Excerpt: Small Worlds by Caleb Azumah Nelson

We are delighted to share an exclusive excerpt of British-Ghanaian author Caleb Azumah Nelson’s Small Worlds. Below, you can read Chapter 2 of Small Worlds. But first head to Lit Hub to check out Chapter 1, also published this week.

Nelson is best known for his 2021 novel Open Water, which won the Costa First Novel Award, the British Book Award for Debut Fiction, and made Nelson a National Book Foundation “5 Under 35” honoree. We are certain Small Worlds is equally brilliant, if not more.

Read the excerpt below:

***

2.

A few hours later, sunshine sneaks through a split in the curtains. It’s too early, even before I’ve checked the time. Ray’s bed is empty, unmade. I will myself up and out, knowing I have to get to work. The world wobbles for a moment, then rights itself. Downstairs, Ray is laid out across the sofa, bottle of beer in hand, as if the party never stopped.

‘Bit early for a drink,’ I say, nodding to the bottle. ‘Bit late for you to be waking up.’

‘Touché. Where’s Mum?’ ‘Out.’

‘Where’s Dad?’

‘Out.’

Football highlights play on the TV screen. I know Ray has the capacity for conversation, or watching the highlights, but not both, so I briefly abandon this effort, instead heading to the kitchen, checking the fridge for food. Most of the Tupperware on the shelves contain meals Mum would’ve laboured over, something heavy and home-made, the sort of food which might fill the house with longing for a whole day, the sort which you might quickly devour, only to enter a strange stupor in which you can do nothing but nod and say how wonderful that meal was. Aware this is no condition in which to work, I keep looking for something lighter, finding a brown paper bag nestled in the fridge door. Inside, two patties. I heat them, and plate one for me, one for Ray. When I return, he swings his legs off the sofa, making space for me. We eat, quick, each bite a little too hot, but still, we eat.

‘What you on today?’

Ray shakes his head, shrugs. ‘Don’t even know, you know. Might check Deb.’

‘Deb? Don’t you mean Tej?’ ‘Nah, I’m in her bad books.’ ‘Why?’

‘Cause I keep going to see Deb.’ ‘You’re looking for trouble, man.’

‘Me? Never,’ he says, the grin boyish and unconvincing. He slumps back in the sofa, letting out an almighty yawn. ‘What you saying?’

‘Working. Actually, I need a favour.’ ‘If it’s money, I haven’t got it.’

‘No – I need to borrow your suit. For prom.’

Ray screws up his face in confusion. ‘Swear down your prom is tonight?’

‘Yup.’

At this, Ray transforms, becoming our father, his chest puffing out, the tone of his voice low and sure.

‘You young people, all lastminute.com business, you like it too much!’

Raymond needs no excuse to continue but he takes my laughter as cue, beginning our father’s favourite monologue of ‘When I was your age . . .’ At my age, eighteen, Pops had already moved from Accra to London, had already started to build something of a life for himself, and often lets us know. Raymond grows more extravagant and absurd with his tone and gestures and content, until we’re both falling about laughing, trailing off into a silence which isn’t uncomfortable. From outdoors, we hear the patter of feet, balls bouncing, children making their way to spend their summer days in the park. Ray takes a swig from his bottle, considering, before asking, ‘You going with Del?’

‘It’s not even like that.’

‘Sure.’

Del and I have known each other since early years, even before the times our fathers would go to the Gold Coast bar and drink spirits, straight, hoping this sort of dumb courage might have brought them closer to something spiritual, closer to themselves. The way we know each other, it’s different from seeing someone across a room, sharing a brief, coy smile, perhaps playing it cool and waiting for them to approach you, or asking a friend for an introduction. We have time. Over a decade now, since that day on a primary school trip to the farm, when I left my packed lunch on the long-departed coach. I was too ashamed to say anything. We weren’t friends but she could see I was holding myself awkwardly, while everyone else unpacked their sandwiches. I have extra, she whispered – her father was always scared what he gave would not be enough – and, sitting together, as if we had done so many times, she unpacked the contents of her lunchbox, enough for a sandwich, some fruit and a doughnut each.

There’s a trust between us, built from the time we’ve spent together: in our early years, racing each other up and down the same patch of playground until our legs could no longer carry us; taking trips to central in our early teens, her deep laughter the spine of our days, from Marble Arch to Oxford Circus to St James’s Park – Del, the soul and spirit of the group, our glue, until she grew tired, and then, with our secret signal, what became known between us as her double wink – she can’t wink, only blink, her eyes scrunched for a moment – we’d split, heading back towards Peckham, playing games to keep our tired bodies awake on the bus home. Nowadays, it is she and I, whenever we can, because it’s easy, because we want to, because we can. Recently, when her aunt is out, we’ll dig through her father’s records. We’ve known each other so long, I know her go-tos, depending on her mood: Bill Withers’s +’Justments, for tenderness; Bitches Brew, for its beautiful looseness, its courage; Curtis, when she needs to move. We’ve known each other so long, I know when she hears a sequence or phrase which pleases, her features will soften, taken by something like wonder. We’ve known each other so long I don’t know what name to give to this knowing.

‘Don’t be mad when someone else makes a move, that’s all I’m saying. Man, if you’re not on it, I might have to see what she’s saying.’

My body tenses before I have a chance to speak. The boyish grin is back.

‘See? Don’t wait, bro. You young people, lastminute.com. Do you want a beer?’

‘Nah, I’m good.’ Ray leaves me for a moment, leaves me with these feelings. When he returns with a beer for him, a juice for me, the clink of the bottlenecks, a deep swig from us both, Ray points at the screen, begins to tell me about the Ghanaian football team’s prospects in the upcoming World Cup. I nod along with his commentary and try to stay present, and still my mind drifts elsewhere: somewhere with Del, perhaps at hers with a record playing, something slow and warm and beautiful, where it’s she and I, and the time we have together. But Ray, always the brightest in every room, brings me back with ease, letting out a roar as someone scores on-screen, beginning to explain how and why the goal occurred.

As he speaks, I begin to realize that this kind of time with Ray is limited. It’s summer now and September will come and then I’ll be away at university. He’ll stay and I’ll go. I lean forwards in my seat, asking him questions. I cheer at the screen when he does. I ask more of his romantic escapades and laugh at the absurdity of his stories, let myself be warmed by his contagious grin.

I bask in my older brother’s shine.

***

Preorder Small Worlds here: Amazon | Bookshop | Grove Atlantic