Conversations with Blessing

Once again we are on the bus. Blessing, my Malawian visitor from Scotland bought only bus passes for her 5 day stay in London. I didn’t mind avoiding the train for a change. Up the stairs, we passed a pair of prams by their young mother drivers. Sat on the upper deck of the bus, it was as if we were flying among the oak trees of South London.

Blessings Friends

‘But don’t you have any friends?’ I asked, trying to pry out of her some sort of picture of her life in Scotland. ‘Any friends from your Quantity Surveying School?’

‘No’ was her curt response, tucked in a mouth that hardly opens wide enough to let the words out.

‘No friends at all?’ I asked again.

‘Yes, I do have some friends’ she said finally.

‘Well, what are they like? Are they Malawian’s like you?’ Across the isle from us, a young teen sat under a black hood and cell phone connected to his ears by headphones with music so loud we could hear it.

‘No. One, shiz Italian. The others are from Zimbabwe and Botswana’ she said. ‘The Italian, shiz always asking me to go with her places. She doesn’t have a boyfriend but she doesn’t like being alone. That’s why she make me go with hah to the cinema some times, but I don’t mind’ she went on.

‘And the other two, the Zimbabwean and the Botswanan? Do they have boyfriends?’ I asked, fishing for drama. I have to keep prodding her with questions to keep the conversation on the move. But somehow, it is not as bother some as I might otherwise think.

‘Yes they have a boyfriend. Well, the boyfriend of the Zimbabwean is now with the Botswanan’ she said, preceding the sentence with a nervous laugh, as Blessing often does.

‘What?’ I said, glad to have finally found some intrigue in Blessing’s background. ‘Doesn’t the Zimbabwean mind losing a boyfriend to her friend?’

‘Yah, but shiz funneh‘ said Blessing.

‘Funny? What do you mean she is funny?’ Just then a tubby boy sat in front of us chomping on a greasy pack of chips. As his thick fingers dived into the tomato sauce oily pack, I wondered if his choice of food for the evening has anything to do with his obesity.

‘Well she behaves funneh‘ was all Blessing said. I had to repeat and try the question from different angles before I got some sort of an answer when Blessing said ‘I work with hah. At work she can be funneh. Like if you are toking something she will go teow the boss.’

‘You mean if you are talking about the boss she will turn around and go tell him’ I suggested.

‘Yah’ she replied.

‘Yes that is very funny indeed’ I agreed.

‘She is pregnant’ said Blessing.

‘Who is?’ I asked, getting a little alarmed. ‘The Malawian’ she said. ‘The one who is pregnant?’. ‘Yes’ she said.

Blessing told me that her two friends, wh0 live in the same house, dated the same man. The man is from Lesothu. She says most people find the Zimbabwean friend ‘funneh‘. Another funny thing about the Zimbabwean, I was told, was that she looked down upon and was disgusted at girls who got pregnant. She said it showed what they were doing. When the Zimbabweans own pregnancy began to show, Blessing said the girl said she did not know how it happened.

Blessing went on and said ‘So he did not want to be married to her because of the way she behevz. He said when she has the chaud, he can just give the beby to himu and he wew giv to hiz mother to look-u after the chaud at home. He doesn’t want to marry hah‘

‘And all the while he is with the Botswana girl? I asked and Blessing answered in the affirmative.

‘But she didn’t tell anyone she was together with himu. I just knew because the other house mates tod me’ Blessing added. ‘Even up to now, she doesn’t know that I know. She is funneh.’

I was puzzled. I inquired for clarity ‘So these two girls live together and share this man? How do they know him’

‘They are staying in hiz house’ she said.

‘Ah!’ I said. ‘And do they pay any rent?’

‘No’

‘Then is suddenly makes a lot of sense to me’

Rokia

The Barbican is a concrete jungle in the heart of the centre of London. A wide reaching forest of concrete walkways and interconnected city blocks that secretly conceal tube stations, museums and and the Barbican centre. In the belly of this labyrinth of stair cases, sign posts and old Roman city ruins, Rokia Traore was to perform a Mozart influenced live performance.

Loveness was not at the Burger King at London Bridge, as agreed. On the phone she said she was told that there was no Burger King at London Bridge (incorrectly). I swallowed my frustration and met her at her unilaterally chosen meeting place, outside in front of the HSBC bank.
We took a bus to the Barbican.

Lovenss has lived all her life in northern Malawi, except for one short visit to Lundazi, in eastern Zambia when she was five. Two years ago she went to Glasgow to study Quantity Surveying. She is small, neat, shy and speaks with a strong Tumbuka accent.

‘Rokia is an African like us. She is from Mali. She makes black peoples music. Tonight, she is taking white peoples favorite classical music, and making it black’ I preached. I find my self talking to her like she is a child for her quietness. She is 22 though.

‘But there will be plenty of white people there who like black peoples music’ I continued as we skipped over the Thames river on the upper deck of the double decker bus. I pointed out the south bank and St Pauls Cethedral.

Loveness smiled and said nothing.

Indeed there were lots of white people at the Barbican that night that like black peoples music. I could tell because many of them wore printed shirts. Very educated women in their forties donned shawls and kaftan’s and printed head cloths. Caucasian men had sandles and cotton pants. Mixed race couples were present too.

I mean black peoples music like the kind that is sung in native languages and with traditional instruments. Not the over produced chart bashing rhythms forced onto high streets and MTV. It is called African World Music.

Loveness and I had a drink outside and sat on the steps by the fountains. The evening was warm and the soft dusk sunlight dappled the creepers hanging over concrete balconies yonder and all around and above us.

In the auditorium, the lights went out, the convivial crowd died down and two shadowy forms walked on to stage. It was Rokia and a curly haired guitarist. On the screen behind them a short story was told through screen shots of bustling Bamako in black and white and a voice over narrative, in french and english with subtitles. It told of time breaking down and contemporary artists such as Amadou & Mariam, Bjork and Billie Holiday arriving at a banquet to perform at the crowning ceremony of Soundiata Kieta, the first 13th century emperor of the Mande kingdom in Medieval Mali.

The first song was a tentative and calm dirge. Rokia’s throat deep wails augmented by the languid plucks of an acoustic guitar.

Rokia wore loose cotton pants and a chinese style cotton shirt with long sleeves that drooped well past here hands. The cut across her torso was high to reveal some of her taught stomach. She is lean, short and small with a powerful neck, short hair and an eager countenance. Dark skinned and liable to charge with passion at the drop of a dime.

The songs that followed were lacklustre but powerful, with the familiar charges of her singing and chanting. Four violins and a chelo on one familiar number from one of her recorded albums. If you love Rokia’s music then you would of loved this, with classic instruments to back her up.

After three or four such numbers, her usual band took up the remainder of the instruments behind her. They were all men but her back up singer, a more voluptuous specimen whose back bone was not as flexible as Rokia’s to the pounding rythyms.

As the performance went on so did the tempo. The all man band got more assertive. Rokia and her back up singer danced more to their mildly choreographed routines. All this was inter-spliced with more screen shots of Mali and voice over doing a fantasy of the empire of Soundiata Kieta and his journey to be emperor.

Loveness was quiet next to me but not motionless in the gloom. I bopped my head as I saw fit and clapped lots.

The second to last song was ten minutes long and really rocked the house. One of the guitars looked like a wood padel, with strings strung across. The drums smashed and the electric guitarists face contorted with passion. Rokia danced and smiled like she was drugged. Just when you thought the song could not get any more hectic it went up to a higher tempo. When the song finally concluded, with a triumphant bash from the drummer, the applause was almost as long as the song.

Of course there was an encore. Rokia charged back on to the stage with her whole band of African men and back up singer. She demanded every body get up and dance. That included the white males in the front rows with white hair and bold patches. She demanded and, coaxed and cajoled until we were all on our feet, though Loveness and I didn’t need much convincing.

The final song was for all to dance. Loveness danced like she talked, quietly and in a smile way. No loud gestures and not much movement.

Rokia got a standing ovation. I was glad I came. I didn’t notice much Mozart in her performances. There were some classical instruments which worked really well on her ballads to accompany her passionate and indignant wails. But I don’t know Mozart. I do know, however, that I like everything that comes out of Mali when it comes to music.

They say Rokia came back from the western world of her fathers diplomatic circles to learn traditional Griot music and fuse it with modern influences. I love her music. I wish I could do the same with literature as she has done with music. She inspires me.

‘Did you like it?’ I asked Loveness.

‘yeah’ she said with her usual nervous laugh. I doubted the sincerity of this reply but I don’t think she was bored.

We followed the signs posts to the bus station and took two buses home.

Over the Thames river again on the bus, I saw to the east the full moon a strong orange just emerged from the horizon in the twilight. It was ochre yellow and framed squarely by the tower bridge under the moon rose over the river beyond the bright city lights.

One Love…

She took me out on a picnic in the middle of winter. Thankfully it was a warm night. She had stolen her mothers picnic basket. Up the side of the hill we could see the car park and the night lights of the sparkling city hugging the bay. Perched among the brushes, we were out of sight of other couples.

“Tell me about your last boy friend” I asked her.

“He was nice.” She began. “he used to be in that big residence on campus. I dated him the year after I quit university and started working in town.”

“He was black” I asked. For the country we were in, it was not an inappropriate question. Everyone has a color. A nation of colors.

