ALSO BY THE AUTHOR FOR OLDER READERS

  A Jigsaw of Fire and Stars

  Wolf Light

  Lionheart Girl

  To revellers of the past, present and future, especially my grandchildren, Nii Armah, Lael, Laurel, Leuan, Joseph, and Rowan.

  – YB

  To the joys and celebrations of carnival, and the people that make it happen – thank you for continuing the magic.

  – JA

  ONCE, not so long ago, there lived a boy whose mother was suffering from an illness no one could name. Doctors and healers of all kinds couldn’t explain what was wrong with her. Neither could they understand why, as she grew thinner and thinner, her voice started to fade.

  The boy’s name was Man-man, and his home was in London in a part of the city famous for its yearly carnival.

  Late one afternoon, soon after his mum had taken to her bed, Man-man was practising his steps for carnival when a voice from the kitchen yelled: ‘De pickney dem today always making noise! Man-man, why you thumping and strumming? Why you stomping your feet on the ground?’

  The voice belonged to his nan.

  Fedora Roberts had arrived from Jamaica that morning to look after her daughter, Trilby, Man-man’s mum.

  Man-man froze between steps, clenching his fingers to stop them teasing music out of the tables and walls around him. ‘Today is dread,’ he muttered.

  Not only was his mum ill, she was wobbly on her feet as well. So wobbly she could barely walk. What’s more, her voice was almost gone. That’s why Dad had called Nan and begged her to come over.

  That’s how bad things were, for his dad didn’t much like Nan. ‘She too prissy-prim for her own good,’ he always said.

  Unable to practise in silence on wooden floorboards, Man-man slipped off his shoes and moving his weight from foot to foot, heel to toe, glided down the corridor. He tweaked his shoulders and hips, jerking his neck from side to side, until, twitching like a robot, he reached his parents’ room.

  His dad was still at work at his barber shop while Pan, Man-man’s older sister, was out with friends. Pan hadn’t returned home since Nan’s arrival. Neither had her tortoise shell cat, Smudge, who, more often than not, followed Pan’s example.

  Man-man tapped on the bedroom door and stepped inside.

  ‘There you are,’ his mum murmured. ‘The minute I think of you, you come!’ She smiled, a smile that tickled his skin like a prickle of sunlight in winter. A smile that made him grin, even though Nan had told him to leave his mum in peace.

  ‘I have travelled all the way to England,’ Nan had said when she’d seen the state they were in.

  Clothes strewn on the washing machine clamoured to be washed.

  A heap of takeaway cartons littered the kitchen. Smudge, nestling among them, snarled.

  In the sitting room Nan had run a finger along a shelf before flicking specks of dust in the air.

  ‘I have travelled all the way to England,’ she repeated, ‘to make sure that your mother rests. I will cook and clean and take care of you on one condition. You’ll do what I say.’

  Pan’s eyes had flung daggers at Nan. Daggers that said: I am nobody’s slave.

  She’d flung daggers, then flounced out, Smudge behind her; while Dad, looking grim, had followed.

  Unfortunately for Man-man, once Nan’s eyes had drilled into his, he couldn’t move. Even in his parents’ room, he could still hear her voice and the furious squeak in it as she’d waggled a finger at him.

  The finger seemed to jab him, for he took a step back. Yet, as soon as his mum lifted her duvet, with a skip and a jump, Man-man snuggled into her bed.

  Fuzzy with sleep, she stroked his cheek and slowly inhaled him, as if his smell reminded her of all the things she loved and missed most in the world. She lapped him up like a camel drinking water after a long desert trek. Her forehead touched his, and Man-man gazed at his mum’s face.

  The plump curves of her cheeks had gone. Her eyes were dull with pain. And yet the more he stared into those dark eyes of hers, the more his mind tricked him.

  Instead of seeing her as she was, he saw her as she used to be, how he wanted her to be: bigger, louder, healthier than ever; the very best mum in the world.

  ‘You’re snugalicious,’ she whispered.

  ‘You’re snugalicious too.’

  She held him, and breathing him in again and again, soft as a butterfly settling on his hand, she asked, ‘I heard you practising. Have you got it?’

