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LITTLE BEE CHRIS CLEAVE PDF

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Little Bee Chris Cleave Pdf

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1 Chris Cleave Little Bee Deutsch von Susanne Goga-Klinkenberg Deutscher Taschenbuch Verlag 2 für Joseph Plan Bee · Plan Bee · Does A Bee Care. Most days I wish I was a British pound coin instead of an African girl. Everyone would be pleased to see me coming. Maybe I would visit with you for the. Chris Cleave lives in London with his wife and three children. His second novel , published in , is titled Little Bee in Canada and the US.

With an OverDrive account, you can save your favorite libraries for at-a-glance information about availability. Find out more about OverDrive accounts. We want your feedback! Click here. Subjects Fiction Literature. British couple Andrew and Sarah O'Rourke, vacationing on a Nigerian beach in a last-ditch effort to save their faltering marriage, come across Little Bee and her sister, Nigerian refugees fleeing from machete-wielding soldiers intent on clearing the beach. The horrific confrontation that follows changes the lives of everyone involved in unimaginable ways.

A pound is free to travel to safety, and we are free to watch it go. This is the human triumph. This is called, globalisation. A girl like me gets stopped at immigration, but a pound can leap the turnstiles, and dodge the tackles of those big men with their uniform caps, and jump straight into a waiting airport taxi.

Where to, sir? Western Civilisation, my good man, and make it snappy. See how nicely a British pound coin talks? It speaks with the voice of Queen Elizabeth the Second of England. Her face is stamped upon it, and sometimes when I look very closely I can see her lips moving. I hold her up to my ear. What is she saying? Put me down this minute, young lady, or I shall call my guards. If the Queen spoke to you in such a voice, do you suppose it would be possible to disobey? I have read that the people around her — even Kings and Prime Ministers — they find their bodies responding to her orders before their brains can even think why not.

Let me tell you, it is not the crown and the sceptre that have this effect. It is her grammar and her voice. That is why it is desirable to speak the way she does. That way you can say to police officers, in a voice as clear as the Cullinan diamond, My goodness, how dare you? After all, English is the official language of my country, Nigeria. Yes, but the trouble is that back home we speak it so much better than you. For example, the Queen could never say, There was plenty wahala, that girl done use her bottom power to engage my number one son and anyone could see she would end in the bad bush.

It takes a long time and there is always a little bit left at the end, a stain of red along the growing edges to remind you of the good time you had. So, you can see that learning came slowly to me. On the other hand, I had plenty of time. I learned your language in an immigration detention centre, in Essex, in the south eastern part of the United Kingdom.

Two years, they locked me in there. Time was all I had. But why did I go to all the trouble? It is because of what some of the older girls explained to me: The plain ones and the silent ones, it seems their paperwork is never in order. You say, they get repatriated. We say, sent home early.

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But the pretty ones and the talkative ones, we are allowed to stay. In this way your country becomes lively and more beautiful. I will tell you what happened when they let me out of the immigration detention centre. The detention officer put a voucher in my hand, a transport voucher, and he said I could telephone for a cab. I said, Thank you sir, may God move with grace in your life and bring joy into your heart and prosperity upon your loved ones.

The officer pointed his eyes at the ceiling, like there was something very interesting up there, and he said, Jesus. Then he pointed his finger down the corridor and he said, There is the telephone.

So, I stood in the queue for the telephone. I was thinking, I went over the top with thanking that detention officer. The Queen would merely have said, Thank you , and left it like that. Actually, the Queen would have told the detention officer to call for the damn taxi himself, or she would have him shot and his head separated from his body and displayed on the railings in front of the Tower of London.

I was angry with myself. I was thinking, You cannot afford to go around making mistakes like that, girl. If you talk like a savage who learned her English on the boat, the men are going to find you out and send you straight back home. There were three girls in the queue in front of me. They let all us girls out on the same day. It was Friday.

It was a bright sunny morning in May. The corridor was dirty but it smelled clean. That is a good trick. Bleach, is how they do that. The detention officer sat behind his desk. He was not watching us girls. He was reading a newspaper. It was spread out on his desk. It was not one of the newspapers I learned to speak your language from — the Times or the Telegraph or the Guardian.

No, this newspaper was not for people like you and me. There was a white girl in the newspaper photo and she was topless. You know what I mean when I say this, because it is your language we are speaking. But if I was telling this story to my big sister Nkiruka and the other girls from my village back home then I would have to stop, right here, and explain to them: It means, she was not wearing any garments on her upper body. You see the difference? Not even a brassiere? And then I would start my story again but those girls back home, they would whisper between them.

They would giggle behind their hands. Then, just as I was getting back to my story about the morning they let me out of the immigration detention centre, those girls would interrupt me again. Nkiruka would say, Listen, okay?

