07 Jan

Namaste

It is pronounced Nam-astay, with the inflection you use when you say ‘Princess Ann.’ You can tell I had a ball bringing my hands together like this ūüôŹūüŹĹ and bowing slightly. Namaste. There is no exclamation mark, like hello! or ekaro! They don’t shout.

The airport is impressive. The culture is different, a rich kind of different. People don’t seem to make eye contact, robbing you of the opportunity to smile. I suppose there is no¬†forced politeness here. Maybe they don’t make eye contact with strangers. Maybe they are giving our eyes a chance to get used to the dimly lit room, a chance to fall in love before they start getting personal. It’s not like we blend in, even though there are skintones as dark as ours, our hair quite simply cannot disguise the fact that we are visitors from another continent.

I need the loo. They didn’t feel the need to hire an artist to generate world accepted symbols of the two genders. No. The gents loo is depicted by a large colourful picture of a turbaned male, and the ladies, of a bejeweled, bollywoodesque woman. There’s a queue. People seem to take awfully long which increases my reluctance to remain in the queue. It’s not that I can’t wait, it’s just that my fear of the collective number ones becoming number twos is directly proportional to the time it takes for each cubicle to be exited. I leave the queue as my imagination reaches new heights. We arrive at immigration and strut to the diplomatic counter. We hope the crowd can see us, that yes we are different, but not in a demeaning way. Our line has two people and not hundreds like the common majority. We spot our contact, I jump for joy. We reach the counter to receive our special treatment, for we know people in high places, you see. Then the record screeches to a halt. I hate that sound- along with metal cutlery scratching porcelain and pieces of polystyrene being rubbed together. Since we have e-visas we can’t use the diplomatic exit. We must go through the e-visa line. They are very sorry. Egos deflating, we walk to the line for commoners.

Nearly an hour later we emerge on the other side, hug our family member and go grab our 14 pieces of luggage sans the orange and black one. Once established that it did not contain our precious edible cargo, we fill in multiple lost-luggage forms and exit the impressive Delhi airport. That’s when it all starts to feel surreal. I am suspended between two worlds. Europe, which I know I left behind- the door closed softly behind me- and Asia, which though physically present in, my mind is yet to make its entrance. So it feels weird. We spot an old-fashioned car that reminds me of part daddy’s purple volga, (circa 1981) and part 1970s political movie. We are in India. The air is foggy and we meet the acquaintance of Johnny, assigned driver. ‘He speaks so well’ I think to myself as I tick for the second time in as many weeks the ‘White British’ box. The drive home invites us to draw comparisons with Africa. The shops on the sides of the road. Untarred roads. Beggars. Guys, culture is a powerful thing. There are what look like beggars looking regal as they sit turbaned in the central reservation in- please dig this- the lotus pose. We go past a large school with tons of school buses parked outside. I ask an obvious question, ‘is that a school?’- because I feel the need to speak but my brain is busy absorbing the beauty of this new culture. The billboards show a disproportionate number of military-related ads. Boeing, weapons, references to power.

The military is a major part of the country’s infrastructure, right?‘ I’m not even sure that my question makes sense but it’s 4am in the morning.

Yes, it is.

Interesting. How come?

Because of our enemies.

Cue ‘something scary is about to happen‘ music.

Who are your enemies?

China and Pakistan.

OK, people, I knew that. The whole world knows but I have never lived in a country where it’s citizens are acutely aware of their enemies. There was something about the way he said it that made Suzy and I nudge each other at the same time. The last time I heard a human make casual reference to enemy territory was when my boys played Call of Duty on the Xbox. The UK map does not have its perimeter dotted with threats of war. Yes, there is the threat of terrorism, but it does not sit on the border of Coventry and Birmingham or Skegness and Sutton on Sea. The French are rude, is the extent of our threat. They jump queues and eat too much bread.The rail network is the pits!’ Is another one, or ‘This weather! I can’t believe it’s 10 degrees in December’. Those are the threats we have as Brits. We. Do. Not. Have threats that involve boeings, guns or other weaponry. Suzy and I condense an entire service complete with praise and worship into two minutes; thankfulness that we live in a safe country, request for forgiveness for not daily acknowledging it.