“Yeah he was black. Black just like me”

She was wearing her hood over her head and her arms were wrapped around her knees. I could just see her cheeks peak into the light from the street lamps and her teeth bright to her brown skin.

“He was really nice. I would get back from work late. He would have cooked for me and everything. Rice, meat and vegetables. We would eat in his room and play music off his Hi-fi. He liked Celine Dion but I didn’t mind. He was really sweet. He grew up in a township in Joberg. He told me that he was the youngest boy in the family and spent a lot of time with is mum. That was how he learnt to cook so well. He even sang the songs his mother sang when she was cooking.”

“A black man cooking for his girl friend? I asked alarmed. “This is unprecedented! I don’t believe this story already.”

“Well he was real sweet” she continued. “Some times I would get back from work and find he had ran the bath for me, steaming hot with bubbles in it. I know it was just a residence bath in those skanky university residences with chipped tiles and a tiny mirror, but it was nice. He would light candles and put the music up in the his room so we could hear it. The other flat mates usually studied late at the library, anyway”

“What a charmer” I said. “Why did you ever let him go? Are you sure he was black? Maybe he was just raised by a wild pack of white people in the bush somewhere”

“Very funny” she said, not amused. Her teeth shone in the poor light.

“He would bathe me. Ever so slowly, and hum one of those songs his mother taught him. Soaping me with a rough old sack piece for scrubber and use Palmolive soap. But he was gentle and there was a lot of lather in the bath so he didn’t scratch me. I liked it. I liked the attention”

“I think I like him too, now” I joked. “What is his number? I could do with a long bath by candle light after a long day at the office.” To this she laughed and it made her feel a little at ease I think. She seemed to be getting a little serious up until that point. She hadn’t even budged in her seating position in a while. Though she kept rubbing her nose on her knees every now and then and sniffing because she was cold. I rubbed her shoulders and poured her more wine.

“You slept with him of course, right?” I asked. “Such a charming guy, how could you resist?”

With a distant look her eyes she said “Yes I did. Well, we had sex, often.”

“What was he like? I don’t mean how big was his dick or anything, I just mean, was he still gentle?” I asked though really I did want to know how big his dick was, given that he was so sweet and romantic. My guess was he was compensating for something.

“No, he was nice” she said, though being vague, as people so often are about sex. But then she went on.

“I would sleep in his bed in his room. I would not go back to my mums house in the township those nights. It was so far. Besides, my mum thought I was at my friends house.”

“That’s what friends are for” I chirped.

She continued, in a lower voice now. “He liked sleeping with me a lot. I liked it too. Really.” She looked a little shy when she said this and let loose a an embarrassed smile.

“We would have sex maybe once or twice in bed before we went to sleep. We wouldn’t talk then, or even make much noise since the other students in the flat might hear us. He could be a bit rough some times but I liked it. He never said anything when we were having sex”

“Why din’t you tell him” I said. “That he was rough.” But then she continued like she didn’t hear me.

“Some times I would get home really tired from work. It was then that I had two jobs. One doing promotions and the other recruiting students in town for sales. I would not even eat his food and go straight to bed before ten even. He didn’t mind that I didn’t eat the food. But then, sometimes he would wake me up in the middle of the night. I would tell him I didn’t want to but he would insist. At such times when we were doing it, I would feel like I was some one else.

“Oh dear” I said, running out of clever things to say.

“But that wasn’t so bad. But then once…” and she went quiet for a bit. I put my hand on her shoulder as if it would help the words out of her mouth. “Once….” she continued, swallowing heavily “I refused. I just told him ‘no’. He got upset. He just did it with me anyway. He got on top of me. He was really rough. I was so scared.” She said this very calmly, looking at the grass next to her, away from me. Her lips barely moved.

“Jesus” I said.

“He did that a couple of times.” Then she went silent for a long time. Quiet for so long, I began to take notice of cars racing along the mounting road now and then. I could hear some noises rising from the city. I began to make out vans and trucks going up and down the quay at the harbour. I did not know what to say. Then she continued “after that happened a few times…….I stopped going to his flat. I went home instead. I didn’t even sleep at my friends place nearby where my mum would think I would go. I was scared to meet him. I wouldn’t know what to say to him”

“He raped you” I said. “That is awful”. It was awful. She didn’t cry though. Then she looked at me, straight at me. I felt judged. “I would never hurt you” I said.

We packed up the pick-nick when it was getting too cold. I rubbed her hands and gave her a hug. The skin on her face was cold and so was mine.

“Men are like that” I said. “They hurt women.” And then I asked after a pause “Do you ever see him?”

“I do. He has a girlfriend now. She seems nice. They look happy”

One Wheel Off

When the alarm goes off in the morning, the first thing I do is get up out of bed, pick it up, switch it off and get right back into bed. The alarm is on my out dated cell phone. The type that take crappy pictures and have not yet heard of the internet. Sometimes I can’t find it though, and the noise from the blasted thing gets louder and louder as I get more and more impatient and awake. These are times when I have left it in the pocket of my work trousers and I can’t find the wretched thing for the sleep festering in my eyes still. At such times I marvel at the mans trousers, the ingenious puzzle, with no back or front, cavernous with countless pockets and dropping all manner of paraphernalia such as watches, wallets, pens and cards but no buzzing alarm clock cell phone. This particular morning however, I found the screaming thing on the dressing table without any problem.

 

Under dawn parlor creeping past the curtains, the debate begins. The debate in my head, that is. ‘Did I say I was going to go jogging this morning?’ I will ask my self rhetorically. ‘Yes I did’ answering my own question. Then continue ‘That is why you set the alarm for 6am you schmuck’. I will then start to search for excuses for not being able to jog this particular morning. Thinking things like ‘I can’t go jogging, I don’t know where my shorts are’ or ‘I am not that fat’ or ‘I need the rest so I can be alert at work today. Besides, I can jog tonight after work.’ But then again I will think ‘you know your too fed up from work to go jogging after and you promised you would go jogging three times this week’ and add ‘you didn’t do the big jog this weekend, or the last, and you only went jogging twice last week.’ And the mind will rage with its self, both sides knowing full well that they are each vacillating in order to allow my self to fall asleep again, which I inevitably do. Then I get up in a shock ten minutes later, worried that it is 10am and I am dreadfully late for work. Some times one side wins and I get into my vest, shorts and trainers and run out the door. Some times not. This morning went jogging.

 

This is Monday morning I am talking about. Of late it has come to be the morning of extreme panic and anxiety. Anxiety about both long term and short term insecurities. Worried about my soon to expire contract and worried about my career (or the lack of it) which quickly gets embroiled into worrying about the meaning of my life. Worry about the rent and how much money I have spent that I should not have. The Jog usually emboldens me. Gets me thinking ‘if I could get out and run for half an hour at six in the morning then sure as hell can make a plan for my life’. This, however, was not working this morning. The palpable stress had been building in my guts over the weekend.

 

The weekend did not get to a good start. Late that Friday evening, when I thought I was putting the finishing touches to a master piece Excel spreadsheet I was accosted by the nefarious boss. He roared at me, after reading my progress report email of two days ago, that I was working on the wrong cost centers making my last 5 days of effort near wasted. To rub it in, he then proceeded to lecture me about being in the real world and no longer in an academic ivory tower. “The problem with you Jumani is that you think your in an academic institution” he quipped, as he has done time and time before.

 

I dodged my house mates that evening, as I have done Friday after Friday. Their rapacious appetite for loud music and expensive drinks I have grown tired of. Not least because I can’t barely afford such outings in one of Europe’s most expensive cities. Of course they often are kind enough to cover a few drinks for me now and then. Heck they might even cover my entrance fee. But to save face on such nights I do, now and again buy a round of drinks. The bill is always galling and the pride of providing the water of life never quite matches the financial sting and indignation coursing through my blood ahead of the alcohol. No, instead I met Sheri for just one drink at a pub. Then we had Pizza Express on the south bank of the Thames River.

 

Sheri is my Canadian friend. Or as I say when I introduce her ‘she is my Canadian friend from South Africa who is Chinese from Malaysia and in London.’ Though she is genuinely Canadian. This is proved by her determination to make the world better by means of vegetarianism, social democracy and environmentalism. However, she doesn’t say ‘aiy’ very much (as they do in that movie Fargo).

She is a good listener Sheri. She will absorb all my self pity, even on a Friday night. Best of all she gives advice. She tells me what to do, how to get out of my predicament. She says ‘phone this person’ and ‘dial this number’ and ‘send that email’ and I walk away feeling all the stronger and do none of what she has instructed. This Friday night I did actually try listen to her quite a bit as well. She has a new job on the west coast as a flood managing environmentalist, though her heart is with development work.

 

Saturday was taught with anxiety. Not about my wasting life this time, however. Instead about the third installment of house party set for the evening. The house, as usual, was a mess. Shopping to be done, grass to cut, bulbs to replace, music to mix and chicken to spice. The guests came, the music was loud, I got drunk, I danced a lot, I couldn’t find any good music on my house mates computers, two boys nearly fought, Sheri left early, Laurence was stressed about disturbing the neighbors, I slept in my clothes next to a girl who also slept in her clothes with a promise never to have sex before marriage.

