One of the most poignant depictions of the grieving process is to be found in a fragment composed by the American poet Jack Gilbert in 1994. The 13-line prose-poem, “Michiko Dead”, describes the stoic juggling act of a man who “manages like somebody carrying a box that is too heavy”. First he clutches the load until his arms go numb, before transferring the weight to one shoulder and finally shifting back to the original position “so that he can go on without ever putting the box down”.
You may wonder what the elliptical lament of an obscure American beat writer has to do with a novel that shuttles between the southern Ghanaian city of Kumasi and the west African communities of Brixton, south London, in 2002. But Michael Donkor’s debut novel quotes Gilbert’s poem in full – indeed, it develops into the defining image of a book about the endless transference of life’s burden.
A London-born writer who has frequently visited Ghana with his parents, Donkor pitches the reader straight into the heat, chaos and commercial opportunism of a typical west African funeral, in which small boys scramble to remove valuable fixtures from the casket even as it is lowered into the ground. Seventeen-year-old Belinda, present for reasons that will become tragically clear, is offered the consolation of a salvaged brass knob: “She let it fall from her grasp and roll at her feet. It was not enough.”
Sensible, practical Belinda has been plucked from a remote rural village to work as a housegirl for a couple of affluent Ghanaian retirees. She is assisted – if that is the right word – by a younger servant named Mary, whose lackadaisical approach is the source of permanent anxiety: “The headache came from having to think doubly: once for Mary, once for herself; a daily chore more draining than the plumping of Aunty and Uncle’s tassely cushions, the washing of their smalls, the preparing of their complicated breakfasts.”
Belinda’s quiet competence makes a particular impression on a couple of expatriate house guests from the UK, known as Doctor and Nana Otuo. She strikes the Otuos as the ideal daughter; in stark contrast to the one they actually possess, the temperamental and iron-willed Amma, who has been veering off the rails back in south-east London. It is proposed that Belinda accompany the Otuos to England in the hope that she might instil some sense into their obstreperous daughter. The flighty, less fortunate Mary is left behind.
It is not clear at first what is troubling Amma, a high-achiever with a clutch of stellar exam results who has latterly become sullen, uncommunicative and withdrawn. Homesick and adrift in Brixton, Belinda feels isolated and bewildered, cold-shouldered by Amma, pressurised by Mrs Otuo and consoled only by phone conversations with Mary, to whom she gives contradictory impressions of her new home: “Every road has tar. And there are many poor, poor people sitting in the street.”
Donkor teaches English at a girls’ school, which may help to explain his empathic response to teenage girls. The friendship that gradually develops between Belinda and Amma is very persuasively observed – an intimacy forged through drunken, unsupervised house parties in the long summer after A-levels; wilful misbehaviour at dressy Ghanaian expat gatherings; and backs-to-the-wall standoffs with hostile Jamaican girls on the bus down Coldharbour Lane. Neither is without her faults. When Amma divulges details of a same-sex flirtation, Belinda’s reaction is condemnatory and judgmental: “I don’t need to be arguing. I try to help by telling what is true; whatever this you have done or want to do with a girl is no natural thing. Is not. Is wrong. End of the line.”
If Amma’s revelation threatens to destroy their relationship, it becomes stronger when unexpected tragedy necessitates Belinda’s immediate return to Ghana. She finds, tucked away in her luggage, a peace offering from her friend: a handwritten copy of Jack Gilbert’s poem about the bereaved man struggling with a box. “The image of a wrestling man with his parcel did show bravery. But it also looked ridiculous. His terrible twisting and frowning was foolish, like a frustrated idiot stray dog chasing his own tail.”
You could argue that the sudden death is a narrative convenience introduced to enforce a dramatic conclusion. But Donkor’s principal achievement is the dignity and generosity of spirit with which he imbues a central character from a largely invisible seam of African society: “It was a mean trick that the world kept playing: making Belinda feel like certainty or calm had finally arrived. Letting her think that because she finally worked out the wool settings on the washing machine, understood Doctor’s weird respect for the ginger woman Cilla Black and now knew how to get from Tulse Hill to the Whitgift Centre she could relax; that she had worked enough to make sense of it and could stop.” Like the man in Gilbert’s poem, Donkor suggests that the responsibility for carrying the burden never stops. He shoulders it well.
• Hold is published by Fourth Estate. To order a copy for £9.99 (RRP £12.99) go to guardianbookshop.com or call 0330 333 6846. Free UK p&p over £10, online orders only. Phone orders min p&p of £1.99.
