My Sixty - Twenty window

He was born on this day in 1949. Four years after Allied Forces liberated Hitler oppressed Europe and the atomic bomb devastated Nagasaki and Hiroshima; effectively ending World War II. He was born into a world recovering from the 'Great Depression' and into a nation-state feeling the birth pains of independence. Sixty years on and it would appear the world has not changed much; what with wars being raged in far flung lands, a nation yet to achieve real independence from self enslavement and a world economy on its knees.

I always wanted to ask him what it was like being born in those times. Was the world a kinder or harsher, more peaceful or war ravaged place? What impact did this have on him as an African teenager growing up on a continent disentangling itself from the shackles of colonialism and experimenting with the new found freedoms of democracy? Did life for him hold high hopes or was the feeling one of uncertainty and fear from the radical changes of those times?

The thing is, he never spoke much. When he did speak, it was in short bursts with direct emphasis on the subject and with little imagery. He had a serious disposition but he also knew how to laugh. His was a laughter that came from his belly. You could see him physically bob up and down like a cork bouncing on water as it emanated from somewhere deep within him. He liked his friends. He had quite a few. I suspect he warmed his way into their lives with his quiet and unassuming nature. They liked him too. You could tell they enjoyed being around him; even if all that meant was sitting silently watching Roger Moore in 'The Man With The Golden Gun' on Betamax while sipping a glass of chilled Star beer.

His values were felt rather than heard. He was not one to give long lectures on why children shouldn't tell lies or steal from others. As a child, you just instinctively knew that he would be really disappointed in you if you did those things and so, you just didn't do them. This was in stark contrast to his wife who cut a more radical and fiery character. I tell you, there was no table too low or cupboard too high where her cane or worse still her tongue could not reach that offending child. This African woman would not see her children get spoiled; not while the rod had something to say about it!

I recall an incident one sunny weekend. I must have been about six or seven years old. She had gone shopping and returned with a packet of my favorite sweets at the time (Cadbury Bon-Bons); the ones with the soft center which melted in your mouth as you chewed. They were to form part of me and my sister’s lunch boxes for the next few weeks. Well, the said packet of sweets was spirited away and almost totally consumed before my six year old conscience kicked in and I decided to leave a few for my sister. About three or four pieces to be exact! As things go, aspiring thieves aged six (who are not exactly skilled in the fine arts of subterfuge and deception) generally get caught. I suppose he knew that the after effects of consuming too many sweets would be punishment enough for me and so didn't raise too much dust at my 'trial'. Not so his wife, the judge, jury and executioner. I got a good hiding and then fell seriously ill afterwards. Enough said.

They seemed happy together, his wife and he. I always wanted to ask him why he married someone who was so different from him. Was he really in love with her or was he just doing the honorable thing? It most certainly was not family pressure. I shall never know what inspired him to march in defiance to the altar with a woman who did not receive his family’s 'seal' of approval? What I do know however, is that despite the obvious challenges, he stuck to the plot and lived for his family and for his three children.

Childhood rushed by in a blur and soon, I was the one growing to become the African teenage boy. On my first day at boarding school, cowering in fear at the prospect of being cut loose from the apron strings, he was there to open the gates to this new and strange world. "Admission number one three two zero", the registrar bellowed, his tribal marks stretched thin in a wide grin as he handed over my entry documents. I wonder what was going through dad’s mind as I was led to my hostel block, my tin box trailing behind me. I wonder what kind of future he envisaged for me. What did he expect of me besides getting good grades and being a ‘good son’? I never would know. As we parted company that day, little did I know that the hands of his clock were five to the hour with his life force ebbing away by the day. Soon, this man who was the pillar in my life would be no more.

And so, like the title of Professor Wole Soyinka’s, prison memoirs, “The man died”...Within months, time as we knew it stood still. Gone was the opportunity to learn life’s lessons first hand from the experiences of one who had lived them before me. Memories of him were buried and when they were shared, this was done in hushed tones almost as if one risked destroying them by speaking too loudly. The ‘Third Room’ was where most of his belongings were stored. We never opened the door to that room. Things that were meant to be forgotten were thrown into that room and the door hurriedly shut. Even the mice went there to die. I shall write about that ‘Third Room’ later.

Twenty years on, I can hardly recall what he looked like or what he sounded like. They say people you love are never forgotten because they are always in your heart. Does the fact that I hardly remember him mean I love him less? Did I love him at all? Did he know that I loved him at all? Twenty years on, many mistakes, successes and unanswered questions later, life has led me along paths I never believed were possible in the aftermath of his death. I am humbled by the might and benevolence of my creator, for helping my family to move on from that place. The sands of time have no record of this man. His is buried in an unmarked grave in a land no one remembers. For him, there are no memorial flowers. He wrote no books, composed no songs or had any visible wealth. I suppose we, his three children, are his wealth. We will do what we can to spend this wealth (his life and his values) wisely. God willing, we will tell our children about this quiet and simple man who spoke volumes with a nod of the head, his kind eyes and a warm heart.