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Just so we are clear. This girl in the newspaper photo. She was a prostitute, yes? A night fighter? Did she look down at the ground from shame? She looked right in the camera and smiled.

Little Bee

It is not shameful. The boys like it and there is no shame. Otherwise the topless girls would not smile like that, do you see? Walk around with their bobbis bouncing? In the church and in the shop and in the street? How come you not know? Much of my life in that country was lived in such confusion. Sometimes I think that even the British do not know the answers to such questions.

This is what it would be like, you see, if I had to stop and explain every little thing to the girls back home. I would have to explain linoleum and bleach and soft core pornography and the shape-changing magic of the British one pound coin, as if all of these everyday things were very wonderful mysteries.

And very quickly my own story would get lost in this great ocean of wonders because it would seem as if your country was an enchanted federation of miracles and my own story within it was really very small and unmagical. But with you it is much easier because I can say to you, look, on the morning they released us, the duty officer at the immigration detention centre was staring at a photo of a topless girl in the newspaper.

And you understand the situation straight away. The detention officer, the one who was looking at the topless photo in the newspaper — he was a small man and his hair was pale, like the tinned mushroom soup they served us on Tuesdays. His wrists were thin and white like electrical cables covered in plastic. His uniform was bigger than he was. The shoulders of the jacket rose up in two bumps, one on each side of his head, as if he had little animals hiding in there.

I thought of those creatures blinking in the light when he took off his jacket in the evening. I was thinking, Yes sir, if I was your wife I would keep my brassiere on , thank you. And then I was thinking, Why are you staring at that girl in the newspaper, mister, and not us girls here in the queue for the telephone? What if we all ran away? But then I remembered, they were letting us out. This was hard to understand after so much time. Two years , I lived in that detention centre.

I was fourteen years of age when I came to your country but I did not have any papers to prove it and so they put me in the same detention centre as the adults. The trouble was, there were men and women locked up together in that place. At night they kept the men in a different wing of the detention centre. They caged them like wolves when the sun went down, but in the daytime the men walked among us, and ate the same food we did. I thought they still looked hungry.

I thought they watched me with ravenous eyes. So when the older girls whispered to me, To survive you must look good or talk good , I decided that talking would be safer for me. I made myself undesirable.

I declined to wash, and I let my skin grow oily. Under my clothes I wound a wide strip of cotton around my chest, to make my breasts small and flat.

When the charity boxes arrived, full of second-hand clothes and shoes, some of the other girls tried to make themselves pretty but I rummaged through the cartons to find clothes that hid my shape.

I went to the detention nurse and I made her cut my hair very short with medical scissors. I was terrified. Only at night, after they locked the men away, I went back to my detention cell and I unwound the cloth from my breasts and I breathed deeply. Then I took off my heavy boots and I drew my knees up to my chin. Once a week, I sat on the foam mattress of my bed and I painted my toenails.

I found the little bottle of nail varnish at the bottom of a charity box. It still had the price ticket on it. If I ever discover the person who gave it then I will tell them, for the cost of one British pound and ninety nine pence, they saved my life. Because this is what I did in that place, to remind myself I was alive underneath everything: Sometimes when I took my boots off I screwed up my eyes against the tears and I rocked back and fro, shivering from the cold. My big sister Nkiruka, she became a woman in the growing season, under the African sun, and who can blame her if the great red heat of it made her giddy and flirtatious?

Who could not lean back against the door post of their house and smile with quiet indulgence when they saw my mother sitting her down to say, Nkiruka, beloved one, you must not smile at the older boys like that? Me, I was a woman under white fluorescent strip lights, in an underground room in an immigration detention centre forty miles east of London. There were no seasons there. It was cold, cold, cold, and I did not have anyone to smile at.

Those cold years are frozen inside me. The African girl they locked up in the immigration detention centre, poor child, she never really escaped. In my soul she is still locked up in there, forever, under the fluorescent lights, curled up on the green linoleum floor with her knees tucked up under her chin.

And this woman they released from the immigration detention centre, this creature that I am, she is a new breed of human. There is nothing natural about me. I was born — no, I was reborn — in captivity. I learned my language from your newspapers, my clothes are your cast-offs, and it is your pound that makes my pockets ache with its absence.

Imagine a young woman cut out from a smiling Save the Children magazine advertisement, who dresses herself in threadbare pink clothes from the recycling bin in your local supermarket car park and speaks English like the leader column of The Times , if you please.

I would cross the street to avoid me. Truly, this is the one thing that people from your country and people from my country agree on. They say, That refugee girl is not one of us. That girl does not belong. That girl is a halfling, a child of an unnatural mating, an unfamiliar face in the moon.

So, I am a refugee, and I get very lonely. Is it my fault if I do not look like an English girl and I do not talk like a Nigerian?

