MAGICAL MONDAYS WITH 'KREATE'

THE MIGRANT

 

WELCOME TO CHAPTER TWO OF THE MIGRANT   

PLEASE FOLLOW THE LINK TO READ THE PROLOGUE AND THE FIRST CHAPTER.

I had a window seat on the airplane, a position that usually culminated into a wonderful flight experience. But today it didn’t matter. It couldn’t matter. The seat beside me, supposed to be occupied by my father, was vacant. If he were here, we would have been having a light banter about something important or trivial. As my fingers fumbled with the seat belt in response to the announcement for take-off from the flight deck, thoughts of the last moments in Jos, especially the one piece of vital information regarding my dad, bubbled in my mind like hot rice in boiling water, refusing to sink in like normal heavy objects do. Intermittently, I glanced at the runway, expecting some uniformed man to flag the plane to a stop (didn’t know if that was even possible), anticipating a voice to apologize for a delay, hoping the one missing part of the plane – father – had finally made it, that all precedents of this hour were one and the same: a huge misinformation. But it was all wishful thinking. The plane became air-bound. I will never see Father again.

Like every other impromptu death, this had altered things. Mohammed had finally spoken when we reached the airport. He handed me a wad of pound sterling notes and a photograph, and informed me that he had contacted Father’s only sibling. He was expected to collect me from Heathrow. Edward was his name and he was doing a PhD at some university in Cambridge. There was a faint recollection of meeting him somewhere.  From putting one and one together over time, it wasn’t hard to draw the conclusion that there was bad blood between Father and his younger sibling. Or no blood, at all. Perhaps grief would rekindle familial ties.

Exhaustion filled me like water in a balloon and I wanted to sleep. It could be my only chance to say farewell to father, receive the embrace that had been stolen from me, dream of crying freely on his shoulder like no proper Nigerian man would.  And slept I did. My father was there alright, albeit shrouded in a transparent mist: bespectacled and wise, slender and tall, and a blend of love and regret in his eyes. For some reason he couldn’t come to me even when it was clear that he craved to, so I approached him. I was making incredibly slow progress but would have reached him eventually. When, out of thin air, a masked man in danshiki materialized and grabbed him from behind and they both disappeared. I fell on my knees and wept. A proper goodbye had been denied me, even in my dreams.

‘What would you like?’

Given the content of my dreams, that question seemed out of place. It was an air hostess. There was sadness edged in her eyes and she looked like she had been crying. She knew what had happened, and was still happening, in Jos.  Everyone on the plane would be an idiot not to. Perhaps she had lost a loved one. Still, duty called and she had to perform her responsibilities. But savoring stupid snacks and drinking horrid fruit juices seemed so alien and absurd to me that, even though I knew it would be puerile, I was tempted to knock the tray off the trolley and scream some nonsense at her. But it wasn’t her fault. She was only doing her job.  And then my eyes caught the mini bottles of wines on the trolley. I had never tried one. Not really sure why. But a friend once told me it had magical properties poised to take one’s mind off sorrow. It made no sense then and made no sense now. Nonetheless, a shot at it wouldn’t hurt. At the moment, I had nothing to lose. ‘Alcohol,’ I said.

For a moment I thought she would deny my request, not because of my age. Last time I checked a twenty-one-year-old didn’t class as a minor. But because my father would not have allowed it. So, even though there was no correlation between the two scenarios, I just expected a ‘No’. A ‘No’ might have even sounded alright. A ‘No’ might have meant my dad was around, communicating to me, indirectly using the uniformed lady as a medium. ‘Red or white?’ She asked instead.

I didn’t know the distinction. But red seemed appropriate. ‘Red, please,’ I said, a little disappointed that my request hadn’t been denied.  She poured me a glass, handed it over, and wheeled her trolley off to the next passenger flying business class. The moment the wine touched my lips I knew the wrong choice had been made. Next time, it would be white. But I drank it all the same. Soon I felt a warm fuzzy feeling. Perhaps it really did have magical properties. But if it did, it was no doubt limited: my sorrow had gone nowhere.

