Things Left Unsaid

Chapter 1

I can't believe I've been in LA for almost a decade and I've never been to therapy. I've never sat on some shrink's jewel toned velvet couch and spilled my guts.

If I had, perhaps I wouldn't have set my ex's car on fire. I wouldn't have gotten arrested and spent the night in jail. I wouldn't have had to rely on the generosity of his spirit to escape charges being pressed against me, the same generosity of spirit that didn't extend to being faithful, mind you. No, that was beyond the realm of possibility for Mikki.

In all honesty, the jokes on me for giving four years of life to a grown-man that called himself Mikki with two Ks. But the LA, had saturated every pore of me at that point and I had nothing real left. Except for my words and my songs — but Mikki, yes, he's central to this chapter of chaos in the book of my life, stole that. He stole a mixtape of my songs, giving no credit and certainly no royalties and that was the last straw for me. Not the cheating, the theft of my art. I don't know what that says about me. But up in smoke his car went.

And it had felt so good, criminally good even. The rush of adrenaline as I watched the blue-hued flames lick at the custom paint of his Chevy Impala was like no other. A deep set satisfying sense of revenge and a racing heart filled my chest, when I think about it a smile automatically graces my lips.

Therapy could never.

And that's how I found myself in a meeting with the record label big-wigs. A panel of greying white men, who have no doubt never set a car on fire before, so straight-laced they were. You could tell from the anally retentive way they all sat rigidly upright, like controlled puppets. Capable of no other thoughts but the bottom line.

"Miss Solomon..."

"Harry, please," I corrected. But the ringleader gave me a bland look and continued. So much for diffusing the tension. If anything it made it worse. I always did have a talent for putting my foot in it, royally.

I tuned out as they garbled on with the formalities. I knew what was coming. I was going to be dropped from the label as a song-writer. I had nothing to show for my time here but a handful of lukewarm radio hits, the type you can listen to the grand total of two times before it was kinder on your ears to listen to a dying cat.

I had suffered very badly from a creative block I couldn't shake, that mixtape, a culmination of blood, sweat, tears and a new musical direction was literally my last hope in remaining a salaried songwriter at this label.

I had been working flat out on a collection of songs, that I was sure was going to turn my luck around. The songs were fresh, with the best lyrics I had ever written. I had excitedly shown them to Mikki for his feedback, he said he loved them and I had glowed in his praise. He was never generous with his compliments.

Imagine my surprise when I found the draft cut of his album with all of my songs performed by and credited to him, and there was nothing I could do.

The record label said we had to sort things out between ourselves, it was a "personal dispute." If the matter was so personal and private, why was I the only one getting fired for settling it the best way I knew how?

"Unfortunately, your position here is no longer tenable. We regret to inform you that we will be terminating your contract with us here."

People actually spoke like that outside of formally written letters, and the rejection was even worse when it was uttered out loud. The words hung in the air, like little miniature guillotines.

Murdering my dreams.

Well, I've had a good run. I told myself, trying to resist the temptation of flipping them the bird as I left the room.

I failed miserably.

I turned around, I felt like I was in a slow-motion video segment, watching my life as a third party observer completely removed from the situation. I watched helplessly as the person known as Harry, obscenely stuck out her middle fingers and jabbed the air in their direction. Their faces contorted into shock, then mild surprise and finally resignation.

I was a self-fulfilling prophecy. I was messy and we all knew it. But the satisfaction alone was worth it. Who was going to be eaten up by regret at 3 am on a random Monday morning? Regret that I didn't tell them where they could stick their poxy, bloody record deal. Not me because I had told them to suck it.

It was weird, but I already felt like myself.

Like old Harry.

London Harry.

The only thing left to do was to go home.

"Hermela!" My mother shouted across the arrivals terminal at Heathrow. And I broke into a teary-eyed run. My beautiful mother who I didn't see much because she hated flying, was in front of me, in her toffee brown coloured complexion and curly-crowned glory.

She looked the same, if not a little older, strands of grey interspersed into her vibrant black hair. Her beautifully sculpted face had hardly any wrinkles. At 30, it was a joy to see that I wouldn't crack for a long time. God, aging on top of all that I'm going through right now would really put a damper on things

We hugged and I let the emotion of the last few days seep out of me in her arms. "You'll be okay," she said as if she knew. "We'll put you back together again." I nodded mutely and realised I had been so wrong and for so long about everything. About staying away, staying alone and for thinking I could be myself anywhere but here. My heart was already beating with a different rhythm, a different purpose. I would be okay, I agreed. I was me and I was in the city and with the people that made me. I could start again. I would write again.

At home, I caught up with my younger brothers of twenty and ten years of age. They were babies when I had left. Now one was a man and the other one was a whole talking and walking human. I'd seen them as often as I could, family holidays to Ethiopia, flying them over to LA and trips to Paris and other European destinations. But I hadn't seen them at home, in the council house I had grown up in. Chit-chatting over steaming platter of injera and wat, like we did this all the time. Like I had never left, like time had stood still.

My room was now my brother's, so I would kip in the living room much to my stepdad's chagrin. Hopefully, it wouldn't be for long. I wanted to keep the fragile peace we had forged while I was at home even if much of it depended on me being out of sight.

Jet lag had me in and out of the conversations going on around me. Cousins and aunts had popped by to see me, our small flat was full of visitors and my heart was so, so full. And soon I was succumbing to the best sleep I've had, lulled by the distant lullabies of traffic and police sirens.