Writing

I haven't been blogging but have been writing.  I aim to post excerpts of stories and ideas.  Hopefully I get some feedback.  I was set a task at the writer's group I attend once per month.  I had to write from the perspective of a street seller in Lagos.  This is some of what I wrote.

Bola

Standing in the middle of the road was most lucrative but like all things in life – no pain means no gain.  Bola could take the pain.  He held his magazines tight and believed the paper cuts and the thuds of wing mirrors on bone or muscle were worth it.  He could even forget the rubbing of his slippers and the thud of the concrete road vibrating up his heals.  He faced the heat and embraced the desecrating, fume filled air.  He remembered his mother’s words –

 ‘Even among ants there are giants’.  

He soldiered on down the concrete artery, displaying his shiny red, black and white books to the moneyed masses on Falomo Bridge, and as he did every day, decided he would sell the most and be the best.  He would leave his brothers hungry and jealous in their cots that night.

Bola scanned the cars for the ‘ones who bought’.  He ignored the aged, crippled motors, still dragging themselves along the road and avoided the absent windowed, rust buckets spewing exhaust fumes and full of man boys.  Instead, he focused his sights on the grandiose, black, sleek machines that edged their way through traffic and carried their booty safely.  

Through tinted windows, rolled up tight, he looked for the Mummies with big hair and fat lips painted red or pointy nailed fingers with gold dripping off.  He watched for glimpses of Ogas with giant, round watches and sharp tailored suits or the oyibo talking on a mobile phone.  These were his customers. These were the only people to hand over such mad money for paper.

Bola had fought hard and long for his spot on the bridge.  Blood had been spilt for the walk over the water.  He had battle scars and now everyone knew it was his.  He was now the boss.  He was the only boy to sell magazines on the bridge and he was proud.  He knew the 150 naira he made per book was worth the trouble and was a good profit for a street seller in Lagos.

He prayed to God for heavy traffic and bored bourgeoisie.  He repented his sins and begged forgiveness when it rained. A good day meant dinner and beer.  A bad day meant an empty belly and the long walk home.

The 20^th December was no different from any other, except that it was getting close to Christmas and people were desperate.  The urge to steal or beg or borrow was stronger than usual.  Though with no other mouths to feed but his own Bola was not frantic like the other men, but he knew there would be trouble on the bridge from bold boys attempting a coup on his hard earned selling space. 

 

6am – the traffic started.  The cars, trucks and bikes began speeding past.  Eventually they slowed and filed past Bola like work horses carting their precious loads.  It was busy so there could be a couple of sells.  

He had learnt over the years that he had to stand out.  He knew that a white set of teeth did not indicate a pure heart but it certainly helped when selling to strangers.  He had to attract his customers just like the ladies who sell their wares at night do.  He had to smile his toothy, white smile, he had to show his large muscular arms and he had mastered the look of lovable rogue.  Over time, he had learnt that this look could be the thing which convinced the perfume laden, jewellery jangling Nigerian Mummy to buy – for maybe she saw her son.  Or the Big Man to part with his cash for he saw a brother or the Oyibo woman to pay over the odds because she saw sex in his fat lips and strong, broad shoulders.  This was no easy job - more a game with life and death consequences.

Out the corner of his eye he saw a hand wave, maybe four cars away.  He burst into a sprint, dodging and manoeuvring around other cars.  He saw the window scroll down a few inches and was close enough to feel the cool, expensive air seep out and dissipate.  

A boy was already there.  A quick, rough hand exchanged naira with a delicate, female one. The window zipped back up and the transaction was over in seconds.  The boy’s eyes met Bola’s but they didn’t flinch as expected.  The boy just stood there staring.  The silent message was clear.  He wasn’t scared.

He was tall but he was also thick and burly, athletic even.  Bola glanced at the arms and they were powerful.  He glanced at the boy's feet - trainers with laces.  Then down at his own slippered toes.  He had expected a chase but this guy didn’t move.  His mother’s words came to the forefront of his mind once again – 

‘It is survival not bravery that makes a man climb a thorny tree’.

He mustered his strength, narrowed his eyes and ran forward.   .  .  .  .  .  .

Summer Is Over

The summer is over and I’m back to Lagos and back to work.  From Italy to Scotland and then Dubai – I’m tired but happy.  In Italy, I spent a wonderful week with my aunt and uncle.  In Scotland, I spent every minute with my Dad and my lovely brother and all of my extended family and friends.  Finally, I met with my sister in Dubai – who I hadn’t seen for over a year!  I feel all humble and loved and grounded again.