The flight from Nigeria to Heathrow lasted a little over six hours. I was welcomed to the airport by a sea of white faces, more than I had ever seen in my life -even in movies. The immigration guy that checked my passport seemed pleasant and spoke amiably, even though he had an intimidating figure.

‘First time in England?’ He asked.

‘Yes Sir,’ I struggled to lift my voice up a notch from its monotonic state. I wasn’t prepared for any questions that would link up with what I had left at home. Thankfully, it must have worked as his adjoining question didn’t wander to that subject. ‘So what brings you here?’

‘Vacation -’ I paused as memory of my father struck home again. ‘My uncle should be picking me up any moment from now.’ I looked around to see if Uncle Edward was anywhere to be found. He hadn’t arrived yet.

He must have figured that my uncle wasn’t in the vicinity yet, for he said: ‘He’ll be here soon enough. Traffic is ridiculous at this period of the day. After business hours, you see.’ He stamped a page in the passport and returned it to me. ‘Have an enjoyable stay.’

I doubted that would ever happen. ‘Thank you,’ I replied and left. I retrieved my luggage and followed the directional signage that led to the exit. A blast of chilly air welcomed me as I exited the automated airport doors. I had been to the states once and it wasn’t this cold. Then again it had been summer then and it was autumn here. I shuddered for a brief moment before reaching into my pocket to produce a mobile phone. Where was my uncle? I wondered. I’d be paying a lot in roaming fees to contact him with my Nigerian network. As if by cue, a blue taxi with a bold 777 signage inscribed on its door pulled up in front of me. The door swung open and a man that would have passed for my father but for the fact that he was at least five inches shorter, alighted from the vehicle.  He looked unkempt with his tousled hair, an overgrown beard, and a rough getup. Was he really doing his PhD? Perhaps. Some of the Nigerian professors in the university where I was currently studying Criminology looked worse. So perhaps. There was a slight hobble to his step as he came over to greet me that instigated me to suspect he was tipsy. He gave me a hug that made it seem as if he was leaning on me for support.

‘Hello, nephew. My, if you weren’t so big, you’d be a spitting image of your father. Call me Uncle Eddie.  So that God Forsaken country has killed my only brother,’ Uncle Edward piped in a shrill voice that couldn’t have been his. It sounded so comical that it betrayed the underlying love in his statement, if there was any.  ‘Well, life must continue. We have to leave now. Put your things in the booth quickly. These motherfuckers charge by the second.’

There was a monotonic ease to the way words rolled out of his mouth. Like he had no care in the world. Like he had none for the world. Like I couldn’t depend on him. This disconcerting feeling was strong, like a putrid smell that couldn’t be ignored. I hoped it was in my head. So much for proper greeting and the love between relatives that hadn’t been acquainted in ages. But I didn’t complain. I’d mourn my father alone, if I had to. I heaved the luggage into the booth, got into the car and the taxi zoomed off. Uncle Eddie said nothing for the rest of the trip. As a matter of fact, he dozed off for most of the trip. I glued my eyes to the blazing night lights, identical buildings, mobile cars, and multicultural international faces that described my first memory of the city of London.

The taxi dropped us off at what seemed like a coach station. Uncle Eddie paid the taxi man off. As Uncle Eddie conversed with the coach driver, my eyes studied the coach. A digital print on the huge vehicle revealed that it was heading to Cambridge.

‘Pop your luggage in there.’ It was the coach driver and he was pointing to an open compartment below the huge vehicle that held people’s luggage. I obeyed and embarked on the coach to Cambridge.  Uncle Eddie stayed mute again for the rest of the journey.

We reached Cambridge, home to the famous University of Cambridge in one hour and thirty-five minutes. Compared to what I saw whilst enroute in the city of London, this was a much quieter city. The bus decelerated to a stop beside a large green park. A few pedestrians were heading to and fro. Looking closely, I noticed that they were mainly international: Asians, Africans, and Europeans. It made sense though. It was after all a university city, two universities for that matter, and a few other colleges. During the trip, I had overheard a passenger saying that she attended another university, right around the corner. I didn’t quite get the name but it definitely wasn’t University of Cambridge.

