Review of The Gospel According to Cane by Courttia Newland

I’ve just finished reading The Gospel according to Cane by Courttia Newland. A heartrending story about a woman, called Beverley Cottrell of West Indian parentage who has her son taken from her some twenty years ago. She is educated, previously married and taught English in a prestigious private school, a woman who seemed to have everything but as a result of this tragic action, the experience leaves her damaged, single and withdrawn. We meet her presently living in a house alone, teaching kids at an after school club and attending therapy sessions until one day, a young man comes knocking at her door claiming to be her son. She receives this son named Wills gladly but does it repair the damage done to her, to Wills?  

The prose is mature and juxtaposes nicely with the street slang spoken by her son, and the children she teaches. The characters whether it is the protagonist or secondary characters, are nicely drawn. In fact one of the characters, Ida jumps to my mind. She is so real. A woman of a certain age who probably was born after the second world war; she is happy to entertain Beverley in her home, happy to bake her a cake but is still ambivalent about the black ‘youth’ and black people and  when there is a kerfuffle on the landing between Beverley, Wills her sister Jackie and her husband Frank, she remains hidden behind the ‘blankness’ of her front door and retreats into her reserve. Then there is Frank. We don’t see him too much but when he appears with his dominant and bitter wife, Jackie, you like that he is there, acting as a go-between between the two sisters, attempting to play down the tension which exists between them. Also Newland subtly establishes the fact there are segments of the black community that are middle class i.e, they are aware of Arnica and they shop at up market supermarkets and are concerned about speaking English, properly. This is shown through Beverley, who finds badly spoken English irritating.

Newland deftly handles writing of woman in a very convincing way; it simply shows how sensitive and how understanding he is of women. The book has no chapters but initially it is interspersed by descriptions of pain although from the middle of the book to the end you see no more of these descriptions. Throughout the story, these small explanations on pain make us realize that it is, almost a facet of life. We can experience sometimes, all sorts and levels of pain and realize how time can be a proper anesthetic. In the main character Beverley, this is clearly shown. She journals regularly, as a way of expelling the pain and in return, she achieves some cathartic moments. It’s funny. Prior to me buying this book, my husband purchased the  book Singularity is here by Ray Kurzweil. It is about how our intelligence will one day become ‘trillions’ more intelligent and increasingly non-biological. On top of that, time, whether the past, the present, the future, will become one. Singular. Then reading Newland’s book I come across this paragraph, thoughts of  Beverley :-

People say time is relative, a point with which I agree. …the nature of time as experienced by human beings is the amazing ability to occur simultaneously in the past, present and future. Everything on the planet, from the tiniest amoeba to humankind, has been is being and is also becoming. That we exist cocooned within an unseen element shifting faster than we can comprehend, that no sooner than we enter the present it is already the past and we are always, without pause, speeding full throttle towards the future. Ponder this, if I lift my finger and touch the end of my nose, I am touching my nose in the present, have touched my nose in the past and about to lower my finger from my nose in the future. All exist at once.

I don’t know if Courttia was/is conscious of this concept whilst writing his novel but it is profound and in keeping with all things to do with Singularity.  Overall, this was an interesting read: I loved the beautiful prose, the descriptions of the characters but if I have to make one criticism it would be the ending. However, Newland is definitely a chronicler of the Black British experience; I believe this is the fourth book I’ve read by this author and trust that he can write our experiences honestly, with maturity and with sensitivity. I can’t wait to read his next book.