 

Then it was Sunday, and the house was a mess again. The hangover from all the vodka and beer was surprisingly light and perhaps a symptom of all the dancing I did. I danced with my self mostly. Laurence was gone to work by 10am. He made me jealous for a job I would dare attempt on a Sunday hangover. Instead, my week days are spent longing for Friday, and my weekends lost to dreading the approaching Monday. I tried to read a book about slavery and failed. Together with the remaining house mates and a girl friend of one of them, Barbara, we shopped for African Ndeo, cooked a pap with chicken, Delele and Rape. We watched tv, settled bills and went to bed. All of us sullen and fully aware of the inevitable Monday to follow.

 

That is how Monday came so quick. I expected to live a whole life between Friday evening and Monday morning. And when that fateful morning finally came, I felt, yet again, I had failed to live. Failed to be drunk enough, save enough, read enough and laugh enough.

 

Work today was not long though. Or my ten hours there did not feel so long. To be honest Mondays never a drag. Tuesdays drag though. And so do Wednesdays. They are in the middle of nowhere. Neither just after the weekend or just before another. Monday is still the first working day of a new week. The office was busy today. Meetings all over the place, new faces and others returned from holiday. There was Veron, the nefarious bosses private assistant to chirp everyone up with enquiries and enthusiasm for the mediocrities of your life. “Hello Jumani, how are you doing? Everything alright” she will ask, like a nurse checking in on her favorite patient. We all get the same treatment however. Again I lied to her and told her I was fine, which is what I think she wants to hear.

 

Best of all, I spoke to the boss not once all the day.

 

It rained this afternoon. Cloudy all day, and certainly raining when I got out the building. The trip home is the most pleasant session of the day for me. A bus ride, a wait at Victoria for a train and then, best of all, a train ride. An over land train, from where you can see all the builds twist and turn in a slow dance as the train winds past. To float above all the dreary red bricks and rain soaked high streets. It is the best part of the day for two sure reasons. Firstly, I can read a book right through it and always do so. Secondly, work is behind me and home is ahead.

 

The cozy mood was lost though when I found my bike, or what was left of it at the station. The front wheel had been stolen. The back wheel and frame remained locked to the pole with my D-lock. I had been visited by one of the charms of South East London. The bus driver let me on the bus with my one wheeled bicycle.

 

Tomorrow will be Tuesday.

Marble Arch

I get an hour off for lunch. I would rather spend it with Facebook at my desk but using the internet is against the rules my archaic office. So instead it is two bananas and The Kite Runner on the bench next to the Marble Arch. And I mean right next to the very arch, with its surrounding flags and traffic. A maelstrom of black cabs and London buses circling the moribund arch and its grass and benches.

The tunnel, under the traffic, up to the arch smells of urine and tourists can’t figure out which exit they want, while standing next to the gypsy begging for money. I sit in my usual spot, not quite in the sun and not quite in the shade of the tree. Hyde park is beyond, green and lush.

A loud guttural belch rocks the bench before I can take in even a paragraph. To my right is a white male, with stubble for beard and hair.

I smile and say “Well done!”

He smiles with a messy grin that reveals pink gums and teeth in a muddle.

“Thank you” replies with an English accent. A kind of blue collar accent though.

We make eye contact, that rare exercise on big city streets. There is usually a punishment for showing such weakness. This could bring on any number of unwanted experience such as conversation about the weather, the weak end (coming or gone) or worse still…the transport system. This man on the bench instead has an unusual follow up to his on usual manners.

“Your half Indian aren’t you?” he asks me.

“No” I say.

“Where you from then.” At this point in conversation I usually hesitate. Most of them not heard of Zambia. And then I explain the geography which mentions the name Zimbabwe, which brings on unnecessary alarm. “it peaceful” I assure them. But no, this man is not interested.

“Your like me” he says, smiling with his cluttered teeth and showing those pink gums. “half white – half black, right?” I smile to confirm.

“I knew it!” he beams. “Let me guess, your mums white and your dads black right?”

“Not quite” I reply. It is the other way around. “My mums black. She is from Zambia” To my relief, he is not interested in Zambia.

“I am from India he says”

There is the smell of alcohol from somewhere. The man on the other side of me on the bench makes his leave. He had only just sat down. I wonder if he knows where this conversation I am in might lead. He leaves me wondering what I have gotten my self into.

“You’re a from fucking Zambia then?” he says smiling. He says everything smiling. He has only a slight slur. He is so pale, his near bold head glistening in the sun. “You must know a lot of things then?” he says more stating than asking.

“You must know about Castro and communism” he blurts out, and takes a swig out his bottle of drink in a plastic bag.

“Well I know who he is” I reply, not quite sure what to say. But before I can add to that he says
“Castro was a fucking cunt.”
“He was I ask?” no really getting interested in the conversation. I think he noticed this because he talked about Castro a lot that afternoon. Always, calling him a fucking cunt.

“Yes he is a fucking cunt” he says again.
“Why do you say that?” I ask.
“You know why? I will tell you why, because he fucked up Cuba. He fucked it up. You there and everything is fucked up.”
“but I thought the people of Cuba loved Castro” I interject.
“yes they love him but he is still a cunt. Fucked everything up. I been there you know. I been to Cuba. Have you been there? No? Well I have and its all fucked up. Castro is a fucking cunt”

“Well he has done a lot you know. That revolution and the people of Cuba are happy right?” I ask him, trying not to let him run the conversation all the time.

“I don’t give a fuck. He’s a fucking cunt. He is Spanish you know.”

“Who Castro? Really?” I say generally surprised. Now I don’t know so much about Castro actually. Maybe there is a good bio out there I should read. And perhaps this gentleman has read such a biography or who knows, be Castro’s grand child. But still, I had good reason to be suspicious of any man in London freely dishing out conversation.

“He is from Spain. I am Spanish you know” he says, as if to validate his claims about Castro’s nationality.
“But I thought you said you were Indian” I said, hoping to catch him out.
“My mothers Spanish. I grew up in fucking Spain my man” he said.

Oh God I thought. I am now his man. How am I ever going to get out of this I thought. I had already given up on the book by now. This Kite Runner by Khaled Hosseini was not all it was hyped to be I was beginning to discover. The story, with all it betrayal and loyalty between men, looking right past all the women sidelined in the story, was beginning to seem very ordinary. So I did not mind so much chatting away with the fucking cunt talk. But he half Indian was getting very excited and animated. He was moving closer to me on the bench. Our elbows, which we both threw back over the back support of the bench, were now almost touching.

However, other encounters with strange men in big cities before have not been very pleasant. Three young men beat me and robbed me just 5 months earlier. In Cape Town two men (yes they were black) gave me such a fright I just ran. One in Geneva, who only spoke French to me, put his leg between mine and jiggled it and chanted a football song. He was amusing himself and his friends. They all laughed and so did I, though I thought I was being molested. Ten minutes after that I realized my phone was gone. But he back laughing and gave it back. That is Geneva for you.

“Castro and I were born in the same village in Spain. In the same fucking hospital. Can you believe that man. HE is a fucking cunt. He fucked up Spain. Spain was fucked up in the 40’s and 50’s man. Castro fucked it up”

Now I was beginning to wonder. Spain? Even for lunch time entertainment, this was beginning to seem rather fanciful. I took to reading the not so enthralling book about honor and betrayal.

“What you reading man” he asked like we known each other long and I replied like he was an old friend. I showed him the cover too.

“Don’t read that book man” he said. “That book is fucking shit”

“Really” I asked, genuinely looking for his opinion.

“Don’t read that shit, I will tell you what to read” he said. I knew he hadn’t read this book. It was just an opening for him to tell me what book he has read.

“I will tell which book to fucking read. Read this book by Herman Hesse. Its about the guy who started Buddhism. Can you fucking believe that? It’s a great fucking book. Read that book. Fucking read it! I am telling you man, it a good book, a great fucking book”

“Ok I will read it”

“Write it down” he said. Through all this he smiles, showing his pink gums. I smile too, with a slight frown. A frown in part because I can’t believe this conversation but in part from the bright sunshine making a rare July appearance. I take out a piece of paper, some old boarding pass that is doubling as a page keeper. He spells the name and title for me. Siddarta by Herman Hesse.

He then proceeds to prattle on about how good the book is. He mentions no other book, except one other book by Herman Hesse he says he has half read. But still “Read that fucking book”.

Just then the hobo spread-eagled on the grass in front of us come to life. His long unkempt beard and hair like an extension of the grass under him. His skin red from drink and exposure to the sun. He too has a plastic bottle of something cheap and foul in a plastic bag. It says on the side in bright red ‘$2.35’.

Then my half Indian friend says “He Mick! You want a fag man. I will give you a fucking fag.” In response Mick only grunts.

Mick is slowly coming to life. Freeing himself from the grass. It is a struggle. The grass is pulling at him, holding him down. The Mick fumbles through his untidy clothes of red sweater and scraggy trouser. Both too big for him and decorated with bits of dead grass. Mick pulls out a cigarette finally. I see that my Indian friend is rolling his own cigarette from a bag of Tobacco.

“Mick, you want a fag man?” to which Mick replies in grunts. It seems Mick only speaks in grunts. But the Indian man understands what he wants. Mick wants a light. Mick collapses back into the grass. The grass has won. The Indian gets off the bench, bends over to light Mick’s cigarette and returns to my bench. Sitting even closer to me this time. I am glad that my wallet is in the opposite pocket from the Indain.

The conversation goes on about cunts and bastards. The English are arrogant he says. They want to build an empire. I told him their empire has already crumbled. He smiles. He does most of the talking while I point out little things from his already long list of observations. He is pleased by these interjections. He taps me on the shoulder in appreciation. We are like brothers now.