I clambered on behind Uncle Eddie who had made no effort to help with the luggage. My dislike for him was steadily elevating by the hour. He called back suddenly: ‘Not much to go. Only a few more yards!’ As far as I was concerned, there was no point shouting as he was only a few meters off. My toes were beginning to feel numb and painful; every step on the icy asphalt seemed to deaden the sole of my feet. This feeling was as strange to me as the country was terra incognito. I found myself yearning for the warm, sometimes hot, familiar ground of Nigeria. Uncle Eddie did a right detour, and I following suit, came to another street that had a few bus stops on the left. He stopped at the second bus-stop and sat on a scarlet bench. I halted beside him and sat down.

‘The bus should be here in another twenty minutes,’ he pronounced. ‘So relax, Nephew on our freezing bench, the very best the UK weather has got to offer.’ And he burst out into a laughter that reminded me of horses. I smiled awkwardly as I didn’t see the point but considered it rude not to dignify his humor with a smile. ‘Right,’ he scratched his beard vigorously, ‘We have to mourn my brother and your papa tonight properly. It’s the least we can do for the goody two-shoes of our family, hey? And we are in luck. There is a shop just there that sells fine wine. White not that stupid blood crap that comes in a bottle. Nasty thing, that red wine. Never went well with my taste buds. Never mind. Three bottles should hit the mark just fine.’ Uncle Eddie then stretched out his hand in a stance that lacked shame, a role that could only have been played better by an Almajiri – a street urchin that begs for alms from passers-by. ‘You see I have run out of change, paying the coach fares and what’s not. I’m sure Mohammed gave you money for exigencies such as this.’

I produced a twenty pound note from my wallet and handed it over to him. As he hurtled off to get the drinks, and as if by cue, an English guy in a hoodie, ripped jeans and worn-out, dirty sneakers, crossed the road and approached me. His breath smelt of weed. ‘Hello mate, you look like a mate who knows his way,’ he said with a wink. ‘Got some ganja for your brother from a white mother? I’ll pay.’

‘I’m sorry but I don’t smoke,’ I replied.

‘Doesn’t mean you don’t sell.’ He grinned.

It was a logical deduction. ‘I don’t sell.’

‘Alright, alright,’ he said, bobbing his head, ‘yeah, my mistake. Thanks though.’ Nervously, he glanced right and then disappeared through a pathway that led to another park.

My eyes returned to the direction Uncle Eddie had gone. He was crossing the road to where I sat, looking smug and jiggling the wine bottles embedded in a pale orange plastic bag. Just as he reached me, a double-decked bus turned up from a corner. ‘Time to go home, Nephew. Right get your stuff. Ah, yes, I hope you have more cash there. You’ll have to pay your bus fare. Don’t worry it isn’t expensive.’

It was two pounds and ten pence. Converting it to naira, that was an awful lot to pay for a bus ride. Only a few hours in this country and I had already spent twenty-two pounds and ten pence. This wasn’t funny at all.

We arrived at Uncle Eddie’s place in thirty minutes. It was a two-storey, shared apartment. ‘Welcome to my abode,’ he said, as we walked through the living room and up the flight of stairs. His room was on the first floor and it was about half the size of the bedroom I had left in Nigeria. It was a cramped maelstrom of this and that; everything lacked order like the room of a nonchalant, disheveled teenager. The large mattress at a corner of the room, by the only small window around, had a few books on it, an empty carton of pizza. It smelt like the covers hadn’t seen a decade of laundry. The only good thing about this place was the warmth radiated from the heater. Having scanned the room, I decided there was no appropriate place to put my luggage. Any place and any spot would have to suffice for now.  So I settled them at a corner of the bed.