Today, I pause to remember and honor this man who gave me birth. Twenty years on, I can reach into my heart and say, “Thank you for being the man you were, happy birthday dad.”

Moving Forward - originally written in 2007 but worth revisiting

What a mess! I’m surrounded by utter chaos. It’s incredible that in just nine months, I have managed to amass what surely must be the equivalent of a small forest worth of paper and a truckload of goods. As I try to chart my way through this confusing maze of boxes and suitcases, I pause and linger a moment on the memories from old letters, analyse each of those endless marketing brochures and flip through dated magazines which I never found the time to read.

I can’t spare a moment to fantasize. I return to my clean out. You see, having come to the end of my lease agreement, I have less than twenty four hours to vacate this flat I’ve lived in for most of this year. This upheaval is underscored by the fact that tomorrow is New Year’s Eve. Two things have therefore come to an end for me at the same time. As I study each piece of clothing and every piece of furniture that has been a part of my life in recent months, I find myself seriously weighing the need to box it up and ship it to my new address. I’m relocating to a new city in the New Year, the tempo of which promises to be dramatically different from the blissful isolation and idyllic lifestyle in this West Yorkshire town. I truly have enjoyed living here. I’ve met some very nice people.

At the same time, I stand on the threshold of another year. As I move, in a sense, from the past into the future, I am compelled to review my life and weigh my actions and inactions, my decisions and indecisions and their consequences both good and bad. I conclude that I should definitely have gotten more out this year than I seem to have done. If I had the opportunity to live the past 12 months again, what would I do differently? I’m slightly annoyed that I do not have the luxury of quietly sitting down on New Year’s Eve and reflecting. I guess I’ll have to take whatever time I can get between worrying if my post will get missing following my relocation and whether or not I need a larger removal van!

I’ve got lots of cleaning to squeeze into my nail biting schedule. I look round in near despair at the piles of clothes which lie scattered around the room. I must give away some of them to charity. A redeeming thought it seems, but which ones? I delude myself into thinking that I’ve got sentimental reasons to hang onto everything. I find that like most people, any length of time spent in one place is an unconscious invitation to acquire all kinds of odds and ends. Human beings have a tendency to just keep grabbing and holding. Small wonder many of our lives are cluttered with relationships which lead no where, destructive habits which keep us in bondage and recurring patterns of broken promises and aborted dreams. I wish I could reach into my past and wipe away mistakes, heartaches and failures. Sadly, no mortal has been able to master time in such a manner.

When faced with the finality of a situation, such as when confronted with death, man is unconsciously forced to attach the highest priority to those things which matter most to him. Faced with having to leave my flat in a few hours, I am forced to decide what I am taking with me and what inevitably must be thrown away or sent for recycling. Faced with the finality of this year, I ask myself what things I want to leave behind and what I hope to take forward into the next. At the end of the day, the choice is mine. Should I choose to continue to live with the clutter in and around me, then I have no one else to blame but myself. I think that one of the keys to living a dynamic life is to be vigilant enough to know when a prized possession, a hard earned qualification or long relationship has become irrelevant in the current scheme of things. Upon this awareness, the idea should be to either replace completely or immediately take steps to recycle, reinvent, refresh, reengineer, revive, rebuild, redesign, realign and somehow add a new spark of life to the dying embers of that flame that once burned brightly. One can either accept the status quo or seek change both internally and externally.

In this new journey before me, I will cherish thoughts and memories of the past for only as long as I do not linger on them and thus become blind to the fact that tomorrow brings with it new opportunities. I will channel energy into forming and developing relationships only to the point that they do not become opportunities for mediocrity and short sightedness. I will love my job only to the point where I find that I can no longer add any value to the organisation or to myself. I will throw myself into learning and self development and attempt to stretch myself to new limits. I cannot afford to become stale. I realise that bodies of water which have no source of renewal quickly become smelly gutters festooned with filth. I will assert myself more, reach more, push my ideas more, dare more, be more vocal and learn to communicate effectively. I will not be defeated by whatever life throws at me. According to Mel Gibson’s Apocalypto, “No great civilization can be conquered from the outside unless it is first defeated within”. I will seek the One who speaks to the storm and commands it to be still and watch as the resulting inner peace will help me walk on the turbulent waters surrounding me.