Out Of The Ashes by David Lammy: Review

 

I’m almost coming to the end of Out of the Ashes, the book written by the MP for Tottenham, David Lammy.  Firstly I have to say that I am surprised, really surprised. But why should I be you may ask? Is he not Harvard educated? Or have I been totally bowled over by the rumours that the man is a ‘sell out?’ The truth of the matter is that David can write and the man is passionate about his area. On concluding this book he has made me to realize that, like most things, it’s so easy, sometimes too easy to be dismissive as Lammy is not just some mere simpleton. His style is lucid, sensitive and accessible, and when needs be, he is still able to serve up hard statistical facts which does not interfere with the style of his writing. You believe that he cares about his constituency and his constituents and that no matter what is said of him or has been said about him, he is for Tottenham. Like myself, who was born in Tottenham, grew up in Tottenham and luckily educated by the borough, I’m aware that there are lots of cynics who say: Well! After all he is a politician, what do you expect him to say? That maybe, but one can also argue that the ‘riots’ gave Lammy the opportunity to dispel the rumours that he’s just a ‘careerist’ and the opportunity to get his hands dirty, for once. 

I managed to get hold of the second edition that came out July of this year where in the book he answers all those questions that were ringing in my head: he wrote the book so quick after the riots (that’s because he was already writing the book and then the riots took place); he did it so that he could make some money (any profit from the book will be donated to charities connected to Tottenham).  So the book talks about the riots, immigration, and reform.  It explains how the underclass in Britain came about and what should be done about it.  Lammy places his argument within a context; he goes at length to explain his case cogently but he does not lecture or preach. He looks at the root causes but knows what should be done regarding the symptoms. And although I was overjoyed that he has all these incredible ideas, I couldn’t help but feel his hands are strongly tied by the forces that tower over him.  This is shown in a tiny instance when Lammy was Minister of State for Innovation, Universities and Skills and Gordon Brown became Prime Minister.  Brown requested meetings with the ministers.  Lammy complained to Brown about the increase of knife crime in Tottenham and how it was a regular complaint from the mother’s who attended Lammy’s surgeries. They wanted something done about it!  Brown listened then said the solution to the problem was ‘tax credits’ and then asked Lammy if there was anything else he wished to discuss!

Lammy also manages to weave in some touching biographical details i.e., his fear that he could end up in prison and how some family members also lived in Broadwater Farm; how his father abandoned the family and left for the US and Lammy’s success in winning a chorister scholarship at a cathedral school. It just goes to show that not all is bad in Tottenham.

Although I enjoyed reading this book, I hope it goes some way in putting away the rumours that Lammy is not really interested in the area. If there are truths in the rumours, then I hope he uses this opportunity to show that he is for Tottenham and I don’t mean just being vocal on the betting shops invading Tottenham High Road but making sure he constantly touches base with his constituents and that it’s done with concern and sincerity.

 

I know it’s a bit late but Happy New Year everyone!

I am running late. Just got back from a trip in Ghana, and whoa, it really was a busy and enjoyable experience. From going to Cape Castle, to Aburi botanical gardens and how could I forget Kakum National Park. The firework display on New Year’s Eve, at the hotel, was spectacular. I think just as good the one witnessed in Dubai.

Now back to everyday. One or two resolutions that I hope that I don’t break and that is to do The Artist’s Way without stopping or ‘breaking’. I started this book before and just got up to week 5 and then I stopped! Can’t remember why but I never got back to it again. Now I’ve restarted (just completed Week One), I try to make myself be more conscious of what I have to do. There are some principles that the author (Julia Cameron) wants you to follow, so I have to do that. Let see how it goes.

The second resolution is to lose weight. Gosh, how many times have I promised myself this?? I’ve lost count. But I just hate how my body shape seems to have settled down and refusing to accept change, aided and abetted by myself of course! But I will try my hardest to lose this weight.

2011 was a tense ridden year for me; from problems that involve loved ones to problems with the State. But as my Pastor constantly tells me: The Almighty Father never gives us challenges that we cannot overcome. I guess there must some truth in that as I’m still here!

I hope and pray for a more positive time, to be more forgiving and understanding to others and for peace to be given more of a chance.

Happy New Year Everyone!

