Free A Bit of Difference by Sefi Atta Page A

levels. At the end of term, while Tessa was busy getting upset over some boy who’d slow-danced with some other girl at the school hop, Deola was looking forward to traveling home. She knew she wasn’t going to be overlooked for much longer. On the last day of term, they shared a bottle of scrumpy on the Glastonbury Tor.
    She was specific when she started dating and she still is. Her men must taste and smell as if they were raised on the same diet and make the same tonal sounds. Similarity on all fronts is essential. She won’t even be with a Nigerian like Bandele, who might end up asking her, “Pardon?”
    â€œWhat’s wrong with a different history?” Tessa asks. “What’s wrong with two histories?”
    â€œNothing, if they really are shared.”
    â€œCome on. That is so… I’m sorry. I’m not precious that way. I’m just not.”
    Tessa’s father is Scottish. Her mother’s family emigrated from Italy. She has an uncle on her father’s side whom she calls a disgusting old fart because he complains about his new neighbors who are Pakistani, spies on them from behind his curtains and once called the police to say he suspected them of terrorist activities. Before Peter, she dated a Trinidadian artist, who looked Chinese, then a French merchant wanker, as she called him after they broke up. Tessa would not know what it means to be nationalistic about love. She thinks it’s racist to talk about race. She is unapologetically prejudiced against actors, though. Her first boyfriend was one. He was in his forties, and married. They met in bedsits for years. She swore she would never get married after she broke up with him.
    â€œWhat if I said that to you?” she asks, blushing. “What if I said that about Nigerian men?”
    â€œIt’s not the same,” Deola says.
    â€œWhy not?”
    â€œBecause it’s not. You don’t live in Nigeria, for a start. Imagine if you did.”
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œJust imagine you lived there in a community of expats for years. You know how you’re not sure about moving to Australia? That is my whole life here.”
    â€œIt’s not like you haven’t had time to
adjust! You went to school here!”
    â€œYou have no idea what it was like for me in school.”
    The man at the next table glances at them. His nose is bulbous and the skin on his neck droops from his chin. Tessa’s moment of anger subsides.
    â€œDoes being a redhead child actress come close?” she mumbles, as she eats the other half of her scone.
    â€œIt’s not the same,” Deola says.
    Tessa’s hair is not the same shade of red as it was. It is darker now, less orange. She is going gray, so she dyes it. As a girl, she was in adverts for lemonade and toothpaste. Her teeth were perfect and her hair was coarse and curly. She envied child actresses like Patsy Kensit who had straight blond hair. Actually, she hated Patsy Kensit. She wanted to be the girl in The Great Gatsby and people kept telling her she would make a wonderful Orphan Annie, whom she also hated. A West Indian woman at an audition suggested she use TCB conditioner to tame her hair and Tessa’s mother had to go all the way to Shepherd’s Bush to find some.
    Tessa has had her hair blow-dried straight for auditions and worn wigs for roles. When they were roommates, Deola was amused that girls wanted cornrows after they watch the film Ten . She could either see it as a fashion trend or an insidious undoing. A boy who called her his mate asked if he could rub her Afro for good luck. She has had to get her hair chemically relaxed for interviews. A partner in her accountancy firm commented that her braids were unprofessional. Not once did she think her hair was the issue at hand.
    â€œI mean,” Tessa says, dusting her hands, “all my life I haven’t been right for the roles I’ve wanted. If it’s not my