
Zawadi didn’t look like someone who was planning to sit, so Deborah remained on her feet and tried to work out how she was going to approach a subject liable to make Zawadi’s brain explode. She thought about where and how to begin. She decided upon, “It’s this. I find I’m having some doubts about Bolu’s parents.”
“Good.” Zawadi began putting the room back in order, using a large wicker basket to collect Ned’s possessions, taking the care of someone who knew that if something broke, it wasn’t going to be replaced anytime soon. “You’re meant to have doubts. Everyone should be having doubts.”
“Yes. Right. But what I mean is that I’m having doubts about—”
“You listen to me, eh? This bloke who calls himself Charles Akin used to be Chimaobi Akinjide and he is clever like a fox. He takes in a question and knows from the words and the way they’re spoken the emotion he’s meant to show. He manufactures that emotion on the spot, he redirects the conversation, and the result is sympathy for what he’s going through, never mind sympathy for his child. That’s what you’re feeling, isn’t it? Sympathy for Mr. Akin? That’s why you’ve come. Am I right?”
“It’s just that I’m not certain it’s the right thing: keeping Bolu away from her parents.”
“Really? And why d’you think your opinion counts for anything?”
“Because I care that—”
“You listen to me. Mr. Charles Akin, Esquire, knows what he has to do to have her returned because we’re not exactly asking for a ransom, are we. But he won’t do what it takes to have Bolu back home. He claims it’s the principle involved. And I tell you this, until tha’ man cooperates, there’s nothing more to be said.”
“But you can see how he must feel? That he’s being targeted?”
Zawadi gave a derisive laugh. “What can you possibly know about being targeted?” She held the wicker basket against her hip and said, “This isn’t about his precious feelings. This’s about a vulnerable child.”
“But he’s under scrutiny because he’s Nigerian, isn’t he?”
Zawadi grabbed up a sweatshirt and one trainer from the sofa. She shoved both into the wicker basket. She said, “Of course he’s under scrutiny because he’s Nigerian. He’d be under scrutiny if he was Somali. He’d be under scrutiny if he was from any country where girls are still being cut.”
“But he’s been in the UK forever and his wife’s English. And she’s a doctor. It just seems to me that there’s nothing to suggest—”