10 days after the Tottenham Riots

Review: The Help by Kathryn Stockett

What did I think? It was well written, interesting characters and a great setting. But I have to admit, I am slightly jealous.   Here I am, trying to put a story together.  I’m always trying to put a story together. Once that’s done then I send it off to the publishers which is followed by some rejections.  Nothing to do with the writing they say, but what seems to bug them is I have created scenarios where one of the black characters do not like the white characters.  If there is one thing you cannot have is black characters hating white characters.  The readership would never accept it! Mmn!  I am confused as it is not to say that my black characters are not properly punished if they are bad, or, some of my black characters don’t have white ‘friends’.  In the same way Stockett has written, I am also interested in the underlying conflict which we know exists between people – whether it is people of the same race or people of different races or people of the same class or different.  The film ‘Crash’ is a perfect example of what I am trying to explain.

And then I come across The Help and the character Minny who is sayin’ it jus like it is’.  I have to ask myself, when black writers will be able to have their stories published without the having conditions attached? The Help was a fascinating read but I just wished it was ‘us’ who are allowed to tell such a story.

The photo from the site – A Critical Review of The Help

Beyonce: Yes! You are betraying your Roots!

What do white people think when Blacks whiten themselves and integrate weaves with their natural hair?  Is it something that deserves a quite smug, pity or indifference?  In the British Sunday Times 20.2.11, the journalist, Rod Liddle, remarked on the fact that the singer Beyoncé seemed to be getting whiter and blonder.  He even admitted that he preferred Beyoncé’s ‘look’ to how she were some years ago, and said it ‘suited’ her much better than the late Michael Jackson.  But he tried hard to limit the damage by wondering why anyone would want to be white at this time – as if he doesn’t really understand!

He should know as the astute observer that he is, that for a lot of us, it is sad and embarrassing that Black women probably feel that they cannot go out on the street unless there is some sort of weave or wig on top of their head; unless our skin tone looks like honey, and for those of us who relax our hair, that we pray it doesn’t rain. Praising Beyoncé for how she looks does wonders for the rest of us.

The Introductory Creative Writing Class

 

Hyacinth had just twenty minutes before the intro to Creative writing class began.  As she stood among the many passengers on the tube, she remembered that she needed some food items and a magazine. She struggled off the tube onto the crowded platform and climbed up the escalator steering her way through the weary crowd at Seven Sisters underground. Within minutes she’d reached the nearby supermarket, Tesco’s.  It was teeming with shoppers enclosed in their coats and scarves, hauling their trolleys and baskets full of groceries.
 
She picked up a basket feeling a little apprehensive and a touch excited at the same time.  It had been 17 years since she last did any kind of ‘educational’ activity and many years since she’d attended an evening class.  Writing remained a strong interest of hers; it wasn’t something she had been consistent with, but she knew with the right course and teacher plus her determination, she could be another Andrea Levy.  These days, though, she felt more and more like an automaton doing her admin job and also found herself increasingly keeping company with her invalid mother whom she lived with.  In one swoop, she picked up the magazine, placed the eggs and baked beans into the basket and then looked for a till where there wasn’t too much of a queue.  She trekked through what little was left of the snow and noticed the flakes fall and land with a softness on the concrete ground. She hoped the snow would not settle.
 
As Hyacinth shot through the automatic doors of the Marcus Garvey Library, the security guard pointed out where the class was held without her asking. She sat at a table in the improvised class room that was part of the reference section. She wrapped at least three of her braids around her two fingers as she tilted her head back to face the ceiling. She was annoyed. She had forgotten to bring one of her short stories which she’d left in her bedroom. With her head cradled between her hands, she looked at the pieces placed in front of her on the table; they were good. They showed she had talent but it was the one at home she considered the best.  She glanced at her watch. It was almost 7.30. The teacher ought to be here, she thought with some irritation.  She jerked her head to look at the poster ads dotted on the walls as if each one was different. They were in fact of Betty Ross, the celebrated journalist, activist and an occasional novelist who was to teach the introductory creative writing lesson.
 