I will knock my finances into shape, spurning the advances of bright neon lights proclaiming the latest gadgets, cheap holidays and fashion accessories. Money must work for me and I will not allow it to become my taskmaster. I will consult more with divinity and with humanity. I will listen more attentively. I will learn wisdom from the simple things and apply wisdom to the complex things. I will attempt to discover what love really means for I cannot claim to have understood its intricacies. I have hurt and been hurt too many times. In all the drama, as John C. Maxwell states, I will try to ‘fail forward’. I want to be happy. I choose to be happy.

In the mean time, I’ve got final bills to pay, accounts to close, post and deliveries to redirect and goodbyes to say. Time changes things. The old gives way to the new, the new runs its course, becomes old and the cycle begins again. I look out of the window and realise that the steel construction outside was not here earlier in the year when I moved in. Indeed, the old becomes the new. Very soon, it will dwarf my apartment block and its shiny new fittings will make my building look like something from a bygone era. Sadly, it will also block the warm sunshine which filtered through in the summer. Therein lies another lesson for me. Life is about competition. The challenge is to be the strongest, run the fastest, jump the highest, break old records and be recognised as the new kid on the block. I will trust in the Lord God My Strength.

The paradox of Beethoven in Brixton

The absurdity of the whole situation hits you as you ascend the escalators from the London Underground to the street level at Brixton tube station in South London. Some days are different from others in terms of the loudness and ferocity of the music. On a few occasions, I suspect that the station attendants, frustrated by the unyielding character of the vibrant community outside their gates, deliberately blast high decibels of Chopin in a vain attempt to subdue the unflinching ‘spirit’ that pervades the area. I doubt it accomplishes the desired effect.

Brixton is an interesting town in South London at the end of the Victoria Line. I do not live there but my route home occasionally takes me through both its tube and rail stations. The energy outside the station is palpable. Incense sellers and religious zealots vie for your attention while pick pockets occasionally enjoy a quick dip or two into pockets of unsuspecting people. Brixton is famous for many things including clubs, restaurants, art and sadly crime. There is a well stocked food market in the area which reflects the rich ethnic diversity of the area. As an immigrant, I am pleased that I can buy African ingredients for 'soul food' cooking just around the corner. This post is not about food however. Instead its about the absurdity of the classical music playing at Brixton station.

The character of Brixton appears to be predominantly made up of ethnic minorities and a strong, well established black community (including Black British of Caribbean and African descent). As is expected, the impression one gets from simply standing at the grubby and crowded bus stop outside the station entrance is that this is a community that has since lost any relationship with its (possibly) Nordic origins but which is unashamedly proud of its reputation as being a nucleus of racial and cultural diversity. One some days, you will find a gap toothed, barefoot Rastafarian handing out flyers while miming and dancing to invisible songs playing in his head. Other days, you will find gum chewing teenagers in their ‘dutty wine’ jeans hanging around the entrance speaking at the top of their voices with the full compliment of ‘innits’ and ‘thoughs’. The whole atmosphere feels like one on the verge of breaking into a marijuana inspired hip-hop or reggae concert or more sinisterly, a full scale riot! Once, while waiting for a bus, out of the corner of my eye, I caught some guys dealing (drugs) a few meters from me. Cue posh Etonian accent and horrified expression, “One wonders what one must do in such awkward circumstances!”

This backdrop makes it all the more absurd to hear classical music blaring from the speakers at Brixton station. You get the impression of Beethoven in a DJ or beat-box contest with Dizzy Rascal. No debate on who wins that one! I asked a friend who used to live in the Brixton area to explain this odd situation. She is of the opinion that the classical music is being played to calm and soothe nerves and hopefully prevent local gangster members from killing each other. She says that classical music is played at most London stations where there is a high crime rate. Another guy is convinced that playing ‘Pachelbel Canon in D Major’ in a place like Brixton must be part of a secret MI5 conspiracy to slowly brainwash black people into becoming more ‘white’ Bri’ish.

After a bit of research, I found www.urban75.org which claims that in order to drive disorderly teenagers away from the station, London Underground started piping endless recitals of 'uncool' classical music in the ticket hall in 2005. Can someone please tell London Underground to think of something more interesting as this approach surely has only had the effect of making classical music a joke in these surroundings? Are the local pick pockets supposed to say to each other, “Oi! Geezer! Shall we sample a bit of Mozart before we commence nicking (stealing)?”

Next time you travel through Brixton station, spare a thought for the poor station attendants who can only stand by and watch as the beautiful strains of Tchaikovsky’s ‘The Nutcracker’ waft from the speakers, into the streets outside, above the sea of moving heads, its strains lost in the incense flavored night breeze. Also spare a thought for the Rasta man handing out flyers who, by the way, is most probably also confused by the music hence his dancing to invisible melodies. Ya man!