Time smirks as it flicks scattered reveries at me like the boys in primary school who would crumble the corners of their erasers to aim at the back of my head. The past and the future have a bet on who can get me to snap first.

If only I could stop taking the bait, but I'm consumed by thrill at every breadcrumb and swallow it without question, only for it to reveal itself as a crystal of sodium hydroxide once I've allowed it into my arteries. Then it's too late. Yearning corrodes the chambers of my heart, until nothing but a blooded rag is left, which I'll stitch up only to poison again with the next daydream. 

Everyone but me has reached a consensus: I have to stop living in my head, trapezed in my heartstrings. How? Get some friends.

Get some friends... What banal advice.

I've always been a fool to time, but the severity fluctuates. At my best, I'll sink into my thoughts for no more than ten seconds before someone snaps me out of it. At my worst, I'll lose myself in the shower until Iya to bangs on the door and yells that I've been in there for an hour and a half and this isn't a hotel!

It was during my time as a ghost that I finally learnt the value of a minute. I'm now no less impoverished in them but at least have the awareness to know what I'm missing, conscious of a second and of a day. The red pill is best taken with bleach.

It's nice to know that if I can't I can't escape the shackles of linear time, at least I can tangle them.

It's nice to know that, after all this, I haven't lost my ease at humour.

It would be nicer if Iya thought so too, but she turns to me without a hint of amusement in the wrinkles around her eyes and pursed lips when I ask her if she reckons racism will end if Obama becomes president and if we could then move to the Buckingham Palace.

'Ziri, ça suffit. I have been workin for thirteen hours.'

I engineer a tone of shock interlaced with a childish whine. 'But I have to practice for my career as a stand-up comedian.'

She jabs a bag of almonds at me. 'This is not a career. This is a hobby for kids with rich parents.'

Despite my attempts to learn from Dal, my poker face is abysmal and giggles gush from my chest even under the sharp edge of her glare.

'I'm jokin.' I roll my eyes which earns me a slap to the side of my head. 'I ain't gonna be a comedian. If I wanted to hang out with racist homophobes, I'd join football.' Bouncing on the balls of my feet, I watch her for signs of repressed laughter, but her attention has returned to the almond price tags and I sink into the metallic shelving. 'Can we buy Parma Violets?'

The bag rustles when she drops it into the shopping basket on my arm. 'Non.'

'Pourquoi pas?'

'Parce que'. She glances over her shoulder only to have to turn around and yank the silver cross pendant from my tongue. 'Stop putting this in your mouth. This is why you're always ill.'

I apologise as she places it onto my sternum. Her fingers shift to the lavender braid in front of my ear. She runs her thumb along it with a faint smile before she forces a scowl to ensure I know she's still cross with me and disapproves of my decision to seize my final chance at well-natured teenage rebellion — she gave me permission for fulani braids, not violet ones, and my argument that she never explicitly said so and that she can't blame me for not reading the assumption of natural colours from her mind was hardly persuasive. What about school?

Who cares about school, I'd say, fully aware that I do. But despite the static in my bones that threatens to cave in any second, I stand by it. Ghosts don't have lavender hair nor braids that reach past their elbows: clearly, this is a symbol of my recovery.

With a final twist of the braid around her index, Iya turns away and shuffles down the aisle. She drags her feet though she always snaps at me when I do it. Her own locs are strewn into a haphazard knot atop her head where they're out of the way. The patches of ashen skin on her elbows are so grey, they could be mistaken for vitiligo in contrast to the rich leadwood of the rest of her skin, slightly darker than mine.

The dryness pays testament to the overtime she's worked at Westview General lately; the only nights she forgets cocoa butter are the ones she does nothing but come whisper me goodnight before she crashes into bed.

My eyes glide over the box television tuned into BBC News as she picks out tangerines. Though we do most of our food shopping at the Asda Superstore on the north side of Sufadale, which ranks cheapest thanks to Baba's employee discount, Iya refuses all fruit from chain groceries.

Barua's Market is the only corner shop in East Trough and therefore caters to everyone's routine needs, supplying everything from twelve different types of rice to screwdrivers and Pokémon cards. In the magazine rack, even iTunes gift cards have earned their peg despite the fact that there are about three people in this part of town who can afford as much as a pair of Apple earphones.

With tangerines in hand, Iya pulls me to the till with far too much determination to be intending to pay. She slaps the 250 gram bag of almonds onto the counter like a police officer displaying damning evidence to their peevish suspect.

'This is ridiculous. Last week this was three pounds and thirty-five pence and now, four pounds and fifty.' She jabs the packet at each number.

But Mr Barua is no novice to barters and remains rigid on his stool behind the counter. 'There's a financial crisis going on. They increase the prices, I increase the prices. This is how it is.'

'For twenty years, I buy from here and you never give me a discount.' Iya sucks her teeth. 'No respect.'

He flicks a wrist in dismissal. 'I do because this is three pounds fifty-five p, and for you, I make fifty p.'

'I will pay three thirty-five like last week.'

As Iya gets annoyed, her Beninese accent intensifies, just like Mr Barua's Bengali one; a minute in, it's unlikely either of them understands the other. Easing the shopping basket onto the till, I sink away to the magazine rack. Because it's closest at hand, I pull out the April copy of Vogue, Kate Moss is on the cover, and flip through it.

The bell chimes as the door is shouldered open. A pair of dusty New Balances step through and I suck my teeth.

Must you be everywhere?

Notes

Iya: (Fon* language) Mum

Ça suffit: (French) That's enough

Pourquoi pas?: (French) Why not?

Parce que: (French) Because 

Fulani braids:

Baba: (Darija**) Dad

*Fon: Ethnic group in Benin, Nigeria, and Togo

**Darija: The dialect of Arabic spoken in North Africa