“Religion is the root of all evil” he said when he denied being a Budhist (since he like the book by Herman Hesse so much).

He had opinion about many things. He said I was intelligent, that is why he liked talking to me. It made me wonder where people get the notion that I am intelligent. I cannot not escape this ubiquitous assumption people make about me.

The Indian told me he would visit a whore house later. “Only twenty pounds in Soho, man.” He said there were lots around. He would take me if I wanted, which was where the me getting robbed would take place I thought.

Many people had sat next to us and left in the mean time. I think in part to escape the site of two strangers having a conversation in a city. A girl sat next to me across the bench. She ate a sandwich and read a book

“Look at those tits man” he said, not hushing his voice enough. “You can have that whore for free man. Go tell her you want to suck her tits” he said.

I looked at her and considered sucking her tits. Then I considered asking her. Then I turned to the Indian and said “I would rather not”

“C’mon man!” he said. He smiled some more, showing more pink gums and his tiny teeth. How could some one so pale be from India and Spain I wondered.

“Ok I will tell her” he said and stood up. I jolted into action. I was smiling and indignant, feeling embarrassed already.

“No!” I protested. “Sit down I said.” I had just met the man and already I was policing him like a younger brother. Yet he is thirty. He told me so, right before I told him my age. “twenty six” I said, feeling silly for telling the truth to a stranger.

“Look” I pleaded. “Some people just like to sit by themselves and not talk to any one for lunch, just like you said.” I was using his own wisdom against him “they stone wall you as you said.”

“Ok I won’t” he said, very pleased with himself. “I like you”

Later a middle age couple in sun glasses sat next to him. They were from Spain. And would you believe, the Indian spoke Spanish to them. Not well, but the had a whole conversation. I got up to leave.

“Nice talking to you” he said. My name is Antonio”

Craig’s Welcome Back

The Next Morning.

On the couch asleep is Barbara, her face to the wall and wearing her clothes from the day before. Her permed colored hair a mess. Curled up on the two tiny foot rests next to the couch is Craig, also asleep like dutiful watch dog. He had not left her side all night. The floor was stained with innumerable spills and smudged and littered with smashed crisps. 5 distinct burns in one area under the table where the coals fell off the hubbly-bubbly on to the carpet. Irreparable damage. On the screen door at the height of a grown mans face is an oily face smudge. Empty and half full beer cans populated every surface. Outside, a greasy braai stand still stands surrounded by fallen and broken garden furniture, carpet flattened grass, chicken bones and countless cigarette buts. On the ottoman sleeps Laurence, wearing jeans, jersey zipped up to the top and sneakers.

Craig and Laurence both have their own room but were both, one way or another, forced to lodge in the living room. Craig didn’t sleep in his room because the girl he was after didn’t sleep there. On the other hand, Laurence didn’t sleep in his room because a girl he was not after slept in his bed, naked.

I came down from my room to the sound of laughter. Augustine and Cockaroach were just leaving (more on where they slept later). The chuckling wouldn’t stop. I thought it was about Augustine and his amorous endeavors from the previous night. Augustine bid farewell saying “Thanks for the party guys, now I need to erase my memory”.

But no, the jokes about Augustine had now moved on to Eric. Eric told the joke.

“I woke up, thinking my chick was in my bed” he said, with a comic smile on his face. “I was butt naked and I put my arm around her and thought “this is a rather thick arm. This chick has got huge muscles” but then I realized” and his eyes lit up and this point and he said “This is not my chick, this is Augustine!” and we all broke out into laughter, even though Craig, Barbera and Laurence, now awake, were hearing the story for the third time.

Craig winged “Ah, you chi-Eric, showing us your bums like that!”
“What? I didn’t show you any bums?” Eric denied.
“After you finished with your ka-chick up stairs, you came and worried us with your pants half way down your bums last night.”
Eric turned to me asked “ah sat, was I that drunk?”
I raised my eye brows at the stupid question and said “you came down here with your shorts half way down your bum, no bambas, showing the crack of your ass. You were dancing to Salsa, body slamming the two girls on the ottoman and did a kapwa-era dance that nearly broke the high-fi when you fell”.
“So that is where the carpet burns on my elbows and feet are from” Eric said as he examined his wounds closer. He had thought he got them from the rough sex he had on his flayed mattress.
“Good! You must learn” said Craig with a smug smile.

Indeed that is how we spent the rest of the day, laughing and telling stories, while ignoring the state of the house. Instead we rummaged about the debris, and picked at old crisps and drank the extra beers. All the stories about the night before, the hilarious solecisms and shameful debauchery were told and retold from different angles and by different peoples. Each version some how more hilarious than the one before. Oh, how we laughed!

We had to try keep our voices down however, as we were not sure who was still in the house. At that stage we were not sure that Augustine and Cockaroach’s partners for the night had left. We thought they were still sprawled out in Craig and Laurence’s beds. Indeed, the most juicy stories and hilarious recollections were about the adventures of the two girls we thought to be still lurking and sleeping about the house. But the whispering only made the stories more juicy to tell. For an hour we hissed and giggled before it transpired that they had left long before any of us had woken up, though some time after the last of us had fallen asleep. This explains how Augustine came to be in Eric’s bed. With his partner gone so early, he saw no need to return to his bed of the night, and so after the toilet he simply got into the nearest bed, Eric’s. On the other hand, I can’t help but suspect that Augustine took some sort of comfort in sharing a bed with Eric, who had no clothes on.

The Party

“Look at the garden” I said trying to reconstruct a chair. “To think we worked so hard to clean this place.”
“You know, it’s the only thing that gets us to clean the house, these parties” said Eric.
“Ya but then the house is only cleaned once in every two weeks. And then the place gets trashed straight after”
“Even now” Craig agreed, still sitting next to Barbera.
“Jumani and I even went shopping an-all. Eric with his sickness managed to clean the bathroom. Ol-Juma did the kitchen. I don’t know where Laurence went”
“Ah, rubbish” hissed Eric.
“But what was that rubbish you bought me” Eric interjected with an insolent scowl on his face. “bloody Sainsbury’s Brandy ek sê. Even if I was sick ek sê, I can’t be drinking that shit.”
“boeta I am telling you, that is all there was except for bloody twenty year old brandy for thirty pounds” replied Craig in his most Zambian of accents.
“Even now! That would have been better.” Winged Eric.

In the mean time Laurence loaded a song on to iTunes and Eric, now sitting outside in the sun said “What is he playing now? Not Symphony of Sorrowful Songs again?” and let out a goofy and haughty laughter. Laurence has a CD titled Symphony of Sorrowful Songs, a classical piece by a Polish composer that he has only ever played once. Eric though, will not let him off the hook for it. Any CD Laurence puts in the machine now gets a retort from Eric “Not Sorrowful Songs again!”

“and Laurence with that ka-dance of yours?” jibed Barbara, still sitting next to Craig.
“His face looks like he is in pain when he does it.” Eric said as he proceeded to imitate Laurence’s all shoulders and furrowed eye brows dance.

The Party Pair

“Ya, but what about those two chicks who showed up drunk? Did you see them dancing? Two weeks ago no one danced until after nine. This time there was dancing at six already!”
Craig, while smiling at Barbara added “You mean Evelyn and what’s her name…..Jane. mmmmmh!, but no, it was too much man. Even if it is for being drunk. Like that? So early!”
“Yahgh, you want chicks to come sober” protested Eric. “They were just not hot. That’s all. But I was so excited. I met that ka-Evelyn item on Facebook. I tuned her come to the party. And when she said she was bringing her friend Jane, I was like yahhhh, it is on.”

To me, the pair seemed quite sensible when they arrived. I did think they rushed it to dance a little, but Ntheye and Odemi were all over the floor too, as well as all over each other. They were friendly, and made a point of going around to talk to every person present, in some ways they didn’t stop there. I had a good talk to each of them when they accosted me at the braai stand after Augustine had absconded his duties as chief braai master (a duty he somehow gets at every braai he goes to). One of them is a qualified psychologist. The two had only met recently at church. The mention of church of made me very weary. Never the less, I think this is point at which Jane gave me the opening to ‘Lay it on thick on her.’ As usual, I was not up for the task.

By midnight, the two girls were walking into things, guys included. I was not surprised to see half Jane’s face inside Cockaroach’s mouth on the couch, as Ntheye and Odemi continued their body swinging genital gyrations on the dance floor. In the mean time, Evelyn garbled nonsense conversation to me by the stairs through her red wine stained teeth. I knew at the time that it was my opportunity to take to my room. But something in me held back and the demons in me were disappointed.

At one point Cockaroach, Augustine, Evelyn and Jane were paired outside in the dark (the outside light chose this night to give out).
“They are doing it in the grass!” screamed Eric, genuinely alarmed. In matters of uncomfortable sex, Eric feels great empathy. Eric brought fornicating pairs in, gave them condoms and sent them upstairs to the bedrooms. Of course he was careful not to let them use his room, but mine and Laurence’s instead.

Morning turned to afternoon. Stories we told. Fresh stories, delicious like hot buns on a Sunday after church. Not yet cold, the house not yet clean. We would not leave single incident without reflection. Anything that was laughed at the day before had to be laughed at again. Every bit of gossip had to be gossiped to its bear most bits. We told and retold these stories like a wood carver polishes a master piece.

