My Fathers' Daughter by Hannah Pool

Author:Hannah Pool
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2018-12-06T16:00:00+00:00

3

H ANNAH?” SAYS A deep voice to my left. I turn and come face to face with a tall man, whose skin is exactly the same color and tone as mine. Instantly ditching any plans of taking off, I smile and hold out my hand. “Gaim?”

He is about forty to forty-five, tall and thin with delicate features and an air of elegance that comes with height, and of course the Afro that I recognize from the picture on the website.

“It is wonderful to meet you,” says Gaim, kissing me not once, or twice, but three times on the cheek. After the third kiss, he steps back, patting both of my shoulders, looks me dead on and says, “My, how you look like your mother.”

Unsure how to respond, I just smile meekly, swallowing the lump in my throat.

“Shall we find somewhere quiet to sit and chat?” says Gaim, taking my hand and leading me out of the tube sta tion. If he is stunned he isn’t showing it, but then perhaps I am stunned enough for the both of us.

We walk in silence for a few minutes, neither of us knowing where to begin. Eventually, still reeling from the comment about my mother, I decide to take refuge in small talk. “So have you lived around here for long?” I ask.

We chat about London, the traffic, the weather—typically safe first-date topics. We find a café and take a seat in the window. At least we can people-watch if the conversation dries up. As the waitress takes our order I wish we could just stay at that moment. Not get beyond small talk. He orders coffee, I order a beer. Then, as the waitress turns to leave us, I want to shout after her, “Don’t go, don’t leave me here with this man, don’t you see how dangerous he could be? He could be about to ruin the rest of my life!” But she’s gone.

Gaim and I turn to face each other. He smiles. I grin back like a demented TV morning show host. If I show enough teeth it might distract from the panic in my eyes.

“I was worried we might miss each other,” I lie. A good start, lying already. I was worried about a million things, but never that. If anything, I had assumed we’d just sort of know.

“You’re a carbon copy of your mother.”

Round one to him then.

“I’d know you anywhere. Your face, your features, your size, everything.”

“My size? But you’re really tall—how come?” I hear myself ask.

Christ, that’s my first question? I’ve waited for the best part of three decades to meet a blood relative, I’ve thought about nothing but this moment for the last week, I’ve barely slept, and when I have I’ve dreamt about this moment, and the best I can come up with is “Where did I get my shortness from?” Talk about banal—I mean it’s hardly life-affirming stuff.

“Your father is tall, so are some of your brothers, and your sister, but your mother, she was small, petite—just like you.

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