She could not pinpoint exactly when she’d first started seeing It again. Maybe last Tuesday or Wednesday? What she could remember was how It looked, etched in hard water on the silver bathtub faucet. Or maybe that was not the first time she’d seen It again, maybe she’d seen It before, though she could not recall for certain.    

Africa was ​returning to her.​ ​​Within a week It had become a part of her life, in the way breathing was.​​ 

One morning she squeezed a drop of Africa from a bottle of Palmer’s Cocoa Butter oil onto the back of her hand. 

A glistening continent. 

On another occasion while watching TV, she pulled Its jagged body from a packet of Walkers Prawn and Cocktail Crisps. She couldn’t bring herself to eat it, so she placed it on a napkin on her bedside table. 

​​​​​Her souvenir…until her cat ate it. 

For the first few days, It visited her once a day, but in the last forty-eight hours (she’d been keeping track), she’d seen Africa a total of twelve times. Though she was yet to see it in the clouds or on a slice of toast the way people claimed to see ​Jesus. 

This afternoon​,​ before she exited the New Cross Gate train station, she walked past a wall where It was made from a questionable brown stain. She felt the urge to ask what It wanted, but she was in a rush and did not want to miss her appointment. 

Now​,​ sat in a chair in the seating area of Best Smile Dental Practice, the bottom left side of her mouth swollen with the gauze plugging the bloody pit where her crooked wisdom tooth had been thirty minutes ago, a question plagued her.  

Where was It now? 

She knew it was there, she could sense it in the way one senses when being stared at. 

But where was it? 

Its origins predated humanity, though she ​had seen​ it reborn on her mother’s tongue as a child. 

On the morning drive to school, her mother loved to fill the car with It, the atomiser of her mouth spraying a fine, lingering mist.  

It had a woody, balsamic smell. 

It seeped into the girl’s pores, dripped into her ears like ear drops. 

Then It lay, naked and shameless on the back seats of their car while the girl gazed out of the window at London’s grey flesh. 

In the summer the girl’s relatives brought It back with them in their suitcases​,​ undetected by the British Border Control during baggage checks. It was accompanied by the smell of kerosene oil used for lanterns lit in the nights and the specks of sand that clung to the soles of holiday sandals. 

In her adolescence ​when ​she’d devoured the interests of her friends in the day, then in the evenings, picked those interests and the hilib she’d had for qado from the borders of her teeth. In those days when she barely saw her mother. She hadn’t thought about It. It had vanished from her life.  

A whole decade later, It was making itself known to her again. Tap dancing ​on the stage​ of her conscious mind. 

At first, she found it a strange coincidence. The way It popped up. 

Then  

possibly a sign? 

Especially since this country, the place she’d always called home​,​ ​had ​felt shaky ever since the man on the bus shouted, ‘GO BACK TO YOUR OWN COUNTRY!’ at her. The other passengers averted their gazes out​ of the windows ​because the building​s​ and lampposts were ​easier​ to witness than the shame and hurt in her. 

​​Back in the dentist’s office, ​​h​er eyes skimmed ​the​ surroundings. Drifted over the posters on the wall. 

Then along the dust-free skirting boards. 

She stood up, unsatisfied​. She needed to look, to truly see. ​ 

Her lips tingled as the local ​anaesthetic​ began to wear off. 

She parked herself in front of a poster advertising dentures. A white-haired couple stood hand in hand smiling their false smiles. A snapshot of a life she could live, a happy relationship she could have, if death left her to ripen. 

​​Even​ when she was done examining the poster she ​stayed​ there​,​ ​feigning interest​ until the receptionist who had repeatedly brought and removed a pencil from his mouth, stepped outside for a smoke. 

Her eyes continued​ their search,​ until– 

There it was. 

​​O​n the corner of a floorboard​, ​where the wall met the door frame ​leading to ​the ​patient’s ​bathroom. 

A coin​-​sized neonate replica of itself. 

The horn of Africa ​looked​ rounder than usual.​​ 

In the eyes of another, It might have bore a resemblance to something else entirely. ​She’d seen someone on the internet describe Its shape​ as​ a​ handgun turned on its side, the muzzle pointing downwards. 

But that didn’t matter ​right now, ​because​ to her​, 

It 

Was 

There. 

She crouched down in front of It. 

She swore It moved, or maybe she’d blinked. 

She became conscious of ​her​ blinking. ​E​very time her lids briefly shut to lubricate her eyeballs, 

 ​Africa​ seemed to get bigger. 

Amina. 

Did It whisper her name? 

She got on her knees, lowered her good ear to the ground, just above where It lay. 

The swollen side of her face felt heavy and pulsed like a fat vein. 

There was ​heat​ coming from It. ​Radiating like​ an electric heater. 

The ​heat​ stung her earlobe, and she rubbed it away. 

She moved closer to Its scorching breath. 

It had something to say to her, she felt it. 

Then an epiphany. 

​​Was It​ visiting to remind her that Africa was where she truly belonged? 

A calling back home, the home of her people. 

She smiled, feeling the dark knots around her heart unravel.  

It had come back for her. It must love her. 

She waited for Its words, as if she were at the ​bedside​ of a dying loved one.  

‘Hello, British girl,’ It said. ‘You are not of me.’