Ntheye and Odemi

“What about Ntheye yesterday?” opened Craig, from the garden chair next to Barbera’s garden chair.
“Eish! the brother was something else yesterday. The way he was dancing with that ka-chick.” I said.
“What was her name?” asked Laurence.
“Odemi” said Eric with another haughty laugh. “Those Nigerians! I can never.”
“I mean, she had her ankles on his shoulders” commenting on the way Ntheye and Odemi had danced. “I just looked at the dance floor and saw her shoes by his ears. I just thought oh-finish” said Craig with a chuckle. “boeta you know he almost dropped her uh?. He was dragging her head on the floor!”

“And didn’t people worry me” I said. “Every little thing, I had people asking me this, asking me that. “Jumani I need a drink. Where are the glasses? Where can I put this? Do have a number for a cab?”  Even shit that had nothing to do with me. Like when Ntheye and Odemi hooked up in the bathroom”
“yauh, yauh, yauh” laughed Eric.
“Why couldn’t those two just take a room. They even queued for the bathroom on the steps” said Craig.
“Well, people were certainly queuing on the steps when they were in the bathroom”
“So now for some reason, peeps decided that I was the only one who could tell Ntheye and Odemi to use a bedroom, my bedroom for that matter” I complained, not for the first time either.
“We knew that you would agree. Besides, he is your friend” said Eric.
“Ya” I said “Ntheye is my boy. We go way back. If he wants to use my room, he must use my room. But it had to be me to knock on the door and tell them to stop their ejaculation and ecstasy and relocate to the bedroom. I didn’t want to see that shit. I would be scarred. Thank goodness they had the sense to move on their own accord before I was forced to move them.”
“Don’t tell me about being scarred” said Laurence. “You not the one who saw a naked woman in your bed. And Augustine, he still had all his clothes on!”
“That shits just not right” I said.
“Yaaah, what about the other two. I found them, the chick was fully clothed and Cockaroach was butt naked.” Laughed Eric. “I shouted at them “what are you doing!” that is not how your supposed to do it. Your both supposed to take yo clothes”
“I scheme you just like sex too much you” snorted Craig.

Zani and her Crew

“What about you Craig, what did you say to Zani to piss her off so much” I asked as I made a half hearted attempt to tidy the outside deck in the back yard.
“I don’t know. I didn’t tune that ka-chick anything”
“yaah, she kept on saying how she was pissed off with you” said Laurence.
“She kept on saying “tell your friend Craig I don’t like him. He’s stuck up””

Zani had made a strong showing at this party, as she had done two weeks before. Not the first to arrive this time though, and without her friend Nomsa. Zani brought with her Ntsiki, looking more on this second round with new dreadlock extensions. Zani brought her bubbly Greek boyfriend Versellus and a very friendly South African Indian girl called Rakhi. They had been to a braai already before they showed up, and when they left at 11pm they were off to some club or something in town. The energy some people have on a Saturday! Not that she wasn’t welcome. Not at all. Heck, without her, there would be no black South African girls at the party. Unacceptable. In such a situation, how would Laurence get with any girl?

“No but Craig, what did you say to that item for her to be so pissed off with you?” I inquired.
“Nothing. I didn’t tune that chick nothing.”
“You must have said something”
And then Craig continued “But her boyfriend. That own was irritating man. He was all over the place talking nonsense. I even had to ask him “what are you doing here, who are you?”
To this, Barbera, Eric, Laurence and I screamed “WHAT!?”
“You can’t tell someone that” Eric said, as Laurence laughed.
“Now I know what you did. Or rather what you did to her boyfriend. How can you ask an own that? Eish, she hates you now, properly”

All The Pretty Girls

“Mmmmmh, I am hungry. I didn’t even get to eat any of that chicken man” growled Eric. “Did you have any?”
“Nope” I said looking quite forlorn. “After all that marinating and braaing. I braaied a span! Didn’t even get one piece. Did you get any Craig?”
“Yah, I had one. It was Ntheye and Augustine who clapped the chicken. They had like two-three pieces each”
“And that chicken looked so lekker man” moaned Eric. “And I didn’t get any of my potato salad either” 
“Well, lets make another one” I suggested.

I then proceeded to defrost and cut up another chicken. I spiced it with olive oil, tandoori powder, coriander, soy sauce, vinegar, salt and diced onions. Though not as good as the one Craig marinated for the braai, it looked pretty and taste nice and spicy. Eric put together another potato salad. Short time, we having another little braai with the left over beers.

“But there were chicks yesterday” chimed Craig, chewing on a red piece of chicken and sat next to Barbera.
“Too much choice.” Eric said. “Owns couldn’t focus.”
“Well you couldn’t focus, you were all over the place. One moment you were with your Veronica chick, that tall thing, the next you were worrying that Tareez item” I said.
“But ek sê your ka-chick is tall! You look like a puppet next to that thing. And she is so clumsy. Her shoe kept flying off, every time she stepped out side”
“And her hands are so big.” I added. “When I handed her a glass, her fingers wrapped right round it”
“There are other things that disappear between her fingers” Eric added.

And indeed there were quite a few girls. Some pretty things among them. For one there was Michelle. Eric was harping on about Michelle all the day long and about how if he wasn’t so busy with Veronica and trying to talk to Tareez, he would have had her “one time.”

Michelle is Karl’s cousin, a colored from South African who spent her teens in Australia. Makes for an interesting accent that fits with her cute face and little body. Another of Karl’s cousins, Laverne, made a return appearance, though she was less lively this party round. The rumor is that she has a crush on Laurence, and so perhaps the ill advised caution that comes with a crush got the better of her.

There was the surprise appearance of Candice, the popular dame from two weeks before. How boys had queued up to talk to her two weeks ago. She had promised unequivocally not to show up this time around. That she had to catch up with her life. But somehow, perhaps after suitable cajoling on the phone from Laurence (one of his many talents) she showed up. Just like that! Curly hair, pink lips, long face and all smiles in the living room. I wasted no time and sat my self right next to her, having learnt the hard way a fortnight ago. She immediately swore to me that she would not drink or eat and would be leaving soon. Of course, she had said the same things at the last party too, but she seemed determined to hold to her convictions this time around. After much oblique charm from me, as well as outright begging, I convinced her to have a glass of wine and mingle with other girls, where they talked diets and other indolent things.

“You chi-Eric. Just when I was about to escort Candice to the bus stop nicely, you landed with your “don’t go home yet, stay at the party” vibes” I blasted Eric.
“Yaah, you can’t just let chicks go home, they must stay” said Eric.
“And then there was Therese, who I was talking to nicely on the couch. The moment I got up you landed and started your own vibes. Like you don’t have a chick”
“Well you had your chance with Candice.”
“No but, Zani set me up nicely with Therese. Everything was going smoothely until you showed up.”

And somehow, Eric is never far when I get talking to some pretty thing.

Never Again

Oh the party was too big. It was too much. I was overwhelmed on the night. Drunk girls, carpet burns, marijuana (Eric and Craig’s ex-neighbor showed up courtesy of Karl and proceed to roll joints on the floor right be the stairs) and sex in my room by multiple couples of which I was never a member. The neighbor, who we have no christened 3 Doors Down, gave me a long speech, pointed and gesticulating his points with his middle finger about how he would get in touch with ‘the unit’ and the police and have us thrown out if we made noise like we did three weeks ago. He made big points like “these houses are close together” and “people want to sleep at night and wake up in the morning.” Things I could never think of.

Ali poured half a bottle Jonnie Walker whisky into a mug of ice and downed it like a beer. He was upset about something. He told me what, but the truth is I didn’t hear a word. No one really understands what Ali says. He phoned us on that Sunday and we kept passing the phone around because we didn’t know what he was saying, which nearly brought Barbara to tears in laughter. He just speaks so fast with his hard Zambian colored accent. The seed that must have planted his marriage proposal to Sara, the only other white South African present. Linia showed up with her two timid friends, Timira and Jullie, who, though full up with smiles, only managed to talk among themselves, except for that brief encounter with Candice on the diet conversation.
Most people had left by 11pm, many of them to go to something else, like Ntheye and Odemi who proceeded to party at a club somewhere until day light. But the absolute highlight of the evening, which came at about midnight was Augustine…..

BANG!!

“What was that?” I yelled. I was in the kitchen. The bang was so hard the cutlery in the kitchen rattled. Everyone’s eyes lit up in alarm. I thought maybe 3 Doors Down had thrown a large boot at us. But the noise came from the living room. I dashed in, and so did everyone else. I mean everyone from all over the house. Couples stopped kissing, others woke up, Eric abandoned his girlfriend in bed and rushed downstairs. And there stood Augustine, behind the glass screen door, holding his nose with both hands. Right in front of his face was a huge oily smudge on the glass where he had smashed his face as he walked into the screen door. He was in pain and we all fell on the floor laughing. We laughed about it all through Sunday. And now, when I look at the smudge still on the screen door, I can’t help but chuckle to my self.

House Party

Would they come we wondered. The house vacuumed, the lawn mowed, beds made and even a special selection music playlist loaded on to the computer upon the music system. For three young men, only the prospect of girls arriving and being put under the influence of alcohol could cause such effect.

Would they come. Out here in East Dulwich, or is it Peckham Rye? We could not say “Peckham Rye” though. Or rather, we could not say “Peckham”. That part of the name scares many London people off. It being the place synonymous with shootings and poor black people. That is why we say East Dulwich. In truth we are as close to East Dulwich as we are to Peckham, Lewisham or Camberwell Green. The last two however, are also associated with poor black communities or recent teenage shootings.

