Youth Interrupted...episode V

My earliest memories of my father were a collage of good and bad. As I ponder this piece I suddenly realise how understandable this idea is…this collage of good and bad I mention. As a young child, it was rather difficult to reconcile the two faces of the man I called papa. It was normal within the confines of our modest bungalow to call him that, note the pronunciation was European against the conventional African version cornily portrayed in Nigerian movies of recent. Of course, we often had to explain this to our friends, why we didn’t just call him Dad like everyone else; and why we kissed him on the cheek every time we saw him. Perhaps that is what made him so complex and yet so simple. On most Saturdays, he would sit in our airy lounge clad only in sparkling white y-fronts whilst he read Saturday vanguard; an action that earned him the nick-name fela after the late afro beat legend who fancied the same wardrobe ideology, something we only dared mention behind his back of course! But a well deserved one at that, considering how he would un-ashamedly chat with the old man next door through the fence or even greet visitors to my mother’s dismay. Perhaps this also spoke of seeming fearlessness, for my father never denied the opportunity to show this virtue when the time called for it. Jagunlabi loosely translated to mean “the fighter we bore”, is what we called him. Perhaps if he wasn’t so much so a fighter, we would have known how much pain he was in?

I was speaking to Sean yesterday and we spoke about regrets. Without thinking about it, I offered mine to be not having the relationship I wanted with my father. What is it about spilled milk that is so alluring? We often think of how we could do things properly given the chance again, yet we bungle our first times without thinking about it. Regardless of this truth, I wish. I wish I had the opportunity to tell my father how much I loved him….love him. I wish I had the opportunity to thank him for all he has given me, this priceless ness that is my talent, my looks and my life. He personally taught me to read, making me take in Abraham Lincoln’s letter to his son’s teacher in an afternoon; only confirming my absorption of this by making me recite this off the top of my head. I still remember it now. He taught to me love all culture regardless of geography, from Chopin to sunny Ade. He gave me my love for books and quest for knowledge which serves me well today. Perhaps if he had not put a switch to me when I misbehaved my story would have been different today, I am glad.

As I sit here listening to Adagio by Amici forever, I feel the great pain one would only feel when a great opportunity has passed one by. Not in the sense of issues of a mundane nature like an appointment, a bank loan or a job. No. I mean as one would feel when you hesitate to say you are sorry, or when you find out someone you have always loved has married someone else. I wish I had the one opportunity again….to see him again. To tell him everything! To thank him, to bless him, everything! I wish…

Confessions from a dance floor!

I absolutely love Madonna. Does that make me any less african or true to my roots. I know that if the odds were to see madonna or salawa abeni perform live, i'd go for madonna!! Some would argue that this remains the cause of Africa's problems, this lack of direction of its young and future; but does that also say anything about the legacy we have inherited??

In fact, she is inspirational in a sense considering her ability to move with the times, still stay relevanant and look so great! Her confessions album sold out on the first day and madge continues to conquer even though most hate her. i really should be talking about salawa here with reference to a phenomenal female entertainer but somehow her music does not appeal to me in the same way madonna's would.

This is the situation the African continent finds itself. The same way most announce with pride that their kids are at oxford of cambridge. How they declare their homes on sloane square and belgravia and so on. This betrayal of the future, the Nigerian young by our predecessors has lead us to the Nigerian question of present. i should not feel guilty for preferring Madonna to salawa abeni as this is the legacy bestowed on me and my generation by my predecessors!

Madonna's cofessions tour comes to cardiff soon...absolutely looking forward to it!!!

A study of the aesthetics of beauty...beyond the unseen!

The title above is what I got out of the BBC’s controversial television movie, the line of beauty. It’s relevance to my entry however, remains my discovery of society’s need for conformity and (dare I say) our seeming laziness to look beyond the physical. I say all of this with reference to the events of the past weeks (I kick myself for not entering all this while).

I have been terribly busy over the last three weeks working and earning money as well as gathering a variety of experiences I probably haven’t seen before. The events of the past three weeks serve as both eye openers for me as well as a provision for further insights into the complexities of living abroad with reference to the role played by perception in modern life. A couple of weeks ago, Eniola tired of her current mobile phone decided to sell it on the internet like everyone else. As it turned out, she easily got a good response from potential buyers and almost concluded sale until she realised her potential buyer was from Ogun state Nigeria which lead her to investigate further. I won’t go into detail of what happened eventually, but as we all would guess; she came this close to being defrauded of her property. My query here is of the nature of those annoying ifs. Would she have investigated further if the buyer had not been Nigerian? If perception didn’t come into play, would she have lost her phone to a fraudster leading up to a couldawoulashoulda?

In the last three weeks, I have changed my hairstyle and look three times. In the first, I had an afro and then converted it into cornrows and finally shaved everything off. The delightful results of my effort were the many comments I received, good and otherwise! However, most interesting was the week I had on the cornrows. As I rode the train into work early that morning, I stood out like a sore thumb as one would expect considering it was peak time for travel, a Monday morning and the other passengers predominantly white business people on their way to work complete with their copy of the metro or guardian in hand. That morning, as the conductor eyed me and my ticket suspiciously, it took everything in me not to burst out laughing. This same man had sold me tickets many a time and even against the rules; sold them to me at rail card price. This morning however, he was grim and unsmiling; making sure my ticket was not a forgery as my appearance might have indicated. Incidents like this went on during the week in all sorts of places (in Sainsbury’s the cashier checked the back of my card to verify me, lol). This week as I reverted to my old boring prep school look, the events from above all disappeared like a bad dream. No suspicious looks, no curious glances and the icing on the akara; no hostile looks from the conductor on the train! Did one’s outward appearance affect the perception of the immediate environment? Are all cornrow wearing young black men, robbers, rapists and murderers; or is that just my impression?

As we were not allowed overtime at work (perhaps I shouldn’t use the collective here), I took on another job. I’ll leave the details of this other job for later entries, however it’s dire nature and immediate need hold certain relevance to this entry. I finally worked in an assembly line type setting and have seen what it is like. Never again! My curiosity has been sufficiently fed. What struck me in that dire cold building was the race demographic of those present! Whilst the job was not entirely a menial one, it wasn’t a blue, white or brown collar job either. The workforce here was predominantly young white kids, Indians and a handful of black people. The opposite of what you would see in the blue collar world of service centres and stereotype office environments African’s love so much, me included. Why do we shun these sorts of jobs, ‘these’ meaning semi-menial and menial jobs whilst more and more indigenous people seem to be reverting back to them? Is this to avoid the looming poverty of our backyards or perhaps is it just the fate of reoccurrence? Perhaps it is one of those situations of the full circle mentality. Oh I don’t know….

Anyway, all that said; I think I have learnt a few lessons in last couple of weeks. Perception remains a key factor of existence in modern day society, regardless of geography. Be you the Nigerian scammer in Ogun state, black cornrow wearing gangster or sedate scholarly African student; what you look like on the outside informs the way you are received. Perhaps conformity isn’t such a bad thing then? Perhaps the Nigerian scammer was a desperate young man, seeking a method of funding his university education in Nigeria. Perhaps, the ticket man on the train that morning had just had a bad one. Perhaps Africans worked in the other factory complexes in the same industrial compound I worked in. who knows! Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps! When will all these questions be answered?