My Fathers' Daughter by Hannah Azieb Pool

Author:Hannah Azieb Pool [Pool, Hannah-Azieb]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780141902272
Publisher: Penguin Books Ltd
Published: 2006-07-27T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

The trouble with the dead is that no one will speak ill of them. There are many reasons I have come here, a fair few of which I haven’t gotten to the bottom of yet myself, but one of the things of which I was always certain was that I would finally learn what my mother was like – what kind of woman she was, and I guess, ultimately, whether I am like her in any way. Do I have any of her traits, despite the fact I never knew her? But whenever I ask anyone about her, so far all I have been met with is a series of platitudes: ‘She was a lovely woman’, ‘She died very young’ is about the size of it. And when I try and dig further – ‘Yes, but what was she really like?’ – all I get is confused looks, and more sentiment – ‘I told you, she was a lovely woman.’ How am I supposed to build up a picture of my mother based on that? Can they not see how hungry I am for something, anything, personal?

‘What is she saying?’ I ask my brothers, hoping they are not by now so tired of translating that they can’t be bothered to do it fully.

‘She is saying that our mother was her best friend, they were like sisters,’ says Zemichael.

‘Yes, but what was my mother actually like?’

‘She was like her sister,’ says Zemichael.

‘I know that, but what was she like – her personality, what was it like?’

‘I am sorry, I don’t know what you want me to say?’ says Zemichael, confused.

‘Can you ask her if she remembers a story about my mother, something they did together, perhaps?’ I ask, trying another tack.

Zemichael, looking relieved, turns and says some words to my aunt and turns back to me with her response. ‘She remembers the day you were born, it was such a sad day, she says there is not a day when she doesn’t miss Hidat.’

Everyone sitting around her on the sofa, myself included, goes quiet, and I sit there wishing I hadn’t asked so many questions. A few minutes later, my father motions for me to sit next to him. Reluctantly I let go of my aunt’s hand. I don’t know why, but I felt more comfortable sitting next to her than anyone else in this new family of mine. The romantic in me thinks perhaps it’s some sort of ancient muscle memory, triggered off by how she smells – my body knowing that this woman once fed me from her own breast. But more likely it’s her overall warmth – and besides, when did I suddenly get all spiritual?

As I prepare to sit down next to my father he starts to tug almost anxiously at the skirt of my dress. ‘Yes, I’m coming,’ I say, sitting and smiling, worried that I have offended him by spending so much time with my aunt, or by plugging her for information about my mother, his dead wife.

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