We contemplated the guests being scared off by the Peckham Rye High street, where the overland train from London Bridge runs to. The colorful street has an explosion of vegetables on side walk stalls featuring plantains, yams, tubers, cassava and all manner of west African foods. Not to be missed is the profusion of African lady hair salons, with endless hair plaiting, men’s barbers shops shaping Afros, cells phone apparel stores, butchers with their carcases hanging on hooks and an African restaurant with plastic chairs and linoleum for table cloths detailing a short list of Nigerian dishes. Throngs of people march in either direction of the street or cross the street dodging buses 343, 12, P12, 63, 363, 37, 197 and shiny coupes driven by young brothers blasting the latest Timberlake hit single out his sub woofer.

Or maybe they would not come because to get here, most people need to take at least an underground train, an overland train and then a bus. People get attached to their underground lines and the bus routes. For some accustomed to taking the Jubilee line everyday, for instance, to make use of a Metropolitan line, leaves a bad taste and all the trepidation of having to travel some place foreign and unfamiliar. But indeed it is unfamiliar to most, it is South East London.

But who are these people who are unfamiliar to South East London. Well, we are for a start. Eric, Laurence, Craig and I. We scoured London, and its rent property websites, hunting for a balance of location and rent for 4 bedrooms. Of course our first reaction was “Peckham?!” But when we saw the place our preconceptions about black crime in south east London melted and we were charmed by the park next to, the oak trees and neat backyard.

In came the black South Africans, three girls, one with her Greek boyfriend. Later followed the Eritrean, who was one of the few to come with his own car, though got a little lost on the way. A little after that came the one they call Plumb, who goes back to Eric and Craig’s partying Cape Town days. This made for a cosy crowd, sat on the wood deck outside in the sunshine, eating most of the chips and nuts before even half the other guests have arrived. The house had ‘house party’ written all over it. We said “yeah it is peckham but think of all the house parties”. And we did not stop thinking. We went further than that, we moved in with in a week and then began inviting people to a party.

We did wonder about all the noise we expected to make. For this reason Laurence and I went to the Jamaican family next door to apologise in advance. The man of the house, who looked no older than us, through his heavy Caribbean accent gave us a polite and baffled thanks. With in 20 minutes of that the Jamaicans put on their music so loud we thought it was coming out of our house. They also had a braai of their own going which smoked out our back yard before we had even committed match to charcoal. It mean listening to their hip-hop and ragga combination.

Speaking over the dinn from the Jamaicans, conversation got going, but slowly at first. Idle chatter, a little dry on the banter with a few too many odd silences, if you can call it that with the noise from next door. But the phones were busy. Eric, Laurence and I getting texts of people lost or double checking the train stop or bus number. Apologies from people who never expected to come anyway.

And then the people began to walk in. Sheri, my Canadian friend who’s family is from Malaysia and are Chinese in origin and who has spent 3 years in Cape Town. She brought her vegie burghers with her. We don’t pity her obscure and narrow preference on food. Indeed she is making good progress, having worked her way up from vegan. One day, she will be chewing on raw chicken bones like the rest of us. Though her entrenched concepts of green peace and love might be hard to over come at first.

I met Ntheye at the bus stop round the corner. He was a surprise. I hadn’t heard from him in a year since Cape Town and longer since before then. He phoned me up over the week, when I did not even know that he was in London and he said “I hear your having a party this weekend, where you at?” A real keeper he is. For parties anyway. You can be sure he will mop up any girls deemed to not be getting enough attention. When I turned in to bed at 5am completely drunk I was shocked to find him snug in my bed-the big black man that he is! I had secretly been hoping it would be a pretty girl in her underwear and so the contrast was quite alarming.

Ntheye got off the bus in the company of Candice. It just shows how the boy does not waste time. On the bus trip, he had already figured out that she too was going to the party, from the printed email she was reading, and proceeded to get to know her before he had even gotten the party. Candice wore a purple top, with large wood bead necklace and let her relatively short colored hair curl away around her pretty face. She was arguably the dame of the party. Boys queued up to talk to her, and I was in line more than once. And once a boy got into conversation with her, they did not let go easy. I was one of those too. Candice had declared her departure at 10pm, though she was still at the house after 1pm. Boys had persuaded her to stay a little longer enough times. She loved the attention. Eric made a late entrance into the Candice market. It took him a good Jameson after 9pm, after all the beer, before he muscled in. He kept a short leash on her and did some impressive Salsa dancing with her.

It is not a good idea in my opinion, to let give a lot of attention to the pretty girl, by queuing up to chat. It is not an efficient strategy on the whole. This way market players spend all their energy competing among each other over one girl, while letting a lot of other less glamorous specimens go by, even though they could be a lot more responsive to the boys “sweet nothings” whispered into their ears. This way, the pretty one softens up too, after feeling a little left out. But boys will be boys, and true to form, there was no overall strategy.

However, there was Anna. A friend who studied with Laurence in London, the precocious Russian at age 22 is an economist for the power house investment bank Goldman Sachs and daughter to some very big suits in Russia. Erics eyes lit up on hearing this and he declared to Laurence and I the next day that he would marry her. His interest was sparked already however, when meeting another guest at the bus stop, he noticed her straddle passed reading directions off a printed email. Her cute face and long “bum tickling hair” and the very fact that she is an “eastern blocker” as Eric puts it, made her irrisistable for Eric. Anna though, was more successful at getting away by 10pm. More evidence that the boys need more team work.

Other characters were Nerice, another connection through Laurence and another colored from Durban, Candice and Eric being the first two. Nerice studies International Law at Kings and worked with Laurence at the UN. Patrick arrived eventually, with two other boys, John and some guy I only got to know as “the German” (or was his name Scott?). All three of them studying economics or politics in London. John wore what Eric called pajamas and he trapped whole crowds of people in the kitchen with his diatribes on American politics. I caught Nerice in this web, unable to move for the importance of the speach. She moutedh and gesticulated to me in a conspicuous manner “get me out of here”, where upon I yanked her out the kitchen. John was hands down the most geeky person all night and generally quite funny. Eric thought he was suffocating when he laughed though.

Veron Grant, a friend of mine from work showed up with her “partner”, as she calls him, a tall quiet gentle man who is ever eager to smile. Veron makes up for him for being loud, a little haughty and always up for a laugh. Indeed you can hear her laugh from any corner of the office all week. A second generation Jamaican whose real money comes from property brought with her three Czech teenagers, who rent from her on their exchange program here in London. True to Veron form she told them “that boys is the only drink your going to have all night so you best drink it slowly!” with her commanding London accent. Of course they drank lots more and had the last of Eric’s cigarettes.

Other boys came in late, and without girls as usual. Also without booze I seem to recall, which probably explains the empty fridge the next day. After 11pm came Duncan, the only thoroughly British person at the house party and actually from London. The muscular freckled red head is pleasant, mildly funny for much effort and seems to be recovering well from being a christian in years gone by. Marlon arrived even later, wit his better (and it is all agreed – pretty) half Maryola. I suspect her generous cleavage is what gets boys so envious of Marlon, the thin colored Zambian that he is. Ali and Karl sauntered in after 10pm, with Karls causin Laverne, the tough talking, gold toothed and tatooed little fire brand. This rejuvenated the mood after some heavy chick departures. Ali’s colored accent is hilarious and I have come to know that after I had passed out he did his famous belly rub dance to an old Zambian hit song called “Chankelewa”. Ali is like a very muscly Humpty Dumpty in build, and so an swift moves from him mixed with rhythm are bound to be tummy-ache funny.

Some braaing did take place. I spiced up a couple of chicks and other contributions did go over the charcoal out on the grass, that Eric and I worked so hard to cut and give a bad hair cut. Egg salad was put together by Eric and Nerice, the two Durbanites that they are. Coupled with Anna’s plumb tart and Filmons roast chicken we did have some grease to mess our fingers with. Most of the food was gone by about 8pm though. I think some guests never even knew there was a braai. Sheri did well to spill red wine on the carpet, and that was not the only stain on the carpet.

When darkness came we moved inside, closed the doors and put up our on music for a change, at a ridiculous volume. To my shame I danced lots and with no one in particular, though not for a lack of effort. Eric continued with his grip on Candice’s attention while other chatted to the few girls left at the late hour. There were Taxi’s and numerous escorts to the bus stop. I faded at about 3am on the couch. I was told after that Eric put spit in my ear. Karl’s bunch slept over but were gone by the time woke up later on the Sunday. Marlon, who can never hold his liqueur, upset Maryola for being so incapacitated and had to be carried out the house into a cab by one of the larger boys.

Sunday morning came. The house was dirty. The fridge was empty and the yard was a mess.

Thiloshnee

An overgrown hedge. A small wood gate with three colorful balloons pinned to it as a sort of party beacon. We are late, Laurence and I. All the way there while hopping on and off buses and trains, we had been dreading her wrath, for being so late. I had told her we would be there at about 6. Laurence then said 8, and sure enough it was after 9 before we knocked on the door.

On previous weekends, there have been countless missed appointments and cancellations. Weekends over subscribed to engagements, many of which we could not make and many others we really never had any intention of attending. But typically she, Thiloshnee, tells us where to go. She buys the theatre tickets or sends us the link to the gallery. She tells us where to be, and we agree out of some sort of duty.