‘There’s a fridge in the kitchen on the ground floor. Anything edible in the middle compartment, you can have. There is a microwave on the kitchen worktop beside the fridge. Use it. Don’t worry it isn’t rocket science,’ Uncle Eddie said. He sat on the only plastic chair in the room, took out one of the bottles of wine, unscrewed its cap and took a swig out of the bottle. ‘I’m not hungry. Just thirsty,’ he guffawed. ‘Giddyup will you? I don’t trust my patience around fine wine. So hurry up and let’s mourn my brother, your father.’

He looked a mess and I exhaled. Perhaps alcohol was his way of dealing with my father’s death. At least he had one. I wasn’t sure I had found an effective way just yet. I’d get some food then give Uncle Eddie’s therapeutic style a try. I found some packed pasta and some Bolognese sauce, pierced the nylon film and heated it for the specified number of minutes. By the time I returned upstairs, Uncle Eddie had miraculously emptied one wine bottle and was starting on another. This time, though, he had been gracious enough to pour me a glass of white wine. He kicked the empty bottle on the ground and said: ‘See –thirsty.’ His eyes were wider than normal, his grin stupid and he reeked of an aura of inebriation. Looking at him made me realize this wasn’t the homage my father’s memory deserved.

‘Make yourself comfortable, Nephew. Have a glass of wine.’ Uncle Eddie pointed a finger at me, and then withdrew it to his lips in a gesture of silence. ‘Shh,’ he said, ‘I have a secret to tell you.’

I wondered what this was about. ‘Ok?’

‘Now you can see books around you, can’t you?’ Uncle Eddie said, waving his hands in the direction of the books on the bed. ‘They are all related to Psychology. From BF Skinner’s dog classical conditioning to Freud’s Psychoanalysis. And many other books on the correlation between Psychology and humanity.’ He scratched his beard again, took another gulp off the wine bottle, and wiped his lips with the back of his palm. I failed to see where he was going with this. Perhaps, I would in due time.

‘I am good with Psychology. In fact, I am very good. These books and,’ he poked the side of his head with a finger twice in quick succession, ‘the knowledge in here attests to that. Ah, yes and the Master’s Degree certificate enclosed in one of the boxes under the bed concurs. Not just any grade, I tell you. But a distinction: the grade of intellectual gods.’

I still didn’t see where this was heading but I decided not to interrupt him. By now, the pasta was almost gone. I took a sip from the wine glass. The taste was divine. This was my drink.

Uncle Eddie continued: ‘But you see all these are work. My pleasure comes from this,’ he waved the half full bottle in the air, ‘and making little cash into big cash. Win big or lose it all. Texan style.  So when my brother, your father sent me a few thousand pounds to assist in paying for a PhD course, little did he know that it was unwise to hand me physical cash. Especially not when Rob, my favorite horse, was racing.’ He yawned, settled another empty bottle on the ground, got off the chair and fell into the bed.

I couldn’t believe my ears. He was an irresponsible man.  He sprawled over the bed, and continued: ‘He is a silly man, your father. My penchant for gambling had always been evident since our childhood days. Does a tiger ever change his stripes? Now, I may never become a doctor. Doctor Eddie Fre-’ And he began to snore.

The once delectable wine now tasted like bile nonetheless I gulped what was left. Oh my goodness, this man was incredulous. He had diverted a blame that was clearly his to Father, dead Father. Who does that? Was this the man I was supposed to stay with? I wanted to give him a dirty slap, one that would make his head ring like a thousand bells. But there was no point and tradition depicted respect for our elders, even the drunk, worthless ones. I had to call Mohammed and tell him the state of things. This wasn’t the place for me. I dialed his number a couple of times but the response was the same: ‘the number you’re calling isn’t available at the moment. Please try again later.’ Perhaps he was engaged with some affairs. I’d give him a call tomorrow. A yawn escaped my mouth and my body suddenly felt achy all over. I took off my shoes and socks and huddled into the available space on the mattress.

Kreate is a budding Nigerian writer with a flair for fiction. Writing for him began sometime in secondary school where he dabbled in poetry and plays. He has authored two self-published short novels.
He is a banker and lives in Surulere.