Manchester Solo

28TH OF JUNE 2017

Elodie had lived in Manchester since she had been born. The street she resided on, one of many, consisted of innumerable brownstone and brick houses squished against each other, varying in colour from light tan to dark hickory, that held the appearance of various workhouses cemented together. The streets, suffused with many cracks and potholes, were bordered by littered footpaths where small patches of weeds squeezed themselves through the crevices. Old balls, punctuated by holes, old fast-food packaging and cigarette butts lined the gutters, and dark clouds seemed to invariably fill the sky, accompanied by thick smog emitted from chimneys.

Number 32, a fairly tall, but rather thin building, was sepia-coloured, and comprised of four levels, each of which had five separate rooms. The building was owned by Gregory Adley, whose family had owned numerous blocks on the street for many generations. He had rented the top two levels to Gohar and Habiba Rasool for nearly 20 years - an elderly Pakistani couple who had raised two sons and a daughter, and watched all of them leave. The lowermost level was occupied by James Kirk, a student at university, who had a constant stream of fellow students and friends arriving and exiting his floor, and who was an annoyance to Aldey because of his irritating habit of avoiding payments. The second floor was leased to Ancelle Nyangui and her five children.

"Elodie! Elodie, maman is here, and she wants you!"

Elodie sighed as she set her pencil down, annoyed that she had been interupted in the middle of doing homework. But, the annoyance was replaced with confusion and curiousity as she grasped the meaning of Elliot's scentence. Her eyebrows frowned in bewilderment, and she slowly left the bedroom, her mind deep in thought. Outside, Elodie's little brother, no more than 3 years old but with the energy of a puppy, stood waiting, barely contining his joy.

"Elodie, maman attend, dépêche-toi! Mum is waiting, hurry up!" he exclaimed excitedly, no doubt enlivened by his mother's presence. It was rare for their mum to be home this early; she had to work long hours to single-handedly support five children with a low-paying job.

"D'accord, d'accord, je vais; être patient. Okay, okay, I am coming; be patient," she told her brother, following him as he led her down the corridor.

It was not rare for the kids to speak in French when they were home. It was their first language after all, the one spoken to them as babies. And their mother's English was poor, so it was easier to communicate that way. Mbere, their mother's second native langauge, was also spoken, but to a lesser degree. The children weren't as fluent, and only spoke it when they feared it was slipping from their mind.

Their mother sat in the living room, still in her working clothes. Ancelle Nyangui was a handsome woman, with an agular, weather-beaten face and sharp, attentive eyes. The Gabonese woman was an achiever at heart, and had moved to the U.K. when she was only 20 years old to forge a better future for herself. Her plan had not gone accordingly, and she now lived with five bastard children and hardly enough money to go around. Her tight ringlets were bunched together in a thick ponytail, and she smiled at Elodie when her daughter entered. But Elodie did not share the same joy her brother held; she was not delighted, but instead suspicious. Why was her mother home so late? And why was she smiling? Ancelle was a hardworking, often cold woman, and did not let hugs and kisses distract her from earning money.