MAGICAL MONDAYS WITH 'KREATE'
THE MIGRANT
WELCOME TO CHAPTER FIVE
PLEASE FOLLOW THE LINKS TO READ THE PROLOGUE, CHAPTER ONE, CHAPTER TWO, CHAPTER THREE AND CHAPTER FOUR.
The moment I stepped into windy and cold Cambridge, lugging my belongings with slow exhausted steps to a destination unknown, it hit home that the next set of actions were shrouded in a deep dark mist. What was I supposed to do now? Where was I expected to shelter? How was I to survive life in this strange land? I hesitated and exhaled, vapor emanating from my mouth. ‘One step at a time,’ I rationalized. I produced an abstract scale of preference and decided that my most pressing need was shelter at this stage. Other concerns can be addressed from the confines of a warm, roofed environment. Instinctively, my gloved hand tapped the back pocket of my denim which held a wallet. There was no need to rummage it since I knew exactly how much funds were lodged in it. Hotels, guest houses, hostels were out of the question. With what I had left, I might get, at most, a week’s stay in the cheapest facility. And I wouldn’t have enough for feeding. So where? The quiz was still circling my mind when three young adults hurtled past me, singing loudly with the panache of inebriated soldiers after conquering enemy territory.
‘Hey losers! Wait for me!’ The clarity and pitch of the voice suggested that the person was a few feet behind me. It was a blond slender lady. She stopped in front of me, swaying like her spindly legs would buckle in any moment. Her eyes gazed into mine. ‘And they call themselves my friends –friends my foot, if you ask me. But then, they party like hell, so that’s gotta count for something.’ The stench from her breath was a hybrid of alcohol and rotten teeth, but she neither seemed to mind nor care if I did. She leaned even closer, regarding me like a judge judging contestants. ‘You are cute,’ she said, her finger trailing a side of my face. ‘You should be my friend. I’m certain you wouldn’t treat me like them-’ and she suddenly reeled back as if a realization had struck her senses. ‘Hey losers! You’d better wait for me!’ With that she staggered off in the direction of her friends. If they didn’t wait, the chances of her catching up were very slim, especially not at her slow, unsteady gait.
What I had just witnessed precipitated a smile even when I had my own troubles. One wouldn’t have expected any less drama from a university commu- And just like that the answer to my conundrum hit me. The university was still in session and I was pretty sure that its doors were open round the clock. And they had those red leather-cushioned sofas. And it was warm in there. And I wouldn’t be paying a dime. Now that my destination was apparent, I headed straight for the bus-stop.
The university was serene and quiet. A few students were up and about as I found my way to the lounge behind the Open Access computer area. No one gave me a second look. Apparently, aliens hauling belongings was a common sight. The lounge with the red sofas was deserted. I rested my things by the sofa I chose and set my alarm for five am every morning. I didn’t want students or tutors wondering who the snoring, homeless guy was when they came for classes in the morning. Even though my stomach gurgled in hunger, there was no taste to the sandwich and orange juice I consumed. My mind and body was exhausted and I fell straight into a troubled slumber the moment my back touched the makeshift bed.
My dream was as surreal as it was eerily troubling. Two figures had their backs turned to me. With what seemed like a thousand steps, I went around them to discover their identity. A smiley Father and a smiley Mohammed met my eyes, clad in tunics dripping blood. Jointly held by the duo was a placard displaying the words BLOOD CAN BE SORROWFUL BUT BLOOD GIVES LIFE. I tried to reach out to them but then the floor beneath me had changed to quick sand. I struggled and called for help. But my guardians simply smiled. I woke up with a jolt to find Amina smiling down at me. I was beside myself with joy, even though there was something bizarre about the atmosphere. I tried to say her name but my mouth was clamped shut. An attempt was made to rise from my lying position, but a hundred invisible, strong hands seemed to hold me down. A terrible feeling of asphyxiation filled me. I struggled and struggled. Finally, I broke free. The weird atmosphere was gone but so was Amina. I made no attempt to look for her. It had been a dream in a dream. My heart was pounding but I eventually returned to sleep.
I woke up fifty-six minutes before the alarm was set to go off. Someone was snoring from a nearby sofa. My head was doused with sweat, my armpit felt sticky and my teeth had this funny almost salty taste. It was time for a cleanup, for sure.
The Open Access area was deserted, without a soul in sight. The only signs of life were the subtle moaning sounds produced by the computers, the soft taps of my feet against the rugged floor, and the mobile wheels of my luggage as I made my way to the men’s toilet. After brushing my teeth, the prevalent question revolved around the most effective way to take a bath. I considered standing on toilet bowl but there was no mop around to get rid of the ample amount of water that would spill onto the floor. It didn’t seem right that some unfortunate cleaner would have to deal with my mess. And then I realized that even if there had been a mop, there were no plastic buckets for scooping or to scoop from. Apparently, a proper bath wasn’t an option. So I intermittently soaked an end of my hand towel in tap water and used it to wipe my fore head, my neck and every other part of my body susceptible to giving off foul smells. The rest of the towel was utilized for drying purposes. Now I had to dry out the damp towel. I hoped one of the lecture rooms by the lounge had a radiator that was still in commission.
Thankfully, the very first class I surveyed had one that worked just fine. After spreading the towel over it, I chose the closest seat to ruminate over the next course of action. Even with two meals per day, the cash I had left would only last for two weeks, at best. And that would be a very unhealthy diet. I looked down at my luggage and decided that if push came to shove, the only thing worth selling was my tablet. I made a mental prayer that it would never get to that, even when my situation and circumstance told me I was a fool to hope. I sighed. For the time being, I had a roof over my head. That was good. And the cash, albeit very limited, would take care of sustenance. I needed a job or at least some legal-illegal means of earning money. However, the slightest inkling as to where and how evaded my thought process. The running mouse on my mental wheel was making no progress. One thing was certain, though: I would try. As much as I possibly could. And as if on cue, the alarm on my phone went off.
