MAGICAL MONDAYS WITH 'KREATE'
THE MIGRANT
WELCOME TO CHAPTER
THREE
PLEASE FOLLOW THE LINK TO READ THE PROLOGUE, THE FIRST CHAPTER AND THE SECOND CHAPTER HERE
Where I had lain my head was damp. I realized I had been crying in my sleep. There was something unfamiliar about waking up to the bright stare of dawn and for a moment I couldn’t place a finger on it. And then it struck. There was peace, an unusual feeling for someone who awoke to the sounds of neighbors shouting greetings through the window as they passed, on their way to work. I shrugged off the emotion. Too early for a bout of nostalgia. There was an overwhelming feeling of a dark void in the depths of my mind. Father was gone. Only two days back we had been chatting away under the glare of the television, not really paying attention to what was playing.
Uncle Eddie was still asleep. His snores were rough and loud and insufferable. I rolled off the bed and caught sight of a wall clock that had been inconspicuous the night before. It was ten in the morning. It would be eleven in Nigeria. I decided it wouldn’t be too early to call Mohammed. I found my mobile phone and dialed his number. He was unavailable again.
‘Where are you Mohammed,’ I uttered absentmindedly.
‘Probably, herding some cows.’
In response to the startling comment, I looked over my shoulder to find Uncle Eddie clambering out of bed. His words were as inappropriate as they were discriminatory. From what I had gathered so far, he wasn’t half the man Mohammed was. But since I was new in town and he was my only chance at accommodation, albeit an indecent one, I kept that opinion to myself. ‘Morning Uncle Eddie.’
He picked up the other bottle of wine, fiddling with its cap as though deciding if it was inappropriate to resort to early booze, then he returned it to the plastic bag. ‘I’m hungry. Food first and then we can mourn my brother some more. And Ah -yes, good morning. No point asking if you slept well. I wouldn’t expect you to. Not with your peculiar circumstances.’ With that he headed for the door and disappeared.
He reappeared some minutes later. ‘You know what? There’s nothing in the fridge fit for breakfast. Bring some cash with you and let’s go get some croissant from the grocery store. I’m sure you haven’t tried them but loving them is inevitable, I assure you.’
We were back in the room in another forty minutes or so, eating fresh and warm croissants – banana-shaped, butter-ridden pastries with soft middles. It did taste like something I’d enjoy eating if I wasn’t mourning Father. I had a plastic bottle of orange juice and he had a glass of wine. ‘So tell me, nephew, do you intend to return home after your holiday?’
It was a very good question, perhaps an early one, nonetheless a good one. Now that I thought of it, I didn’t want to. Irrational as it sounded, I had drawn an association between Nigeria and the death of Father. ‘I don’t know yet.’ And then a thought struck home, leaving a terrible and nauseous taste. I withdrew the croissant from my lips and directed all attention to Uncle Eddie. ‘Any news about father’s body? He has to be buried.’
He snorted. ‘I have no idea, nephew. Mohammed should keep us informed. We’d have to wait on him. Besides, I was told that the building was incinerated. So there wouldn’t be a body to bury and it would be impossible to separate the ashes. You must agree with me?’ He chuckled.
‘Why are you so nonchalant about this?’ The words slipped out unsuspectingly. Infuriation engulfed me and I looked away from him.
‘The dead is dead, nephew. Life continues for the living. And wine eases the grieving process.’
The only response, I could think off, that would have done justice to his stupid talk had a high propensity to set him on edge so I ignored his heartlessness. ‘I have tried to contact him –Mohammed but there appears to be an issue with the connection.’
‘Don’t fret. These things usually sort themselves out.’ He settled his empty wine glass on the floor. I was surprised he didn’t pour himself another. ‘Right. Finish up your meal. It’s Saturday and I’m feeling generous. I’ll show you around the city of Cambridge.’
It was early October, two weeks since I had arrived in England. It was mildly windy, leaving little light things constantly rustling on solid ground. It was quite cold too and the chilly air was moist, so my gloved hands were firmly tucked into my woollen coat. Still my hands weren’t as warm as desired. Wasn’t sure I’d ever get accustomed to this cold. And it wasn’t even winter yet!