Living in Lagos it’s easy to get carried away with life’s trivial things and forget yourself a little.  There really is nothing like a Scottish family to bring you back to reality.  Simple family life, where people are nothing but genuine in their sharing, laughter and interest in me are all I really need.  I’m reminded to look for honesty, integrity, compassion and humility in new friends and not to imagine these qualities and dispositions are present in everyone.  They’re not!

I’ve moved apartments.  The new one is much bigger and lighter.  I’ve been decorating and buying material for curtains and sofas and stuff.  I’ve been to the market to buy some cheap but beautiful paintings from local artists and I’ve unpacked the eight large bags and suitcases of STUFF I’ve managed to accumulate in two years here!  I’ll post some pics when I’ve finished it all.

I’ve met my new class for this year – 24 four year olds! They are adorable and smart and full of fun.  There is nothing quite like being greeted with 24 little hugs at the start of a working day.  Between these and my coffee and I can just about cope with full time employment after my lazy summer.

I’ve also been catching up with the Lagos family who I love and I'm coming to terms with the fact that I’m facing this year at work without my sidekick/boss/bestie/confidant Natalie Ghazi who has left the land of Lagos for a while.

I have a visitor coming for a trip in November and my 30^th hurtling towards me so I’ll keep you posted through my third year in Naija!

James Hamilton AKA Big Jim AKA My Dad

I have nothing but love and respect for my Dad, Jim.  

He is old fashioned; self identifies as working class and enjoys half a bottle of whisky most nights.  He shouts and swears at random objects like mobile phones, television remote controls and new-fangled kitchen utensils that don’t work.  He serves portions of Scottish food (like mince and tatties) which could cure world hunger but he believes there is something wrong with people who don’t clear their plates.  He thinks he is being utterly PC and impressive by saying ‘I’m going to get a CHINESE for my dinner tonight’ while winking at us all.  He reads the Daily Record and watches old episodes of ‘Only Fools and Horses’ repeatedly (loudly laughing every time).  He hates the dentist but loves old fashioned toffee bars - so frequently loses a veneer and remains toothless for a week or two.  He shows aggression to anyone who tries to intimidate him or a loved one and cracks dirty jokes often, loudly and in inappropriate places.  He also has hands that resemble large shovels.  

He is named ‘Big Jim’ by all of my friend’s children and all of my little cousins.  He tries to avoid being climbed over by them and sat on when they see him but they just adore him.  He has a large ‘beer belly’ which makes him look like the world’s first pregnant male but he refuses to eat the healthy food lovingly prepared for him by his partner Sylvia.  He takes over in the kitchen, the garden and whenever there is driving involved.  He shouts loudly about the stuff he dislikes but in the end always does the right thing.  He gives the best hugs.  He never says ‘I love you’ but he makes everyone feel loved.  He shows compassion to everyone, including strangers.

Unconditional love is hard to find and hard to describe but, Big Jim gives it out freely.  Despite his ‘scottishness’ and his inability to discuss how he feels, he is the warmest, fairest, and most generous man I know.  He takes every person he meets as an individual and is prepared to like everyone he meets.  Evidence of this being the transvestite drinking buddy he met at my brother’s last birthday party.  

Throughout my life my dad has always been there for me and my siblings, in the background, waiting to celebrate with me or catch me if I fall.  Through good times, bad times, exciting times and everyday life he is there.  We don’t have to speak every day, we don’t have to be polite, and we don’t have to buy each other expensive gifts or even remember birthdays.  He forgives, forgets, celebrates, commiserates and understands. 

 

Unconditional love – affection, understanding, forgiveness – are the best gifts a parent can give.  He truly gives me the confidence to live life fully and to do what I want without hesitation and to make myself better.

  

If I ever become a parent, the ability to love unconditionally is the legacy he will have passed on through me. 

He certainly is a Jolly Good Fellow.

Italiano

I’m in Italy for the first time and I love it.  I’m staying with my Uncle Alan’s Italian wife Chiara’s family.  

No one speaks English and this, for me, is bliss.  Amongst the loud, animated, emotional, almost aggressive conversation, complete with amusing gesticulations and facial expressions, I have quiet.

‘ No comprende’ is my line and I’m sticking to it!

Evenings here are bellissima, my aunt and uncle are showing me around Barletta.  It is old, historic and really beautiful.  The cafes and wine bars serve the most delightful coffee, prosecco and fresh food.  I could spend my whole summer here.

My little ‘cute as a button’ cousin Carla is keeping me entertained.  She has the intelligence of her parents, the deep, ponderous mind of her father, the Italian temper of her mother and a sweet hyperactivity and lust for life which keeps everyone on their toes.  

Today I went to the beach then had an eight course lunch of octopus, fresh fish, pasta, risotto, clams, oysters, beef, chocolate cake, espresso and limoncello.  All in a day’s work!