  He nodded.

  All day long he’d been distracted because he was busy working on his steps for carnival. This year at Notting Hill, he was going to take his mum’s place and lead the procession. Pan would be at his side. He’d listen to the beat of his dad’s sound system, feel the rhythm, and, when he was in its groove, he’d move.

  ‘Will you dance me better, Man-man?’

  ‘I’ll dance you to the moon and back, Mum,’ he promised. ‘To infinity and beyond!’

  ‘Wouldn’t surprise me,’ she smiled. ‘You were dancing when you were small as a grub inside me, little man. We’ve been dancing ever since.’

  This was a story his mum often told him.

  And it was when she and Dad had started calling him Man-man.

  He was their little man, though his real name was Emmanuel.

  ‘Is your costume ready?’

  Man-man nodded again.

  Aunty Flo, a designer and seamstress, had been working on their costumes for ages. ‘You can be anyone you want to be at carnival,’ she’d said. ‘A bird, a queen, a troubadour, a warrior. For one day and one day only, you can decide who you are and feel it deep down. Who will you be this year, Man-man?’

  He’d whispered in her ear and grinned as her eyes sparkled.

  ‘Mind the Queen of Revels doesn’t nab you, boy,’ she’d warned. ‘Because once I’ve dressed you up, all eyes will be on you. And where we look, the eyes of the Revel Queen follow.’

  In truth, it wasn’t just what he wanted to be for a day that mattered. All the troupe had had a say.

  One after the other they’d suggested a theme and then voted. This year they’d chosen ‘Let Freedom Rain’. They were going to celebrate the freedom of Africans everywhere – from Port-au-Prince to London, Solihull to Salvador, Cape Town to Cairo, Zanzibar to Spanish Town, Jamaica. At the same time, they were going to honour freedom fighters of yesterday, such as Queen Nanny, Marcus Garvey, Toussaint Louverture, Jean-Jacques Dessalines, Martin Luther King and Yaa Asantewaa of Ghana.

  His mum gathered her strength before speaking again.

  Having learned how to catch the softest of her words, Man-man was ready when her question fluttered into the open. ‘Who are you going to be at carnival this year?’

  He caught her drift even though she sounded far away like someone lost in fog. What flummoxed him was the breathlessness between her pauses. With each gasp he felt the tug of his mum slipping away. A tug that wiped the smile off his face and brought tears to his eyes.

  ‘My costume’s a secret,’ Man-man replied.

  ‘You’re not going to go as the Black Panther, are you?’

  Outside a floorboard creaked.

  Trilby placed a finger to her lips.

  The doorknob turned. The door swung open, and Nan appeared.

  A small woman with a round, pert face, she glared at Man-man, her eyebrow raised, and what at first seemed ordinary became extraordinarily large. Large like an orchestra of clashing cymbals and shaking tambourines. Nan loomed, an ogre, skin pale as topaz, a smattering of salt and pepper curls on her scalp.

  ‘I told you,’ she declared. ‘Told you, “Man-man, please let your poor mother rest.” Look at you now!’

  His mum drew him closer. ‘Fedora, I called him. See how bright he’s made me?’

  ‘But, Trilby, we agreed…’

  ‘We did. But this is my time, Ma, and I need to spend it with my son.’

  Nan nodded, even as her face fixed in a frown.

  Once she was gone, Trilby tickled Man-man, whispering: ‘’Fess up, son. True, true, you’ve asked Flo to dress you up as the Black Panther, haven’t you?’

  Man-man snorted. That had been his first choice, until his dad had pointed out that the kingdom of Wakanda was a make-believe creation of Marvel Comics and that T’Challa wasn’t a genuine freedom fighter. Jules had explained patiently, while Pan and her pals had sniggered, teasing Man-man that the one African country he was desperate to visit didn’t exist. He remembered the glance Pan had thrown him. How he’d shrivelled inside at what she could do to him with that glint in her eyes.

  ‘Mum, like I said, my costume’s a secret. You’ll have to come to carnival to find out who I am, because before I can dance you better, you have to be well enough to watch.’

  ‘So, I’ve got two weeks to mend body and soul and walk again?’