The thought of Mohammed danced on my mind and I swore. Contacting him still proved futile and droplets of worry were beginning to drip in. My anxiety was twofold. ‘Was Mohammed alright?’ Also, the fact that I didn’t have an update on the corpse or non-corpse of a father I was still grieving reinforced the helplessness that had already permeated my core. Uncle Eddie was somewhere unknown. He had loaned some cash from me, like he had done every day since I got here, and had disappeared to some destination. He had never returned any of the loans so far. A gut-feeling told me the money went into gambling episodes that never provided returns on investment. And if they did, he didn’t mention anything about them. At this rate, I’d run out of funds in a few weeks, and that wasn’t an option. So I made a mental budget of how much I’d release before informing him that I no longer had cash.
At that moment I was in the city center of Cambridge, in an area called Lion’s Yard. It was in a state of hustle and bustle: consumers coming in and out of shops, musicians practicing their arts and getting stipends from some appreciating passers-by. It was a Saturday so it was logical expectation. Everybody seemed to be in a hurry. The two weeks I had spent in the city had revealed two unique distinctions between Nigeria and England. At my home country, well my city, you knew your neighbors and they knew you. In this city though, it was every man for himself. I couldn’t remember ever seeing the folks who lived next door.
The other difference had to do with the accent. Having listened on several conversations of the English, I had observed that the enunciation of words that ended sentences sounded stretched like those words were connected to others that was almost never uttered. Like the stretch of a glue that wasn’t quite sufficient to reach some destination. Maybe it was just my untrained hearing.
Two ladies, one Asian and another from some black African heritage, emerged from a shop with their purchases strung over their shoulders. They stopped a few feet away from my position. The Asian dropped to her knees to adjust the straps of one of her sneakers. Their aura suggested they were students. They were conversing in loud tones so I eavesdropped.
‘I’m famished. Let’s go to the Freshers’ Fair at Kingsley Kerris,’ the Asian said, fastening her shoe straps.
‘Technically, it’s not meant for us. We are second years after all. But I’m too hungry to be bothered with propriety and what’s not. So fuck yeah. My hope is that the newbies haven’t obliterated all the pizzas,’ the African said.
‘That would be a bummer. We’d better hurry then. Help me, up will you?’ The Asian stretched out a hand.
‘You lazy fart,’ the African chuckled and helped her friend up.
I was hungry too and this looked like a way to save up some cash. And there wasn’t a lot left. As the ladies trudged on, swaying their petite denim butts from side to side in a gesture that could only mean they wanted to be noticed, I straggled behind them inconspicuously. I had visited the university that wasn’t University of Cambridge a few times so the route the ladies took was familiar. We arrived at the destination fairly quickly. There were leaflet agents by the entrance, distributing fliers and pizza slices in plastic bags. I gladly received a plastic bag from one of the vendors and decided to go in and find out what the Freshers’ Fair was all about.
As I hungrily munched on an almost decimated slice of pizza, I noticed several stands with coloured cardboards denoting different, boldly inscribed society names: Tennis club, Afro-Caribbean Society, Rugby Club, Swimming Team, EBAC, and a few others. I noticed a pizza tent at the far corner, with a considerable amount of people in a queue. Nothing wrong in getting some more, I thought. As I joined the queue, someone cannoned into me and I lost my balance and fell on my side.
‘Oh I’m very sorry,’ a voice said as I scrambled to my feet. There were a few Oh dear and Are you alright from sympathizers. It was embarrassing. I wasn’t a student and I was already a public figure for something undesirable. I smiled sheepishly at the onlookers. Someone placed a hand on my shoulder. ‘I feel so stupid. Are you hurt?’
