Amanda Michalopoulou: Why I Killed My Best Friend

“Flawlessly translated, WIKMBF uses the backdrop of Greek politics, radical protests, and the art world to explore the dangers and joys that come with BFFs. Or, as the narrator puts it, ‘odiodsamato,’ which translates roughly as ‘frienemies.’”—Gary Shteyngart

“What typifies Michalopoulou’s novels is their artful structure, the stories within stories, alternative versions of the same event, an intense, introspective, sometimes obsessive, female protagonist who seeks to express herself in some form of art, characters that slip away from us just as we think we know who they are, and an unreliable narrative that is constantly being undercut, reworked, tilted at a different angle and, indeed, brought into connection with the real world.”—Vivienne Nilan

A wild animal charges into the room and knocks me to the floor before I know what’s hit me. All I see is an eye glaring fiercely from beneath a tuft of blond hair.

“Niaaar!” it roars. “I’m a tiger! I’ll tear you to shreds!”

The first graders and I have been sitting and drawing in a circle on the floor, as we do every afternoon. I’ve just gotten them under control; my reward is the dry, monotonous scuffing of pencils on paper. Natasha, one of the shyest girls, starts to shriek when she sees me flat on my back on the floor. Panos shapes his fingers into a gun and lets out a string of incoherent sounds, something between machine gun fire and spitting. The tiger pounces on him and bites the barrel of his gun. While he’s recovering from the shock, it lunges at me again, trying out a new set of roars. I look over and see Saroglou, the principal, standing in the door, one hand over her heart.

“My Lord, Maria! She slipped right through my hands. .”

I grab the girl by the wrists to immobilize her. It’s a trick I’ve learned well, how to grab a child by the wrists. “What’s going on? How on earth did she—”

“You think I’ve ever seen anything like it? Spoiled tomboy!”

“What’s she doing here?”

“She’s new. Her name’s Daphne Malouhou. The family just moved back to Athens from Paris. Her parents work long hours, and they asked if we’d let her into the after-school program. Do you think you can handle her?”

The little girl continues to struggle as if possessed. I have her by the arms, but she keeps flailing her feet in the air. She crumples Natasha’s drawing with her shoes and Natasha begins to wail inconsolably. By now the rest of the kids are whimpering, too. In hopes of calming them down, I tell Saroglou to leave and close the door behind her. Then I tell the kids we’re going on a journey into the jungle, where we’ll turn into wild animals and show our hooked claws, just as Daphne did. They start to roar like lions and slowly but surely stop being afraid of the newcomer. To add to the atmosphere, I beat a rhythm on the floor with my fingertips. A stream of memories from Africa floods my mind: suya with peanuts at the beach, imitation Coca-Cola, hide-and-seek with Unto Punto behind the badminton court.

Daphne is still prancing around bewitched, half horse, half tiger. She elbows the other kids out of the way as she takes a victory lap around the room, but her primary target is me, the animal tamer. She rushes at me, grabs both my thighs and squeezes. How strong she is! She raises her head and stares at me intently. I shiver: that same dimple in her chin. The same look in her eye. The same tenacity. All that’s missing is a white streak in her eyebrow.

“Are you going to be a good girl now?”

“Not if I don’t want to!”

“Daphne, I’m not kidding!”

“Me neither,” she says, and pinches my calf.

It isn’t so much the commotion caused by her entrance that convinces me. Or even the hard evidence: France, the dimple, the blond hair, the resemblance. It’s the pinch that does it.

“What’s your mother’s name?” I ask.

“I’m not telling.”

“Your mother’s name is Anna.”

The girl jumps back.

“You’re a witch!” she says.

“Of course I’m a witch. And if you don’t behave, I’ll turn you into a tiger for good.”

Her mouth drops open. Then she closes and opens it a few times, soundlessly. Like our goldfish, back then, in Ikeja.

I’m crouching on the lawn under the palm trees at our house in Ikeja. I’m eating something green and crunchy, using both hands because, as Gwendolyn says, you can’t catch fleas with one finger. Across from me is the stone pond with the goldfish, only it’s empty now. We can’t bring our fish with us to Athens. Where do fish go when people move? I hope they go down a pipe into the sea to find their long-lost families, and hug by rubbing their scales together since they don’t have any arms. When fish move to a new place, there are no suitcases, no tears. Mom and I have the handkerchiefs she embroidered with our initials in case we want to cry, and a shipping container for our things. Unto Punto carries everything out of the house, even my roller skates. Except for Dad’s things. Dad’s going to stay in Nigeria with the empty goldfish pond.

It’s summer and the rainy season has started. We have to leave before the beginning of the school year so I can adjust to the “Greek system.” In the Greek system the blackboard isn’t divided in half and all the kids in the class are the same age. That’s because there are lots of kids of every age. Mom says I won’t have to leave for school at five-thirty every morning. In the Greek system the schools are close to your house. So what time will I leave? More like seven-fifteen. But then I’ll be out in the heat, I’ll be all sweaty when I get to school. Oh, silly, it’s not hot in Greece. In winter people wear sweaters, heavy clothes. They go to movies and plays.

Greece is our real home, Africa is the fake one. In Ikeja there are periods of political unrest. Whenever you hear the words “state of emergency,” or “Igbo and Hausa,” or the name General Ojuku, you know there won’t be any school. In Greece there’s been democracy for two straight years, so there’s no escaping homework. Why should I have to go to school every day in a place where it’s cold? What do I care about movies and plays? I’m happy with the squash club and the Marine Club where the U. S. Marines have real Coca-Cola at their parties on Fridays. I don’t want for us to lose Gwendolyn and Unto Punto and go and live in an “apartment,” as Mom whispers to Aunt Amalia over the phone. I want to ride my bike in the house, do slalom turns around the columns, ring my bell drin-dran-drin and have Gwendolyn say, “You crazy girl! I thought someone was at the door again!” and laugh out loud, holding her belly.

Mom comes up behind me silently, grabs my hair and slaps my face twice, fast. Then she pries my mouth open with her fingers.

“What’s gotten into you? Spit it out! Now!”

A green pulp dribbles from my mouth, mixing with tears and snot.

“Haven’t I told you to never, ever eat crickets again?”

I eat crickets because Africa is my real home. Greece, the fake one.

I’m on the balcony of our apartment, crying and crying. I stuck my head through the railing and now I can’t get it out. I was just playing, I sucked in my cheeks, held my breath, and, oop, popped my head between the bars, which are as hot as the sand at the beach in Badagri or at Tarkwa Bay. Right away the floral-patterned lounge chairs sprang up before me, the banana boats and the bar that sells suya. A two-naira suya, please. With onions! Now my ears are as hot as the suya grill.