After clarifying with Johnny that Kashmir is nowhere near Delhi and we are not minutes away from the Pakistani border, our conversation segues into the more palatable topic of fruit and vegetable exportation.

I will not, cannot, describe our home for 10 days. Let’s just say my mind remains blown as I write this. We are blessed to be reunited, the family under the same roof, all in excellent health for the first time in a long while. In two days we’ll be visiting some sights, Taj Mahal included. I’ll be sure to share some pictures.

05 Jan

India, we may have a problem.

India TripThe journey to the journey was an exciting, yet arduous one. It wasn’t without its frustrations- and I don’t mean the drama encountered from attempting to renew my passport. No. That drama belongs in another post and heaven forbid I drag it into this one, which deserves its own title, it’s own space and it’s own audience. Suffice to say, the Nigeria High Commission messed up my names which unbeknownst to me for the last 14 months had been poised patiently to have a knock on effect on my British Passport renewal. So we found ourselves in December 2017- toppled pieces and all- scrambling to rearrange my life.

Frustrations

Yes, we were/are/always will be happy to visit India. We have never been to Asia, but more importantly the entire family will be together under one roof! Three generations with our spouses and friends that long ago became family. What’s not to love about that? The frustrations began when I realised that impressing acquaintances with this news was not going to be an easy feat. First was Mohammed, my ex-delivery driver. Oh he was impressed alright but He is Pakistani, not Indian. Prior to reading ‘White Teeth‘ by Zadie Smith, this distinction would not have earned even blurred lines. There wouldn’t have been a distinction. It would have been a mono-truth, (like monolith, only instead of an unbroken stone structure we had structured truth) Like a glass of filtered water. No colour, no sediments, no taste. But Zadie schooled me on the importance of drawing a very thick line, a gully, if you will, between both countries. And I did so respectfully. Mohammed was happy that I was heading to India. He put on a broad smile and I think in that moment, we liked each other more. The schism between the black (wo)man and the Pakistani (or Indian) was levelled slightly with some soil. Not so much that it had become a line, but enough to stop you falling in if you crossed over to shake hands. Unfortunately, the threadbare cloak of Mohammed’s awe and respect wore off the day he told me he didn’t want to do a delivery because he disliked Chinese people intensely. Yes, all he had to do was assemble their furniture but no, he didn’t like them because “they didn’t like brown skinned people. “They”, he insisted “thought they were better than us”. That was the last time he worked for me.

More Stress

The next few weeks involved weaving a tapestry from the stress over my passport, pre-Christmas customer deliveries, (including a white nursing chair I feared would have turned brown by the time it arrived in Denmark. I mean, I don’t know how to wear a white shirt for more than 6 hours) that, and looking for people to impress with my upcoming trip. I suffered and still carry this notion that ethnic people living in England see it as a sign of respect and solidarity when another person of colour chooses to visit their home. In that moment, the visitor is seen as helping to hold up the person’s arm leaving them free to give the finger to the media who showed images of Indian children in reference to ‘world poverty’. You can just hear it. ‘Children all over the world are suffering..‘. Or, ‘Hamid has no clean water…‘ Come to think of it it was either Hamid in the rice fields of India, or Ngoya in the African plains.

Not Impressed

Are you Indian or Pakistani?” became my greeting of choice when I met suspected Indians. “Where are you from?” was the tactic I used when less confident. The previous method of informing targets that I was traveling to India did not work. I’d deliver the news and step back, waiting for them to be impressed. It never happened. Like what went down with my either Indian or Pakistani uber driver:

Me: “Where are you from?”

Him: (Heavy Indian or Pakistani accent) “London”

“Oh cool! Where are you from originally?” ‘Originally’ is slightly emphasised and my ethnic origin is starting to shift towards ‘White British.’

“Docklands. You know docklands?”