His accent was definitely Nigerian. ‘No,’ I turned around to face the guy who was obviously responsible for the accident, ‘my bones are in -’ I was horrified. The height! The jaw line! And the face! All reminded me so much of father. Was my mind messing with me? ‘I’m alright,’ I said and hurriedly left the pizza queue and exited the Fresher’s Fair. I crossed the road over to the large green park and sat on a vacant bench. The bilious feeling that I was without a father, and by all intent and purposes an orphan, hit me with a renewed blast. A tear slid down my face. I felt ashamed and didn’t want anyone to notice me so I bowed my head and hurriedly wiped the salty drop off my face. ‘I’m not this emotional. When did I become a wimp?’ I asked myself in a hushed tone. I was furious at myself.
‘May I sit?’ a voice said, prompting me to look up.
I gazed up to a tall, slender lady with a low cropped hair. The jeans were tight enough to accentuate the curves on her hips. Her ebony complexion and accent suggested she was Nigerian as well. The concern in her eyes and voice tone were pure and I was afraid I’d spill my guts if she asked about the matter behind my distraught disposition.
‘Please do,’ I stated acerbically.
She sat down and relaxed into the back rest. Instinct told me she knew I was unhappy and for some reason I expected her to lead the conversation, as she unexplainably exuded some maternal aura. But she said nothing for the next couple of minutes, her eyes appeared to be admiring the scenery of the park. And when the next statement emanated from her mouth, it had nothing to do with me.
‘One of the few things I admire about England. Hmm -no that might be too encompassing, given I haven’t been anywhere else in the UK besides here. So Cambridge. They take good care of their greens. Don’t you agree?’ She turned to look at me.
I was relieved that it had nothing to do with me. I was unwilling to broach the dark subject of my recent history. ‘I have been here a few weeks now and have noticed their lawns, gardens and public parks. Tiptop condition. Compared to what we have back home; the difference is clear.’ And then it occurred that I’d let assumption about her nationality get the best of me. ‘Oh I beg your pardon. I assumed you are Nigerian.’
She smiled, a dimple sinking into her left cheek. ‘That wouldn’t be necessary. You are right. I am indeed Nigerian. It’s getting better though. In Nigeria, I mean.’
‘Yeah. We have a long way to go. But we are getting there. Slowly but certainly.’ I stretched a hand. ‘Francis.’
She accepted it. ‘Amina.’
My hand stiffened for a fraction of a second before it disentangled from hers. Don’t be absurd. Just because she’s possibly a Muslim doesn’t mean she’s like them. They are all not extremists. I hoped she didn’t notice the subtle change. I was still curious though. ‘You practice Islam?’ Now that it was out of my mouth, it didn’t sound right.
‘Since birth. So you’ve been here for two weeks. What’s your take on the city?’
The fact that she didn’t ask about my religion made me feel like an ass. A puerile long-horned ass. In a subtle way, she had told me that religion wasn’t a prerequisite for getting to know someone. The wisdom displayed here was commendable and attractive. ‘Electricity is dependable. It is cold and everyone seems to mind their own business.’
‘If by minding their business you meant not knowing your next door neighbor, you are absolutely correct. You’ll get used to that with time. But linking that same phrase with regards to gossip, then I’m afraid you are mistaken. They natter about anything and everything, and most of it is absolutely none of their business. We share that in common. Nigerians and the Brits have a natural predisposition towards sticking their noses where they don’t belong. As for the cold, some people adapt, others don’t. And I belong to the latter group as you can see,’ she rubbed a palm against the arm of the leather jacket she had on and chuckled, ‘and I’m sorry to say this but October is nothing. Wait till December comes and then it really hits you. As for electricity, when you come from a country such as ours, it looks like a miracle. Over time, you’ll get used to it too.’
I was unfamiliar with the word Natter but, given the context it was used, I could infer it had to do with chatting. There was a certain soothing calm to the tone of her voice as words rolled out and the gesticulations that accompanied them. I could listen to her talk for a long time without ennui setting in. ‘It does feel out of place. After about five hours of having constant electricity, I begin to feel restless in anticipation that the light would go off. Do you remember times when you are watching a TV series, then it gets to a critical point, and then the light goes out, and we scream -’
‘NEPA!’ Amina burst into laughter and I joined in.