Thiloshnee and Laurence studied economics together on a masters program in London. I still see her as Laurence’s friend more than mine. Indeed, their friendship is a complicated one. Not only does she confide in Laurence, with long tales of insecurity and anxiety, but they also get at each others necks, each claiming the other to have proved to have been less than a friend. All this, however, does not transpire in front of me. Though Laurence will confide in me his frustrations with her, Thiloshnee is never less than charming in my company, all smiles and perhaps even a little coquettish, entertaining even my most daring of conversation turns which, to be frank, peeve many people.

One incident that did labour Thiloshneeand Laurence’s friendship was over one of her many organised events. Thiloshnee had bought two tickets to see a classic 1970’s film of Feodor Dostoevsky’s Crime and Punishment at the Barbican to see with Laurence. Laurence, less than thrilled at seeing this three hour epic, as usual we agreed to out of our usual duty to Thiloshnee’s events. However, Thiloshneewas subsequently offered a ticket to join her boss (she works for a big city firm) to watch a Chelsea football match that very Saturday afternoon Crime and Punishment was showing. Of course, though this movie outing was all her engineering, she had to oblige any social ventures her boss, from that important city firm, puts together. More over, these are Chelsea football match tickets, something so scarce and precious, often money cannot buy it and the professional classes of this city fall over themselves for them.

This is how I was roped in, to take her place on the two tickets for the film. And this is how, out of our duty to Thiloshnee’s social scheming, to which, to be honest, we owe much learned social enjoyment, Laurence and I found our selves booked to see a three hour long film neither of us were very keen on. On the other hand, Laurence and I, on our interminable hunt for better but affordable accommodation, had a number of houses and flats to visit that very afternoon, all across east and north east London.

It was of little surprise then to Laurence and I, given our itinerant ventures that day viewing possible accommodation, that we completely forgot about the movie, for which we had 2pm tickets. Only when Thiloshneephoned Laurence later in the day to inquire about the film did Laurence realise out transgression. Caught unawares, he was unable to straight out lie and claim to have seen the movie with me and enjoyed it (a strategy we thought belatedly would have been best). He was also too off gaurd to contain the emotional fall out on Thiloshnee’s part. An argument ensued between them, with both sides slinging mud. Thiloshneeclaimed to be an unappreciated friend for all she does and Laurence (he could not help playing this card) pointed out the irony in Thiloshnee feeling stood up over an event she herself did not attend after having organised it. I am sure there is more to thier rich friendship than Laurence relates, but Laurence assures me that is as plain as it seems.

That very day I phoned Thiloshnee, to try and placate her from what Laurence and I perceived to be her state of indignation. After a word throwing match with Laurence an hour before, to me by contrast, she was sweet and resigned. She sounded warn out by the issue and her only disagreement was that I would make an issue of it. She said it was not an issue at all .That I was the one making it out to be more than it was, though Laurence was in a definite state of panic when he related the argument to me. “This is between Laurence and I” she said to me, confirming to me that I would never really understand Laurence and Thiloshnee’s friendship.

The door opened revealing a lively party, well into its second or third leg. In a spacious, bright and square living room, girls were strewn over sparse furniture chatting and smiling. Some sat on the veneer wood floor. Boys in clumps of two or three, all with drink in hand, smiling away. Music playing not at all loud, but instead out powered by the noise from boisterous conversations where chums struggled to be heard over other chums.

The man who opened the door for us, was one of the three residents of the flat, a nondescript ground floor apartment in Hackney. We waded through numerous clumps of people, all clumsily sequestered about the room and made our way to the large and rectangular kitchen. Here, the source of the food and drink was the hub of the house party. New (and all white but Thiloshnee) faces abound, Laurence and I exchanged polite pleasantries with forced smiles as if our presence was tenuous and wholly depended on our reception among the party as a whole. A flurry of introductions with names forgotten the very instant they were spoken.

Thiloshneewas nothing less than stunning. This after all was Patricks party, the Irishman Lawyer working London, for whom Thiloshnee suffers an attraction. Indeed they have a budding relationship between them, though it seems it is struggling to get to speed given Thiloshnee’s controlled ways and her inability to judge Patrick by anything other than standards set by her long time German ex-boyfriend. But still, she likes him, and for him she was dressed in an agreeable mosaic of earthly colors, though admittedly still wearing trousers.

Seeing us, she fashioned a beaming smile that made the kitchen seem even brighter with its light cream color walls. She left Patrick’s side, stationary among a revolving constellation of conversations, side in an apparent haste to embrace Laurence and I as if we were long lost cousins finally safely returned from refugee camps abroad. Two generous cheek pecks for Laurence and two for me as well, even though I am not as good or complicated a friend. My eyes were feasting on her face and person with much gusto when her odor came into the range of my nose. As her cheeks brushed each of my cheeks, the sensation of touch was gentle and pleasant, but the nose was intoxicated and near panic. It was her perfume.

My pupils dilated and my tongue went dry. “Your perfume I said” I said “what perfume is that”. In truth I was not really that interested in the name of the perfume. What I wanted most was to smell it again. And indeed, right in front of Patrick, who had now walked up to us, pulled  Thiloshnee by the elbow and inhaled deeply with my nose in her hair. The odor seemed to me to be what I had been looking for all these months. Of late, every beer I have drunk and every meal I have chewed seems to have come short of satisfying a certain craving that stirs inside me that I cannot quite place. Just for that moment, when her perfume was racing through my sense of smell, it seemed to me that I had found what I had been looking for.

Pleased by these aromatic charms from me, Thiloshneesuggested to Patrick he take note of my agreeable appreciation for her dress and perfume. The compliments surprised even me. Frankly, my intoxication’s were ahead of me and I was not aware of the affect my indulgance would have on Thiloshnee. For indeed, this perfume just happened to be the perfume of my first girl friend. Though my memories of this first love are concrete, they are nevertheless incomplete and certainly lacking my appreciation for her smell. Under the duress of a quickened heart beat, I was already dreaming back to shady afternoons in the suburbs of Lusaka where I would be in the her company for sweet hours that always seemed too short.

Do we realise what our first sexual encounters do to us? Do we understand, when it happens, how it defines our sexuality? At the time, I did not know that I was hard wiring into myself a language of touch and sex. Countless hours spent dreaming of her. So few hours spent with her. Long journeys across town to see her, to touch her again. To convince my self that the memories I was building and hoping never to let go of were real. From then on, all would be compared to that experience. Other lessons will be learnt, but this stain will be the strongest.

 That perfume jolted me back to that hunger. Reminded me how sweet it was to satisfy that hunger. It was all so simple then, when I fell too far and was thouroughly hurt for it.

But I am in London now, in Hackney. At a party where no one has taken interest in me, but Thiloshnee, for the sake of being a friend with Laurence. And I have taken interest in no one but Thiloshnee, for being a friend of Laurence.

When I Go Outside

I only wash my teeth once a day. In the morning before I take a shower. I have one eye on the mirror and the other eye looking through the fogged out window. I see a young handsome face aging and the distorted image of racing overland trains. The house is the last on the block before the rail tracks. The tracks are elevated and level with the bathroom window.

Three times during the week and on Sundays, before I brush my teeth, I step out into the cold morning wearing only shorts, a pullover and running shoes.  Out the door there are wide open spaces with nothing to obscure the sight of three trains careening past on their tacks. A huge structure of scafolding represents what is to be the new train and tube station entrance. The sky is criss-crossed by passenger planes, streaming the pale sky with their cloudy exhaust fumes.

The chill bites at my niples. At such times I agree with my little sister, who says I must be mad to go running at the crack of dawn for half an hour. But to her, leaving the bed at any time of day seems like madness. Yet before I have even run a second block, I am reassured by the rythym of my heavy breathing and the pounding of my body on its joints. I am proud  of my bold step so early in the day.

On my runs, I turn onto the busy road, along the pavement, and follow it under the rail tracks. The bridge rumbles with the weight of speeding trains. The neighbourhood never rests from their thunder. The bridge is wide (for all its tracks) and  it is quite dim for light before I get to the other side. When I do, the whole world has changed.

Before the bridge are low rise city council houses with their English flags. A pub and an off license.  A bus stop. Three towering apartment blocks (22 stories!) surrounding the houses and other towers further beyond are gorwing to full height in a cocoon of scaffolding and building works. With more concrete than green, with busy access roads and speeding red buses advertising their destinations and the latest block buster movies, it is at least meant for humans.

 The other side of the tracks is different. Into the light, with my regulated breathing and energetic trot, I am always taken by the dramatic scene. To my right I run past what seems to be a cement factory, with large revolving churning machines. To my left, across the road, are conveyors belts rising diagonally well above the perimeter fence flanked by cranes with their dangling steel hooks. Men, at this early hour, walk about the dusty yards with yellow crash helmets and bright orange jackets, looking troubled and busy like they lost something.

The pavement is very dusty, and crowded with delivary vans, double trailor 18 wheeler lorries and discarded tires. The traffic on the road is held back by heavy duty vehicles climbing the pavement to negotiate tight turns. I step over cracked pave stones and duck under skew road signs, as my feet take me past dusty garages and motor vehicle corpses.

Some how it reminds me of the light industrial area of Lusaka or the parts of Salt River towards the harbour in Cape Town. The lorries, the light dust, the absence of women and trees, the abundance of machines and men. They all seem like the same back yard of corrugated iron, piles of car parts and large billboards.