“Yes.” My stubborn streak stretches into a rather wide band, I want to impress him with my upcoming trip to India. If he is Indian. I hope he is Indian. “Where are your ancestors from?” I continue.

“I live here 17 years. Long time” long uncomfortable pause…and then; “Do you like Indian food?”

Feeling pleased. ‘India’ has finally featured in our conversation. “Yeah”, I lie. “I like Indian food. Are you from India?”

“No. How about you, you from London?”

I don’t answer.

He continues; “I have an Indian restaurant on Burnt Ash Road, do you know it?” He tells me the name.

“Ah! I know it, so you are Indian!”

“No.”

“Well, I’m going to India” I try to sound casual like a child trying to hide her feelings after being bitten by the long snake on ‘Snakes & Ladders’ This one has bluntly refused to be impressed.

“I have some menus, I give you one.”

“I’ll tell all my friends about your restaurant”

So, friends. Please visit spice Garden on Burnt Ash Lane. Done.

Next: What went down on the Flight to India

18 Jan

A World Away

I’m sitting with Ian, he’s driving. My ears are being held hostage by the radio. The song’s chorus goes; ”every time I think about you I touch myself”. Uncomfortable does not describe how I feel. Nothing does. So I do what I do best, I start to chat.

He studied Eastern European History. I don’t ask why, even though I really want to know why he chose to dedicate his future to the past of a group of people who thankfully have stolen the spotlight from Nigerians in the UK. He is Welsh, born of Welsh parents and raised on Welsh soil. I ask him what sort of career path he’ll be taking, he doesn’t know. Perhaps my question isn’t clear. So I rephrase. His answer remains unchanged.

I leave Ian in mid-sentence and mentally teleport myself to West Africa, where I arrive in the sitting room of an average Nigerian family. They’ve just finished dinner and father asks son to repeat what he just told him. Then he holds up his hand signalling to the son, to ‘hold that thought’… he calls mother ¬†to come and hear what her son is saying. Then turns back to son;

”Oya, tell us again what you want to study at University, the university that I’ll be paying for. With my own money”.

The rest of the scene is a blur so I take my leave and return to the car, we’re nearly at our destination but there’s time to chat some more. He tells me he’ll be leaving his job in 15 days to travel to South America. I ask where- eager to add my tuppence worth. I have Brazilian roots and I’m buzzing with the newfound knowledge that my ancestors first arrived on Nigerian soil exactly 100 years before I was born. My dad is our genealogy tzar. I’m blessed.
He tells me he’ll be travelling everywhere. I probe deeper. When will he be back? Because in my world people come back when they travel- usually within two weeks, four weeks tops if you’ve gone to bury a relative who had a chieftaincy title and lived long. Any more than that they’ll consider you as having emigrated. His answer reminds me he’s not from my world; for he’ll be gone for a year, maybe even two.
He did the same thing two years ago, quit his job and went travelling. Again I ask where.

”Oh you know, the standard. India, USA, Turkey”.

Standard?

I shut the heyall up. He carries on humming to the song. I don’t make the comment that’s been slowly making its way down to my mouth from my head.

Yesterday I met another one. I needed to buy a mobile broadband dongle, she looked and sounded like she would rather be in bed. The 21-year-old proceeded to take my details.

Ms or Mrs?

Mrs.

She replied in her sleepy voice, ”oh! You’re sooo lucky!”

I decide she needs some advice. A slap upside the head. A wake up call. Kick up the backside. So I ask how long she’s worked for Carphone Warehouse. ”one year”, she manages to offer. As though an additional word would send her over the edge and into Alice’s wonderland, which is precisely where she doesn’t want to go- in my opinion she’s halfway there.

So what do you plan on doing? I’m sure you don’t want to work for Carphone Warehouse forever?

No, I want to travel. Afterwards I want to finish my final year of degree.

Oh that’s nice! Where are you off to?

Australia.

What’s your degree course in?

Criminal psychology.

Sounds exciting!

Everybody says that.

She drags out ‘everybody’ so much so that the poor thing is unwillingly turned into a seven syllable word.¬†I pay for my dongle, and as I leave, I wish her well on her travels.
Oh it’s not for a while, I have to save first. I don’t even know when I’m going.

