Nandi stands on the small carpet, there on the landing. Just there where the stairs make a bend: seven steps up and seven steps down. Halfway between the upstairs and the downstairs of this cramped house in north-east England. Merv’s mother’s house.

She stares into the mirror that hangs against the wall, stares at her face, stares deeply into her own eyes. But they have become the eyes of a stranger.

What was that proverb her cousin Shedrak used to quote? Oh yes: ‘The eyes are the windows to the soul’. But she can’t see any soul in her eyes. Does she still have a soul?

Downstairs in the kitchen, she can hear Mrs Scunthorpe talking.

“What is it with that wife of yours, Merv? Why is your Nandi always looking in the mirror, pet?”

There is no answer from Merv. He is watching soccer on the TV. The ‘telly’, he calls it. He is always watching soccer. Well, ‘footie’, he calls it. He still doesn’t have a job. So there is still no money coming in.

English soccer of course. Man United and Everton. And Aston Villa. And Sunderland, his homeboy team.

A goal has just been scored. The TV announcer’s voice screams above the roaring of the crowd: “And it’s a hat trick, oh my! Rooney has done it again.”

But no-one screams out Laduuuuuma! Not there in the British stadium or on the British TV. Nandi would give anything in the world to hear that one word, Laduuuuuuma! Even though she never enjoyed watching soccer back home. Back home in South Africa.

Outside the grey rain is falling. The grey rain is always falling – as if the sky will never run dry. On and on through the winter days and nights.

And yes, Nandi’s eyes have become the eyes of a stranger, there in the mirror. They are dull brown now, the texture of bark on a dead tree-trunk. No light shines from them. The light of the African sun has disappeared.

How long before she disappears too? How long before she looks into this mirror and sees … nothing? Just a shadowy space that used to be a happy, vibrant, young woman – who used to live in Africa?

Down in the kitchen, Mrs Scunthorpe is heating a pan of thick lard. The sickening smell reaches the landing and Nandi retches.

From the lounge, Merv calls out, “Mam’s making chips for lunch, Nandi!”

But she knows she will not eat. She cannot eat. If she puts food in her mouth, her throat tightens and refuses to allow her to swallow. It has been days, weeks, since she last ate.

It has been days, weeks, since she last slept through a night too.

Each evening she climbs into the double bed upstairs, beside Merv. The sheets smell different here in England: a sour, damp smell. For maybe an hour or two she passes out. Pure exhaustion overcomes her. But then she wakes, always with a fright, in the darkness. She wakes to horror that digs a great hole in her chest, scooping out her heart.

And the digital clock on the Decoder shows 00.00. Sometimes 00.30.

She wakes and knows she must move … must move.

Quietly, so as not to disturb Merv, not to disturb Mrs Scunthorpe in the other bedroom, Nandi tiptoes down the stairs. Past the landing mirror and down to the locked front door. Where she rocks from side to side, swaying left to right, left to right, through the long hours of darkness. Brushing against the thick coats that hang from the hooks beside her. But at least she is moving, even if she is getting nowhere.

Sometimes she is tempted to unlock the door and run. Off across the muddy lawn and the icy streets in her bare feet.

If only she could open that door and walk out into the African night, studded with bright yellow stars. Imagine! A warm South African night, smelling of dry soil, and with the stars golden and smiling down on her. If only. Sometimes she pretends it is possible.

With the first grey shades of dawn, she tiptoes back to bed. To pretend to Merv that she has been there all night.

“Did you sleep okay, flower?”

“Yes, thanks Merv. I slept okay,” she lies.

***

Tell us: Why do you think Nandi is unable to eat and sleep?