Hyacinth looked around the room and noted a small number of people clustered round a set of tables. They chatted knowingly about aspects of their lives and laughed with a comfort making her feel they didn’t take life too seriously. She let rip a small smile, imagining she was a part of them, hoping they would look her way, maybe even say something to her. But they didn’t. Conversely, there were familiar faces in the room known to Hyacinth, and they had recognized her but neither felt the need to greet the other.  They sat at the far side of the room, alone, trapped by their detachment.  There was a certain type of expectancy they exuded, as if this time, depending on the genius of the tutor, they would be discovered.

Do they really think they have talent? She asked herself.  Looking at the makeup of the class, she rashly deducted that only a handful had a real reason to be there. She was confident that her stories had enough potential to be of interest to this particular teacher. As if attacked by a plague of fleas, Hyacinth shook her head making the others at her table to glance.  What’s happening to me?  She wondered how such thoughts could enter her mind. Hyacinth was only 38 years old but noticed with alarm she was losing herself more and more to a jaded and cynical view of life. She looked across again to the loners, as she labelled them and firmly told herself she was not like them and could never be like them.  The class would give her focus, a goal she thought; it would give her something to do, make friends with like minded people and stop her from succumbing to all these negative thoughts. She had dabbled here and there in writing; attended the retreats, did the correspondence and online courses but didn’t receive much joy. She found an online writers’ website where she submitted pieces and to her surprise, received positive feedback. She was greatly inspired by this but still felt she needed something more. When she saw the ad in the local advertiser that Betty Ross was starting a writing course at the nearby library, it was an answer to her prayers.
 
The tutor, Betty Ross, came into the room along with others who quickly took their places. Everybody gawked at Betty like she was a minor celebrity.  The atmosphere was charged with their enthusiasm to know her and what she could do for them. But as Hyacinth scanned the full room, she wondered how many of Betty’s books they had read, or listened to her on Woman’s Hour or read her articles in the various quality newspapers.  Hyacinth reckoned that most were there because of that stint on Question Time where Betty had hinted at the lack of progress black people had made in the UK.  She went on to boast that the success of President Obama was due to the legacy left behind by such legends as Dr. Martin Luther King and Malcolm X.  Hyacinth smirked to herself thinking it was an unnecessary storm in a teacup: as usual, the community always liked to take things out of context. Didn’t they realise this woman was different and had something to offer?  Hyacinth, with her head rested squarely on her clasped fists, felt empowered by the fact that she knew and understood this woman; and it was certain that once Betty had read her pieces, she would be interested.

Hyacinth’s attention went to the front of the class where Betty stood, smiling.  Her thick unlined flesh which made up her face belied her 60 years; her legs covered in woollen leggings emphasising and defining their shape were crossed at the ankles; and the books she had written peeked out from the top of her expensive handbag.  Unconsciously, Hyacinth looked down at her misshapen sweater and pulled her jacket just enough to cover it. Her fingers, with knuckles toughened by the cold winter, twisted braids of a hairstyle that needed a makeover.