  ‘You can do it, Mum. I know you can do it.’

  THE FORTNIGHT before carnival disappeared in a flurry of costume fittings and rehearsals. The Let Freedom Rain crew spent hours rigging a float, while drummers and dancers prepared for the big day.

  This was the fortnight in which Man-man and Pan perfected their moves: high kicks, belly rolls, the limbo stroll. They practised dancing side by side, and then thighs wide apart, they strutted, bottoms gyrating like bundles of bouncing balls. Finally, arms outstretched, back to back, they waggled their legs before slip-sliding in splits.

  The more they practised, and their mum h
eard the stamp of feet followed by their laughter, the more determined she became to see her children perform.

  Day after day, what had seemed impossible to begin with glimmered, giving Man-man hope that if she could only see him lead the procession, he would be able to dance her back to good health. Her eyes were brighter now, and smiles flitted over her face.

  Much of this was thanks to Nan’s cooking. She created spinach and coconut milk smoothies, conjured mango and pumpkin pies. She whipped up endless chicken and vegetable broths, scrumptious dumplings on top; cups of soup followed by bowls of curried goat and callaloo.

  After marinading delicate morsels of fish, she baked corn bread and fish patties to entice her daughter to eat.

  No wonder Trilby’s cheeks were beginning to fill out again. As the flesh around her bones became fatter, she grew louder; so that when she spoke, her voice was no longer as faint as drops of rain falling on the sea, but strong as a tide surging in.

  His mum was getting better. Man-man felt it and was convinced by what he saw. So much so, that on the day Trilby was able to stagger into the sitting room to watch them, even though she was holding the walls to keep herself upright, brother and sister clapped, delighted.

  In the kitchen, the buzz of Nan grumbling erupted in a clatter of pots and pans. Between the clanging of lids, snatches of what she was saying rolled into the sitting room.

  ‘Downtown wickedness,’ she hissed.

  Smudge leaped from the kitchen to the sitting room.

  ‘To come to England,’ Nan droned, ‘to see my own flesh and blood swaying their backsides like dancehall queens! Mercy me!’

  Saucepans crashed as Nan’s temper flamed.

  ‘Let her be, Mum,’ Pan whispered. ‘You know what Nan’s like.’

  Trilby nodded. Yet before Pan could distract her, or Man-man could douse Nan’s temper by giving her a hug, Trilby choked. Once, twice, she spluttered. Each time she thumped her chest to clear her throat. After a third wallop, a sound like a mouse scuttling over autumn leaves emerged. ‘Ma,’ she asked, ‘what’s your problem?’

  Hands on hips, Nan strode into the sitting room.

  ‘Daughter, no one could ever call me a saint, but I’m not a prude.’

  ‘Oh, yes, you are,’ Pan mumbled.

  Smudge spat, winding her body between Pan’s legs.

  Nan replied with a look that should have shredded girl and cat. Not Panama. Or Smudge. Back hunched, the cat hissed while the girl sneered. Head raised, her pose mirrored Fedora’s exactly.

  Disgusted.

  Defiant.

  A duo, daggers drawn.

  Nan harrumphed: ‘Daughter, since my eyes were at my knees, me never see what me see day after day in this house. All this strutting and wobbling and belly rolling make me think me not in England, but in a den of thieves in downtown Kingston. Hip-shaking in a boy is bad enough. But shakey-shake in a girl? No, daughter, no!’

  ‘But, Nan, we’re practising,’ Man-man explained. ‘Practising for carnival.’

  He looked from Nan to his mum and back again. Anger glittered in their eyes as their passion scorched Man-man’s skin.

  Trilby gulped more air. Hit her chest again. Then, to Man-man’s alarm, she coughed up a tiny, white feather. It fluttered to the ground.

  ‘Mum, what’s happening to you?’ he cried.

  Was the feather goose down from her duvet? Had she got out of bed too soon?

  Man-man didn’t know. How could he when Smudge’s caterwauling made it impossible to think?

  No one seemed to have noticed the feather but him. He picked it up and put it in his pocket convinced that Trilby wasn’t well enough to be up.

