Like a Mule Bringing Ice Cream to the Sun Read Free Page B

takes much more than tired sprigs of lilac to impress me. Although I know, of course, that he’s not really trying to impress me. He just thinks he’s being charming to an old lady. And yet, had he seen me in my youth – even in my middle years, things would have been different. Back then he would have had to work hard to get my attention.
    ‘Really, I remind you of someone?’ Dawud smiles. He likes Nigerians and plays soccer with three of them on Sundayafternoons in Oakland, but Morayo’s already moved on. ‘You know it’s my birthday soon,’ he overhears her saying to his sister, to which he rolls his eyes because he could swear this woman had a birthday every six months.
    ‘You tell me what you need,’ he hears Amirah offering. ‘I’ll make you a cake. Anything you need, honey.’
    ‘Anything you need,’ Dawud mutters, shaking his head at his sister’s naivety. He sighs while watching birthday woman walk back to the bucket of short-stemmed tulips, which aren’t his cheapest flowers today, but not the most expensive either. The woman leans in as if to smell, but he knows her well enough to guess what she’s really doing. She’s inspecting, trying to decide the best value for her money. But then she surprises him by picking two bunches instead of one – one purple, one pink. She shakes off the excess water, takes them to Amirah, and pays.
    ‘Organic!’ He calls after her, winking when she catches his eye.
    ‘Shukran!’ she calls back.

3
    I resume my walk down Stanyan Street, puzzling for a moment over Dawud’s words. His jovial exterior doesn’t fool me because I know he’s led a hard life. He’s been divorced, he suffers from back pain, and Amirah has told me that it was political trouble that caused their mother to send him out of Ramallah. I imagine him as an angry teenager, throwing stones at Israeli soldiers; but nothing more serious, for how else would they have given him refuge in America?
    ‘You look awesome,’ says a stranger, startling me from my thoughts.
    ‘Well so do you,’ I smile, noting the man’s carefully manicured lime-green fingernails. I enjoy this sort of attention from San Francisco’s gentlemen. It’s one of the things that I love about the city. And because of men like this, men not sexually attracted to women, I find this citygentler than most. And what’s more, here in San Francisco, both men and women seem to admire my sense of style. Whereas if I were back in London or certain parts of New York, where buba and gele are commonplace, I know that I wouldn’t turn heads, not at this age at least. And back in Nigeria, where so many are dressed like me, I wouldn’t draw any attention at all. So I treasure this city with its bright morning sun and brilliant blue skies. I love the way the fog rolls in late in the day, tumbling over Sutro Forest, to cloak my part of the city in soft white mist. But it’s the people of San Francisco, so often quirky but always friendly, that makes it feel like home to me. And then I hear a car that roars the way mine does. Which reminds me. What the hell will I do if I don’t pass the eye test? It’s not the first time I’ve fretted over this, but previously I’ve always managed to talk myself out of worrying. I turn left now on Parnassus to sit for a moment at the bus stop and catch my breath. I perch on the edge of a red plastic seat, clutching the tulips tightly to my chest, considering my options – public transportation or a chauffeur. Is that really all there is? And public transport isn’t as convenient as it is in London. I’ve had drivers in the past, but in a different context, different country. In San Francisco a driver will be expensive. And anyway, I want to remain independent – to be able to take off whenever I feel like it. It’s not just a question of getting from A to B, but the freedom to do as I choose.
    I must have walked several blocks before noticing the homeless man in front of me. Seeing how