‘OK everyone, for those of you who don’t know me, I’m Betty Ross. I’m so happy that you’ve taken time to come and learn something about writing.  Remember, y’all here because you are meant to be here.   Now, I want to lay down a few ground rules before we start…..’ One of the loners put his hand in the air.
‘Hi erm, just wanted to ask, that time, when you made that comment on Question Time – do you really think there are experiences…..I mean differences between the black community here and African-Americans?’
‘What’s your name?’ Betty asked,
‘Matthew?’
‘Thanks Matthew for asking that but in fact, I will be giving a talk about the African-American experience at some point. Keep a check in your local papers to know when the date is but as time is limited right now, I really wanna focus on why we‘re here today. OK? Good!’ 
Matthew, wearing a thin smile, tapped his pen on the table. He tilted his head sideways and raised an eyebrow at the person sitting opposite. Unfortunately Matthew’s question made way for others to ask questions about Ross’s controversy but with a firm softness she refused to discuss it. Some people, who quickly became impatient, got up and helped themselves to refreshments on the table.  Hyacinth watched them go back and forth, behaving as if they had not come across different brands of refreshments before. A man even took the opportunity to distribute leaflets to everyone and in a brief sentence, gave the time and venue.  Hyacinth picked up the leaflet and read. The man, Linton Joseph, was looking to promote himself as a potential candidate to run as MP for Tottenham.  As this was an election year, he wanted people to attend a local meeting where he would advocate the changes he’d make once elected.  He devoted a few lines to accusing the current MP for expenses scandal and choosing to live in another borough!  Vote for Change the leaflet said.
 ‘Hmm!’ Hyacinth smirked as she dropped the leaflet on the table.  Hadn’t she heard all that before?
‘OK sorry about that…y’all can come back and sit down.  Excuse me Sir….Sir? Maybe you can give those out when the class is finished. Thank you so much!’ Betty quietly demanded. Linton unperturbed by the fact maybe Betty had a point, handed her a leaflet. She thanked him and placed the leaflet on the table.  ‘…..as I was saying…. y’all know I write myself but I don’t know the tricks other than the obvious – you just have to get on with it!  Knowing publishers and having contacts – I don’t know of any and as y’all know things are pretty rough out there, publishers are selective with what they choose to publish.  I don’t particularly critique people’s work and I don’t want to judge anybody’s work.  And not only that, I find it pretty disorientating to be reading other peoples’ work when I’m writing.  It’s distracting!  Have any of you guys tried doing that…’ She surveyed the class and waited for a response.  ‘OK, no-one.  It really is difficult, you should try it!  And finally for those of you who’ve just come to have a look or who are not serious, then maybe this isn’t the place for you. OK guys! Right!’
Hyacinth glared at Betty then looked around to take in people’s responses.  It was as if the energy of the class had grounded to a halt: everyone trapped by their anticipation still waiting for Betty to begin.  Hyacinth took a deep breath trying hard to suppress the growing negativity that could be likened to bile rising in her stomach. Why didn’t somebody say something!  With a flash of annoyance, she removed her long braids dangling in her face and when she looked up at Betty, she was already staring at Hyacinth. 
‘I don’t understand’ Hyacinth blurted, ‘I thought we’d get some help with our writing….some of us have brought work…’  Hyacinth looked over to the loners in hope to evoke some sort of unity but they sat motionless, purposely ignoring her plight.  The cheerful clique restrained their positive mood and looked on with pity. 
Hyacinth kept her head down as the feeling of embarrassment descended. It was as if the emotion had decided to grant her a visit.   The class was silent for a moment before Betty decided to give a response.
‘Look Honey, you’re already writers.  Like I said, you have to just keep on writing. That’s how I’m doing it.  There’s no other way but just to keep on….’ With Betty’s enlarged eyes and relaxed smile, Hyacinth was confused and felt stifled by an accent which possessed a delivery style that made sure it never offended.

Both Hyacinth and Betty’s thoughts were jolted by the sudden cold draught brought in by a late comer.  He sat at the table next to Hyacinth’s, glanced at the election leaflet and pushed it as far as possible across the table, then pulled out a flash looking exercise book and dropped his flash pen on top of it.  He removed what looked like manuscripts from his duffel bag and placed all three on top of his book with precision and importance.  An elderly woman sitting two seats away experienced a sudden feeling of panic. She stretched over to him.