Four weeks later, I was in the men’s toilet of the university doing by routine cleanup, whilst mulling over my status quo. There was still no inflow of cash. And it was not for lack of trying. I had visited a construction site, appealed to the hot dog and kebab sellers, and other small scale entrepreneurs in the Cambridge market. All to no avail. My tablet was long gone, sold for an amount so ridiculous that the only sense it made was linked to my predicament. I stared in horror at the ghost that reflected back through the mirror as I groomed my hair with a comb. I had gone too holes tighter with my trousers belt. Strings of unruly, uneven hair had sprouted from my chin and hair stubs painted my cheeks. It wouldn’t be hard to mistake me for some street bum. And to rub salt and pepper on a fresh wound, I was as broke as a church mouse. No meal had touched my lips in the last fourteen hours. Things were not looking good at all. At this rate, I would be on the streets begging for arms if I intended to survive. Begging from students wasn’t an option. Their faces had grown familiar over the past few weeks and entreating them for funds or scraps seemed too embarrassing to bear. I’d rather take the solicitation to strangers. But I earnestly prayed it wouldn’t come to that.
It did. The following day. On Christmas day. It wasn’t the white Christmas I had come to expect. The type you saw in movies, with heaps of snow, snowflakes dotted on cars, snowmen in residents’ compounds. There wasn’t a trace of snow anywhere. But it was Christmas all the same. All shops were closed. One or two gleeful screams of children behind closed doors sailed through my ears. Only a few pedestrians paraded the streets.
It was different in this country. Christmas wasn’t quiet and dull back in Nigeria. Families feasted with large pots and exchanged meals with neighbors. Little kids, teenagers, and young adults ate the first round at home before heading off to friends’ to top up their bellies, returning home late at night with rotund tummies and intermittent farts. The air there was rich with gunpowder smells from exploded Bangas or Knockouts (those were the popular names of firecrackers). Teenagers used them to play pranks on unsuspecting victims. Yes, Christmas was unquestionably different here.
But comparing two different cultures wasn’t my objective in the city centre. I knew some locations where some of the beggars practiced their trade. All the locations I checked were vacant. It was as if they were on holiday. I wasn’t prepared to go solo on the ill-matured vocation I was about to dabble in. And then I got lucky. The last corner I checked held a lady and her malnourished dog that lay under a blanket like a faithful friend. She was seated in a lotus position on a cardboard and her dog rested its head on her legs contently. Her warm hooded clothing was as tattered and worn out as her impoverished canine. She was playing some disjointed tune on a flute as I walked up to her side. There were a few pennies in the unzipped guitar case in front of her. Neither man’s best friend nor owner noticed my presence.
‘Excuse me,’ I said reluctantly, vapor emanating from my mouth.
She stopped playing to look up at me and smiled. Her eyes were almost green and they had the faraway stare of someone under the influence of drugs. But she said nothing. The dog whimpered softly, raising its head slightly before resuming its former posture. And then she resumed her flute playing.
‘Can I join you?’ I asked.
‘Susie has got speech and hearing impairment.’
I spun around, shocked by the voice that held the unsolicited but equally useful sentence. He was familiar. You see, I never forgot a face. Remembering a name or where I had seen a face was a different ball game entirely. ‘Ah-thanks,’ I said. ‘Have we met?’
The twinkle his eyes gave as they met mine registered recognition. ‘Hey it’s you!’ The pitch and amiability in his voice suggested he was indeed happy to see me. ‘What brings you to Baron’s corner of the world, Two Pounds?’
Two Pounds? My name wasn’t Two – And then it all came back like a replay button was hit in my memory. It was the same guy I had grudgingly handed a two-pound coin some weeks ago. Today, he wore grey knitwear, a pair of orange pants, and a pair of black sneakers. Perhaps it was the fact that I had aided him at some point and that he remembered me… Perhaps it was the animation in his voice that made me hope he would repay a favor, even though I didn’t know how, exactly… Perhaps it was because he was seasoned in the profession I was about to dabble in… Perhaps it was all three. One thing was certain, though. I was glad to see him. ‘Hello, Baron.’ I extended a hand. ‘The name is Francis.’
There was gusto to the manner with which he returned the handshake. ‘And my name is Biron but I prefer nicknames. Real names are such a drab. Nicknames tell you something about a person. Someone gave me Baron because I’m noble in nature. Two pounds suits you because you gave Baron two pounds when he needed it. So what bri -’ He cut himself short as he scrutinized my look, where I stood, and the luggage in my hands. ‘Scratch that,’ he altered. ‘You look like you need to eat. It’s Christmas. And folks don’t panhandle on Christmas mornings,’ he glanced at the lady with the dog, ‘well, except for Susie. Quality food is free today for guys like us. And Baron knows just the place. Baron can get the owner to give takeaways too. So we are sorted for the day. We are bound to meet some of the guys there. Baron’ll introduce you. Come with me.’
As we started towards our destination, I hesitated. ‘What about Susie?’
‘She is a peculiar one, that lass. She prefers to blow that pipe of hers than to actually ask for anything. She believes she earns those coins in her guitar case. To her accepting charity is an indirect form of begging. Never mind, Baron’ll bring her some food.’
I had to ask. ‘She wouldn’t beg but she’ll accept the charity you bring?’
‘As Baron said earlier, Two pounds. She is peculiar. So care to tell Baron your story?’
He is a banker and lives in Surulere.
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