NEPA was an acronym for National Electric Power Authority, a government body in Nigeria that was once in charge of electricity in the country. NEPA also mirrored as a word people screamed during an unexpected power outage. Suddenly, it occurred to me that Amina had found a way to lift my spirits without broaching the subject behind my initial sadness. I was in awe of the lady. A phone rang out as our laughter died out. Amina reached into her pocket, and produced a mobile phone. ‘Time flies,’ she said, rising to her feet. ‘I have a class in another fifteen minutes. It’s been a pleasure meeting you Francis.’
I stood up too. ‘The pleasure is mine.’ It was instant. I wanted to see her again. ‘I’d like to have your cell phone number, if you don’t mind? Perhaps we could meet up sometime in the future.’
‘I hope we do.’ She smiled before stretching a hand. I handed her my phone number. She punched in her digits and returned the phone. ‘I guess I’ll be seeing you soon Francis. Take care of yourself.’
‘Absolutely. Take care,’ I replied.
And we parted ways.
I did a little more wandering around the city center before heading home. Uncle Eddie was in when I arrived. An irritable disposition was evident from the pronounced lines on his forehead, the furrowing of his brow, the juvenile pouting of his lips, and the glare in his eyes. ‘We need to talk,’ he hissed. ‘Have a seat.’ I did as I was told. He uttered nothing and the silence was so unnerving I was about to ask what the problem was but decided he’d come around to it when he was ready. In another few minutes, he did. In fact, he laughed and it was derisive. ‘My brother, your father could be a ball of disappointment sometimes. Talk about perfect timing. Just when his standup, good guy lifestyle would have benefited me –us, he decided to be a thief -’
‘Shut up!’ The words were out of my mouth before reason could triumph. But now that it was out, I didn’t care. Imagine the effrontery from this bastard. ‘How dare you speak that way about Father? With all he has done for you. Is this a joke! He is dead for Christ’s sake! Watch what you say Uncle Eddie!’ I hadn’t realized I was on my feet, towering over his seated figure. My chest was pounding and my being was shaking with indignation. He looked so puny and I was taller and bigger than he was. There was an overwhelming urge to defy my customs and traditions and slap some senses into his coconut shaped head. But I didn’t.
I was expecting a confrontation and something about how ungrateful I was after he had provided a roof over my head. Every scorned that had proceeded from my lips did not faze him. He looked smug, less tensed, relaxed, unperturbed. It was as though my outrage provided him some degree of contentment. ‘Seat down and stop being silly. Those words weren’t mine. Merely a simple inference from what his lawyer had told me. His funds have been seized as a consequence of an impending investigation. Apparently, someone has been up to no good. Misappropriating public funds.’ He shook his head. ‘Who would have thought -’ he trailed off and said nothing more.
I was lost for words, weak in the knees and all energy seemed drained like I had suddenly lost several pints of blood. I sat down. And then a question occurred to me. Deciphering the answer wasn’t complex algebra but I asked all the same. ‘Why have you been speaking to his lawyer, Uncle Eddie?’
‘That’s no longer of consequence. The more important thing is I’m broke. I lost my job a few months before you arrived. And what I make from the home tutelage services I provide barely cuts it. House rent? Yes. Feeding and maintenance? Not so much. So you’ve got to start pitching in.’ And then he smiled. ‘There is one bright side to this though. Everyone one in the building that was torched was burnt beyond recognition. We wouldn’t recognize my brother, your father even if we wanted to. So he is the responsibility of the government. So we can set whatever cash you have left to better use. Right,’ he got on his feet, ‘Teaching time. Some retarded kid needs tutoring. Get yourself something to eat. Nothing for me. I’ll sort myself out.’ He picked up a leather jacket, slung it across his shoulder and headed for the door. At the door, he halted and looked over his shoulder. ‘Ah yes,’ he drummed his fingers against the door, ‘about Mohammed. He’s dead.’ And he disappeared through the door.
He is a banker and lives in Surulere.
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