From Pasta to Pigfoot Read Online Free PDF Page B

front of them. Before long they were in the middle of a loud and obviously familiar row over the lyrics of the Steel Pulse track that was now playing. Wesley, on the other hand, continued to stare at Faye while she studiously gazed into her glass and wished herself a thousand miles away from her present situation.
    â€˜You know,’ he said thoughtfully, as though in answer to a question she had asked him. ‘One thing you must understand is that it’s crucial for us black people to know our motherland. Back in the colonial days, all the white people went out chasing after other people’s lands. They bought our brothers in Africa – but, you know something?’
    Faye didn’t and, at this point, the throbbing in her head induced by the drink was leaving her with very little desire to find out. Her bottom was now almost completely numb and, although desperate for the toilet, she had to fight her increasing need to ask Philomena for directions to the bathroom, miserably aware that she might not be able to stand up.
    Wesley’s brooding blue eyes were still fixed on her.Completely oblivious to her dilemma, he continued his lecture.
    â€˜Even when they set up their colonies, the white people I mean, they always remembered where they came from. They never said “We are Indians” or “We are Africans”. Oh, no!’
    His voice was getting progressively louder as he spoke, either not noticing or not caring about Faye‘s growing discomfort and her surreptitious attempts to pinch some feeling back into her now nerveless backside. With scarcely a pause for breath, Wesley continued his lecture on the history of the slave trade and the dispersion of the ‘proud black peoples of Africa’ around the world. While the others carried on with their conversation, Philomena listened enraptured to her friend’s rich, lilting and – to Faye – almost incomprehensible accent, her head rising and falling in time with the music. While Wesley’s voice went on relentlessly, Faye was feeling dizzier by the minute.
    Struggling to concentrate through the hazy alcoholic stupor that was threatening to engulf her, she realised that Wesley had finished with history and was now talking about the present day mental colonisation of black people by whites. The insinuation was crystal clear as he stared fixedly at her, his face flushed with passion.
    â€˜So, today, if we black people don’t know our homelands, we have allowed ourselves to become cultural slaves.’ The accusation in his voice was unmistakable. His reproachful expression suddenly reminded Faye of the look on her physics teacher’s face on the day she had unwittingly setoff a minor explosion in the school lab.
    â€˜It is our responsibility to stay close to home as much as possible. That’s the only way we can keep our souls connected to our roots. You don’t do that, then you’re just a slave to the white man!’ Wesley ended suddenly and loudly, the unexpected volume of his voice instantly recapturing her flagging attention.
    She later decided that it was the shock of the loud voice as well as the patronising tone that did it. As it was, the combination of the rum and, in Faye’s opinion at least, the undeserved glare of accusation levelled at her from Wesley’s piercing blue eyes wreaked devastating results. Crushed by the weight of her defensiveness at this unwarranted attack, her usual tact and diplomacy vanished. Once again the music conspired against her and there was absolute silence as, in complete exasperation and bewilderment, she blurted out indignantly.
    â€˜But you’re white yourself, how can you say that!’
    Philomena’s broad smile vanished. Luther, who was about to start playing a new CD, froze. Jiggy and Michael’s conversation stopped abruptly, Michael staring at her in mortified disbelief while Jiggy slowly shook his head from side to side. Only Wesley