Well who says an English girl must have skin as pale as the clouds that float across her summers? Who says a Nigerian girl must speak in fallen English, as if English had collided with Ibo, high in the upper atmosphere, and rained down into her mouth in a shower that half-drowns her and leaves her choking up sweet tales about the bright African colours and the taste of fried plantain?

Not like a storyteller, but like a victim rescued from the flood, coughing up the colonial water from her lungs? Excuse me for learning your language properly.

I am here to tell you a real story. I did not come to talk to you about the bright African colours. I am a born-again citizen of the developing world, and I will prove to you that the colour of my life is grey.

And if it should be that I secretly love fried plantain, then that must stay between us and I implore you to tell no one. The morning they let us out of the detention centre, they gave us all our possessions.

I held mine in a see-through plastic bag. I met him on a beach. This small plastic bag is what I was holding in my hand when the detention officer told me to go and stand in the queue for the telephone. The first girl in the queue, she was tall and she was pretty. Her thing was beauty, not talking.

I wondered which of us had made the best choice to survive. This girl, she had plucked her eyebrows out and then she had drawn them back on again with a pencil. This is what she had done to save her life. She was wearing a purple dress, an A-line dress with pink stars and moons in the pattern.

She had a nice pink scarf wrapped around her hair, and purple flip-flops on her feet. I was thinking she must have been locked up a very long time in our detention centre. One has to go through a very great number of the charity boxes, you will understand, to put together an outfit that is truly an ensemble. I was thinking, Do those scars cover the whole of you, like the stars and the moons on your dress? I thought that would be pretty too, and I ask you right here please to agree with me that a scar is never ugly.

That is what the scar makers want us to think. But you and I, we must make an agreement to defy them. We must see all scars as beauty. This will be our secret. Because take it from me, a scar does not form on the dying. A scar means, I survived. But you must hear them the same way we have agreed to see scars now. Sad words are just another beauty. A sad story means, this storyteller is alive. The next thing you know, something fine will happen to her, something marvellous , and then she will turn around and smile.

The girl with the purple A-line dress and the scars on her legs, she was already talking into the telephone receiver. She was saying, Hello, taxi? Yu come pick me up, yeh? Oh, where me come? Me come from Jamaica, darlin, you better believe that. Oh, where me come right now? Okay wait please.

She put her hand to cover the telephone receiver.

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She turned around to the second girl in the queue and she said, Listen darlin, what name is dis place, where we at right now? But the second girl just looked up at her and shrugged her shoulders. The second girl was thin and her skin was dark brown and her eyes were green like a jelly sweet when you suck the outside sugar off and hold it up against the moon. She was so pretty, I cannot even explain. She was wearing a yellow sari dress. She was holding a see-through plastic bag like mine, but there was nothing in it.

At first I thought it was empty but then I thought, Why do you carry that bag, girl, if there is nothing in it?

I could see her sari through it, so I decided she was holding a bag full of lemon yellow. That is everything she owned when they let us girls out. I knew that second girl a bit. I was in the same room as her for two weeks one time, but I never talked with her. That is why she just shrugged and held on tight to her bag of lemon yellow.

So the girl on the phone, she pointed her eyes up at the ceiling, the same way the detention officer at his desk did. Then the girl on the phone turned to the third girl in the queue and she said to her, Do yu know the name of dis place where we is at? But the third girl did not know either. She just stood there, and she was wearing a blue T-shirt and blue denim jeans and white Dunlop Green Flash trainers, and she just looked down at her own see-though bag, and her bag was full of letters and documents.

There was so much paper in that bag, all crumpled and creased, she had to hold one hand under the bag to stop it all bursting out. Now, this third girl, I knew her a little bit too.

She was not pretty and she was not a good talker either, but there is one more thing that can save you from being sent home early. There were rubber stamps at the end of her story that said in red ink this is TRUE.

I remember she told me her story once and it went something like, the-men-came-and-they- burned-my-village- tied-my-girls- raped-my-girls- took-my-girls- whipped-my-husband- cut-my-breast- I-ran-away- through-the-bush- found-a-ship- crossed-the-sea- and-then-they-put-me-in-here.

Or some such story like that. I got confused with all the stories in that detention centre. And all of the stories finished, and-then-they-put-me-in-here. All the stories were sad, but you and I have made our agreement concerning sad words. With this girl — girl three in the queue — her story had made her so sad that she did not know the name of the place where she was at and she did not want to know.

The girl was not even curious. So the girl with the telephone receiver, she asked her again. Yu no talk neither? How come yu not know the name dis place we at? Then the third girl in the queue, she just pointed her eyes up at the ceiling, and so the girl with the telephone receiver pointed her own eyes up at the ceiling for a second time.

I was thinking, Okay, now the detention officer has looked at the ceiling one time and girl three has looked at the ceiling one time and girl one has looked at the ceiling two times , so maybe there are some answers up on that ceiling after all.