Just after the second bridge I turn off the road onto a gravel foot path along a canal. With in seconds, the dinn of lorries and machines is behind me. Instead I hear my shoes crunching the gravel and not much else. The canal forks and I turn towards the park. I pass moored canal barges and canal locks and keys. On to cement pavement and under huge highways. Swans and geese sometimes stand on the grassy banks, eying me obliquely. The do not flinch when I trot past. The smaller ducks and other water birds have the respect, at least, to hop into the water when I am closest.

The canal is a curious portal between suburbs and industrial areas, between run down city outskirts and high value inner city property. The pre-industrial transport system is crisscrossed above by trains, highways and sky-ways. The barge people, with their firewood laden boats and their scruffy mongrels, live in an underworld that networks the city and is beyond the CCTV cameras and has no high street.

The canal comes up, the other-side of the highways, along Victoria Park. The park is a huge stretch of green grass and deciduous trees lining wide avenues. The park is so big I can’t see from one end of it to the other, even on mornings without mist. To my left are the rear sides of old townhouses, with their green little back gardens stretching to the water and cluttered with benches and children’s toys. To my right is the wrought iron fence of the park. The sky above is no longer busy with apartment blocks or conveyor belts but instead with large trees and bedroom windows and balconies, screened by cream curtains  and baroque balustrades.

Daddy

I think daddy brought me here.

Though really, he has not told me where to go for years. He has not told me to buy the paper or drop him off at the news paper offices. He has not told me to drive him around Lusaka on his errands in his large Toyota while we feign a father son relationship in the front seats, him talking and joking, me listening and laughing. If I were home, he would tell me to do these things, but I am not. The last time he told me where to go he said “Go to Cape Town. The University is good and South Africa is a second world country”.

Daddy played with me. He bought me toy cars and toy trains. The trains were electric and went round their own little tracks powered by electricity alone. Toy trucks with their own trailers. Toy vans with doors that open and close, as small as they were. He showed me how to draw cars and motorcycles. He explained the physics behind their mechanics. He was animated and enthusiastic and enveloped me with attention and wonder. The toys came from England. Other boys made their own toys from wire or matchboxes or simply wished for them out of old catalog magazines.

Daddy took me to England. We raced up and down escalators, dashed through aiports and train stations. He showed me wonders out the window. The excitement of highways going under bridges and trains going over highways and underground too, seen from both cars and trains. Daddy showed me planes and large airports festooned with larger planes. He showed me flight cockpits and bought me toy planes. Daddy showed me how to draw planes.

Daddy took me to the park. We bought fresh bread and fed the ducks, swans and geese in the pond whole loaves of bread. He would simply watch as I tore and threw chunk after chunk of bread into the water. I was amazed that ducks could like soggy bread so much while I basked in the attention from both the ducks and Dad. He took me to the sand pits, to the monkey bars and the slides. We went to the canal on week ends and watched the barge men open and close locks and keys. We watched barges rise and fall with the draining water.

Daddy held my hand and daddy bought me ice cream.

I phoned him on his birthday. “Hello son” he answered. “This is ya’Father here” he chimed, like it was not I who asked so speak to him when mum answered the phone. At least he did not answer the phone saying “Who are you, I don’t remember having a son…..oh hang on, is that Jumani? Oh yes, I remember him.”

Daddy joked about turning 65 and so officially retiring to receive his pension, even though he had never contributed to one. “That is why I am going to rely on my successful children for my pension” he joked, over doing the theatrics. “You with your sandwich making job in London, can contribute enormously to my well being as I dwindle into old age”. I reminded him that I no longer make sandwiches, but he said it spoilt the joke.

“I am sorry I forgot your birthday” he said, as part of another joke I cannot recall. I was a little startled. I never expect him to remember my birthday at all. For him to feel guilty about missing mine, of a whole two months prior, when I had called to wish for him seemed unusual. He never calls in the first place.

“You are trying to see the world” he commanded. “Before you come back to try the Zambian job market or become a lecturer in South Africa”. I was amused to think of Zambia as having a ‘job market’ but more surprised that Dad was interested in my career prospects, or the lack there of.

As usual, I let him lead the conversation. I only added to his jokes, or made openings to give him full swing.

The phone card had told me I had ‘29 minutes’ at the start. The recording had an over anglicized congenial tone. However, before 10 minutes was up, I was told I had only 30 seconds in a not so congenial tone.

Hastily I tried to conclude the conversation, throwing in hasty farewells and regards but I heard Dad’s voice cut off. I felt shame and indignation. In shock I went to my desk. Early as it was, most staff were not yet in the office. My head hang low and the tears surprised me. They dripped down my nose onto the mucky black keyboard.

Me

On the run back to the house from the park I am confident. The worst of the run is over and I realise I have some energy left to spare. I kick up gravel by the canal and I race trucks and buses past the industrial yards. Under the bridge and back to the open spaces of the council housing grounds.

I must have chosen to live so close to these over sized versions of my childhood toys. I must have chosen the house next to the tracks so I could hear the trains day after day. I know I was drawn to the canal the first time I ran past it over the bridge, longing for memories that have merged with lofty dreams. I came to London running away from someone and looking for him. In the mirror in the morning I search for his face.

I get to the front door, no longer feeling cold but instead heavy nd steady breathing.  Behind me, the trains continue to rage and scream. My pullover is damp and wet from the sweat, at the neck and down the middle of my back. I am thrilled at the mornings achievment.  ,

On My Knees

Daniel came over for dinner. We were in the same house share before I moved to Stratford. We met at the tube station. I wanted to show him my new place. We bought groceries and beer and then made our way to my place, over the foot bridge that crosses one of the many railways near here. It was raining all the while and we had to hurry while laden with the plastic bags of shopping.

As usual, diced chicken, onions, spring onion, zukini and rice (we have perfected how to cook rice that is not soggy). Daniel loves to put Soy sauce over the rice (he calls it Japanese sauce strangely). Oh how we laugh when we are together. Everything is funny. We make a joke about everything. We introduce subjects, just because we know we can make a joke about it. We have running gags too. About how the Jubilee underground line is never late and close to godliness. About how Stratford is “totally different” to Canada Waters (where we used to live). We say “totally different” in every second sentence now. I showed him my new room and how big it is. I some times wonder if laugh with him so much to compensate for the times when I am down. This morning was one such time. We watched flash animation videos from the internet on my slow computer. I escorted Daniel back to the tube station in the rain.

My coat jacket was buttoned up and my hands were stuffed into my pockets as I dashed through the rain back home. I hopped over puddles and made haste for the flat. I went over the foot bridge again and through the grassy recreation area where I saw three young hooded men also walking in the rain. They started towards me but, I took little notice in the rain and I was anxious to get home and be dry.

One of them grabbed me by the scruff of my neck and demanded “Give me your money.” His skin was smooth and a dark brown under his hood. He had a straight nose and thin lips. His accent had no ethnic slant. He shouted with the rage and eloquence of the black London youth. Before I could think what to do, I was on my hands and knees. The blows to my face were swift and I did not know if I was receiving kicks or punches. I could not believe it, I was being mugged. I tried to resist but they kept on hitting me.

I wanted to run away or push them but I could see it was hopeless. I was in a panic as they pushed and hit me. I scrambled to my feet and was hit again in the face. I was trying to say “I will give you the money” but their blows would not let me. I did manage to say it, shifting on my feet to get some space between me and them and they stopped. I pulled out my wallet and threw it to the ground. “And your phone” he demanded. I was so frightened I did not hesitate to reach for it. “I left it in the house” I pleaded, not finding it in my pocket. But the phone was actually in my breast pocket

As soon as they picked up the wallet they took off. I chased after them. I could not yet feel the pain in my face. I was shouting “give me back my fucking wallet. Take the cash, please, just give me back the wallet.” Over and over I yelled as I chased them down an alley onto a street. They hoped into a dark small car that seemed to be waiting for them and sped off. They did not leave my wallet. However, I did get a good look at the number plate as I chased after the car. “L 256 RMG” I chanted in my head as I ran back to the tube station to look for the police.

In the hospital there was a long wait. I thought about the shame of being made to kneel in front of three men 10 years my junior outside my own home. The disgrace of begging for my own property. I was quickly seen by a nurse who suggested I get my head looked at in the Accident and Emergency (“A and E” she said like I ought to know). However, it had been a busy night and the GP’s were busy with “resuscitations”. I waited from 11pm until 4:30 am. The police inspectors (Matt Russell and Paul) arrived just before the GP could see me. After hours of sitting and dozing in the waiting room, I was suddenly at the center of two GP’s and two Inspectors attention, asking me mostly the same questions. It was such a joy to be touched though, as the GP gave a broad check up. To feel the gentle touch of another human beings fingers on my face. Not the first fingers on my face that night though. Just the gentle physical contact was soothing. They took an x-ray too. No bones were broken, but one side of my face is double the size of the other and I have a black eye

The police caught three suspects within an hour of my assault, with the help of the number plate I gave them. The inspectors took a detailed statement from me in the hospital.

I could not see out the Ambulance when it took me, so I did not know how to get home or know how far it was. I had to beg the bus driver to trust my 1 week travel ticket receipt, since my wallet was gone. It was still raining when I got home, as it was when I was assaulted 8 hours before.