I start to tell her where the nearest Starbucks is, so she can grab a coffee. then I change my mind. It’s only 10am. I don’t need this. Besides they may not drink coffee in her world.

Joanne says I attract odd people. Like those gypsies. Did I share about the day they came to the office? And puked in the toilet? It was no small matter. Another day! Now you have to come back!

Thank you for reading!

25 Feb

Toks Goes to The West Country (Actually Beyond)

So there I sat on the coach. I arrived at the station in the nick of time and the only seats available were towards the back, a few rows away from the bathroom. I scanned the area and quickly noticed that it was packed with students which was little wonder as my destination was a university town. I looked forward to 3 1/2 hours of uninterrupted reading.¬†I’m excited about my book. The front cover has a handsome man and a pretty woman, they make a great couple. I think it’ll be a good book. The story line seems good. It was then I noticed him:

The coach is full of students but why is there an older,¬†bearded gentleman on it?¬† He is Asian and fits “The Profile”. I start to get nervous as he gets up for the umpteenth time to use the bathroom. Why on earth¬†do you need the bathroom so early, we only just left.¬†He is wearing a long puffer jacket, at first I wonder why he has to be the only one wearing a long coat, then I notice we are all wearing one but then everyone’s is short. Okay mine is long but no, it isn’t puffed. I start to type texts to dear friends and family to inform them of my impending demise. I type faster as I noticed another man a couple of rows in front¬†staring suspiciously at the¬†bearded man¬†as he returns to his seat. The minute this man sits down a younger Asian man gets up and goes to the bathroom. Five Minutes later I turn to look at the bathroom¬†to see if smoke has started bellowing out from beneath the door. It hasn’t- yet. In the meantime¬†I start to wonder what role I’ll play. I would like to be the hero. The one who tackled him to the ground. Or the one who was bold enough to voice her suspicions to the coach driver, but not the mug who blew a false alarm now labelled racist or Islamist (that’s what it should be called).

I try to settle into my book. It is promising, but too many characters are being introduced and¬†in rapid succession. I think the author should not have used names that are too similar like Melba and Shelby, it’s a struggle to keep up and I hope it’s a good read. It’s all I have with me-¬†reading Success Magazine(which I brought for back-up) sometimes gives¬†me the feeling of being at work.

Would I sell my story to The Sunday Times? Of course, I have no plans to die (not that you plan these things- except you favor euthanasia). I wonder how much they’ll pay as the hero who stopped the bomb from going off?¬† But what if I don’t make it? I’m jolted back to reality as a smartly dressed¬†man with red hair rushes towards the bathroom. He doesn’t make it and pukes right in front of the door. Ugh!! He finishes puking and stands upright looking around like a complete idiot. About now everyone is busy covering their noses. I fight the urge to tell him he needs to wipe a bit of puke stuck to his goatee. And I win, urge slowly retreats. The guy now has to walk the length of the coach to “report” himself to the driver. Wine is indeed a mocker. He says to you; “here, just a little more, so what if you get drunk? (moron)”

We make an unscheduled stop at a bus garage to have the coach cleaned. It was at this point that I had nothing but praise for the British Transport system. I remember years ago when my cousin Gbemi¬†and I had to walk miles back home from Hyde Park. It was new year’s eve (I think) and buses were few and far between. We finally caught bus 32, only to have an inebriated passenger spill out the contents of his stomach. We were all bundled off the bus and told the bus was “no longer in service” and we walked all the way home.

As I get back in line to get back on the coach, I silently pray that I don’t end up near the bathroom or near the drunk. I think everyone is praying along with me- for their own sakes. Thankfully I don’t. But I end up right behind the younger Asian man who was in the bathroom for 10 minutes. He starts talking excitedly to the young lady beside him. I hear Jesus Christ. I hear Church. Before long I realise he is sharing the gospel of our Lord Jesus with her.

I look at my book, and now¬†know where the adage comes from…

Thank you for reading, do come back!