Maybe there is something very cheerful up there. Maybe there are stories written on the ceiling that go something like the-men-came-and-they- brought-us-colourful-dresses- fetched-wood-for-the-fire- told-some-crazy-jokes- drank-beer-with-us- chased-us-till-we-giggled- stopped-the-mosquitoes-from-biting- told-us-the-trick-for-catching-the-British-one-pound-coin- turned-the-moon-into-cheese- Oh, and then they put me in here.

I looked at the ceiling, but it was only white paint and fluorescent light tubes up there. The girl on the telephone, she finally looked at me. The girl stared at me. Yu kiddin wid me , she said. What kine of a name is dat? So I pointed at the little metal plate that was screwed on the wall above the telephone. The girl looked at it and then she looked back to me and she said, Sorry darlin, I can not ridd it.

So I read it out to her, and I pointed to the words one at a time. Thank you precious, the first girl said, and she lifted up the telephone receiver. She said into the receiver: Then she said, No, please, wait. Then she looked sad and she put the telephone receiver back down on the telephone. I said, What is wrong? The first girl sighed and she said, Taxi man say he no pick up from dis place.

Then he say, You people are scum. You know dis word? I said to the first girl, You are a film of impurities or vegetation that can form on the surface of a liquid. She looked at me and I looked at her and we giggled because we did not understand what to do with the information. This was always my trouble when I was learning to speak your language. Every word can defend itself. Just when you go to grab it, it can split into two separate meanings so the understanding closes on empty air.

I admire you people. You are like sorcerers and you have made your language as safe as your money. So me and the first girl in the telephone queue, we were giggling at each other, and I was holding my see-through bag and she was holding her see-through bag. There was one black eyebrow pencil and one pair of tweezers and three rings of dried pineapple in hers.

The first girl saw me looking at her bag and she stopped giggling. What you starin at? I said I did not know. She said, I know what you tinking. You tinking, Now the taxi no come for to pick me up, how far me going to get wid one eyebrow pencil an one tweezer an three pineapple slice?

So I told her, Maybe you can use the eyebrow pencil to write a message that says HELP ME, and then you can give the pineapple slices to the first person who does. The girl looked at me like I was crazy in the head and she said to me: Okay darlin, one , I got no paper for to write no message on, two , I no know how to write, I only know how to draw on me eyebrows, an tree , me intend to eat that pineapple meself.

And she made her eyes wide and stared at me. While this was happening, the second girl in the queue, the girl with the lemon yellow sari and the see-through bag full of yellow, she had become the first girl in the queue, because now she held the telephone receiver in her own hand. She was whispering into it in some language that sounded like butterflies drowning in honey. I tapped the girl on her shoulder, and pulled at her sari, and I said to her: Please, you must try to talk to them in English.

The sari girl looked at me, and she stopped talking in her butterfly language. Very slowly and carefully, like she was remembering the words from a dream, she said into the telephone receiver: You already is in England, get it? And she pointed both her index fingers down at the linoleum floor. She said: Dis is England, darlin, ya nuh see it? Right here, yeh? Dis where we at all-reddy.

The girl in the yellow sari went quiet. She just stared back with those green eyes like jelly moons. And she lifted the receiver to her mouth and she said Listen, wait, one minnit please. But then she went quiet and she passed the telephone receiver to me and I listened, and it was just the dial tone. So I turned to the sari girl. You have to dial a number first, I said. You understand? Dial number first, then tell taxi man where you want to go.

But the girl in the sari, she just narrowed her eyes at me, and pulled her see-through bag of lemon yellow a little closer to her, like maybe I was going to take that away from her the way the other girl had taken the telephone receiver.

The girl in the purple dress, she sighed and turned to me. De Lord gonna call his chillen home fore dis one calls for a taxi. And she passed the telephone receiver to me. Here , she said. Yu betta try one time. I pointed to the third girl in the queue, the one with the bag of documents and the blue T-shirt and the Dunlop Green Flash trainers. What about her? I said. This girl is before me in the queue. And she stared at the girl with the documents, but the girl with the documents just shrugged and looked down at her Dunlop Green Flash shoes.

Yu got to talk us out a here, fore dey change dey mind an lock us all back up. I looked down at the telephone receiver and it was grey and dirty and I was afraid. I looked back at the girl in the purple dress.

Where do you want to go? And she said, Any ends. Excuse me? Anywhere, darlin. I dialled the taxi number that was written on the phone. He sounded tired. Cab service , he said. The way he said it, it was like he was doing me a big favour just by saying those words. A taxi cab. For four passengers. In High Easter. It is near Chelmsford.

I know you do not pick up refugees. We are not refugees. We are cleaners. We work in this place. I spoke into the telephone.

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