  Meanwhile, the daggers duo circled each other, panthers about to pounce.

  ‘Ma, these are my children, they follow my rules. We’re about to celebrate carnival. What better way to express love of life and freedom than by dancing?’

  ‘Dancing? You call jerking and twerking dancing?’

  ‘Mother.’ Trilby lowered her voice so that everyone except for Man-man had to lean in to hear what she was saying. ‘Mother,’ she repeated. ‘This is my house, my children. I feel better with you here, really, I do. Even so, you will not impose the rules you caged me with as a pickney on my children. We’re not uptown in Stony Hill now. We’re in Ladbroke Grove where at carnival we celebrate who we are, African roots and all.’

  ‘Carnival, barnacle!’ Nan scoffed. ‘All that talk of “Africa” nothing but Rasta nonsense. Remember Grandma Gatsby? Remember how she took to her bed with the same sickness you have, Trilby? And then when she couldn’t talk, she choked on a feather? Carnival did it.’

  Trilby sighed.

  ‘Daughter, if you prance about like the pickney dem you may as well dance with the devil. And if you do that you’ll go to a place where your tongue can’t move and there’s no coming back.’

  Man-man rubbed his ear, puzzled. Nobody wanted that. Not even Kareem, his best friend, who made a point of liking things other kids didn’t. For example, instead of tucking into burgers and fries, Kareem relished tofu and vegetables, anchovies and olives. He even liked runny cheese. Kareem didn’t want to go to a place where his tongue couldn’t move and neither did Man-man. But the idea that dancing could take him there, and that his great-grandma, Gatsby had suffered as a result of carnival, were completely new.

  He blinked at Nan, amazed she thought a gift he enjoyed, that his mum encouraged, was dangerous. It didn’t make sense until, remembering what Aunty Flo had said to him, Man-man asked: ‘Is the Revel Queen evil, Nan? Will her eyes be on us at carnival?’

  ‘’Course not, silly,’ said Pan. ‘It’s all make-believe, same as the kingdom of Wakanda and the Black Panther!’

  ‘Nonsense,’ Nan snapped. ‘Wickedness is real, boy. And whether it’s in the form of a man or a woman, it’s everywhere. Your great-grandma, Gatsby found that out to her peril. Ask your pa.’

  ‘Dad?’

  ‘Enough, Fedora,’ said Trilby. ‘Don’t say another word…’

  Nan paused.

  Grimaced.

  Pursed her lips.

  But when Pan started sniggering, irritation got the better of her.

  ‘Believe me, Man-man,’ said Nan. ‘Danger at carnival is as real as these grey hairs on my head. You’re too young to understand, but the three ugly sisters of sin are vices so hideous, you should have no toleration of them whatsoever. There’s nothing in the world as ugly as alcohol, dancing and revelry. And when you put the three together,’ Nan clapped her hands, ‘wickedness soon come. If you dance like you’ve been doing here for carnival – wickedness will catch you and mash you up.’

  NEXT DAY, with only two days left, Man-man jumped into a barber’s chair at his dad’s shop. Jules Baptiste was one of the most sought-after stylists in London. He cut the hair of both men and women, but mostly men – musicians and artists of all sorts – beat a path to his door. At Jules’s they enjoyed mingling with everyday folk who dropped by to chat.

  Legs outstretched, Man-man spun the chair. ‘Ready for lift-off, partner?’

  ‘Ready, Captain…’

  Behind Man-man Kareem was pretending to copilot a spaceship built for intergalactic travel.

  ‘Three, two, one, zero. Ignition, and we’re off.’

  Even as they soared and even though Pan was out with Nan having her hair styled in a weave, that didn’t stop Man-man hearing her voice.

  Today, the Big Sister voice whispered: Why can’t you be friends with a regular dude, bro? Someone who isn’t even weirder than you are, and sets my nerd alert off every single time?

  Pan’s presence rarely left Man-man. But it didn’t stop him doing what he wanted. If anything, it made him more determined, especially when it came to Kareem. They were more than best friends. Nicknamed Tall and Small at school because Kareem was long and lanky, while Man-man was small for his age, they were friends of the heart, who stuck to each other like limpets to rock.