‘Please, do you have any spare paper? I forget to bring some paper,’ she asked.  The man, with great care, removed the manuscripts placing them neatly on one side, tore out blank sheets from the book and handed them over, without looking her.
‘T’ank you m’dear, t’ank you!’ she said smiling. He then whispered in a loud tone to the man next to him wanting to know if he could explain what was going on. The man responded by shrugging his shoulders.
‘OK everyone I want you take a sheet from your exercise book, write just a sentence on any topic or subject but keep it hidden from your neighbour.  When I say ‘stop’ pass the paper with your sentence to the person sitting next to you on your right and the person on your left, passes their paper with their sentence onto you. And you continue this until I say ‘stop’. OK, everybody got that? Begin.’ 
The exercise was for fifteen minutes allowing people to write a number of sentences on different sheets of paper. There were some people who still got up to get themselves a drink and there were others who stared at the blank paper and missed their turn when the sheet arrived in front of them. Hyacinth came up with an idea which she was able to write about it each time a different sheet was in her hands. She was pleased with this. When Betty had ended the task, she asked the class how they felt about the exercise.  Some people made constructive comments whereas others made comments that were off course.
Listening to all the comments, Betty’s eyes twinkled as she smiled, showing a concern that Hyacinth wondered if it was real.  Hyacinth decided that Betty had an assurance she didn’t like.  An assurance that said she couldn’t be pigeon- holed by class and an assurance that racism was no longer an issue for her. She was old enough to have been part of the civil rights movement; and Hyacinth could see how Betty’s experiences would be intriguing to those who could only have an understanding of such experiences through history books or Hollywood movies.  She could also see how Betty’s uniqueness would easily sell a certain type of viewpoint, not because she was an American, but an African one.  She was at a disadvantage Hyacinth concluded. People would mistake her confidence for arrogance.
‘OK folks!  Settle down!  I’m glad y’all enjoyed that.   Now there is something that I want you all to do for me.  I want you to write something about your life in London. What’s it like? It can include you or someone else, and you can do it first pov or third pov – whichever!  On A4 size paper.  I just want four pages if word processed or six pages if it is handwritten. I’m going to be quite busy so let’s say I’ll be back here in 3 months time. Did y’all get that?  Any questions?’ She asked.
An array of questions flooded the floor.  The man who came in late placed his manuscripts and books with care into his bag, then got up and left. The ‘loners’ who remained inactive throughout other than doing the task, all followed each other out of the room in silence as if they’d finished watching a movie and couldn’t be bothered to read the credits; and the cheerful clique resumed their conversation about their lives and discussed little else, trying hard to pretend their satisfaction.
‘How do we get in touch? I need to publish my material quick, can’t you help? Seeing you in three months, isn’t that a bit long?!’  Betty’s responses were intermingled with thanking every one for turning up to reminding people what she wanted them to do while struggling to put her arm through the coat.  Hyacinth stood up and buttoned the front of her jacket while she watched with interest the remaining members of the class surround Betty. Matthew, who eyed Betty as if he was no longer impressed, stood behind Linton.   Linton collected one of the many leaflets left on the tables and looked on with admiration at Betty hoping she would talk to him.
 

‘Y’nah give the woman a leaflet already?  Chah Man! Let’s go!’ said Matthew rapping on Linton’s arm with annoyance. Linton shook Matthew’s hand off and remained spellbound. The others were disgruntled but polite as Betty struggled with the coat and told them she was in a hurry.  Amid the desperate questions and the beckoning faces she saw Hyacinth turn to leave and called out to her.
‘I hope I will see you in three months.’ Again Betty gave a big smile.  Hyacinth turned and narrowed her eyes as she looked at Betty, but this time there was no confusion.
‘Of course I’ll be back. Goodbye’ answered Hyacinth, assembling a smile, hoping that what she gave was as generous and made her way down the stair case.   She folded her stories and pushed them down into her bag as far as they could go.  Of course, she had no intention of going back to attend the course. 
After Hyacinth had walked through the automatic doors, she stood and tightened her scarf around her neck then inhaled the cold air. As she exhaled, she watched a tunnel of warm breath mingle and disappear into the mist.  It served her right, she thought walking on the layer of untouched snow, to think she had something in common with Betty.  With suddenness, Hyacinth took two steps back towards a wall when a car skidded and almost climbed up on the kerb.   She stood frozen while the driver manoeuvred the vehicle and after some seconds managed to position the car and drive along the road.  She watched the lone car fade away into the distance thinking she would have to find another writing course where they would appreciate her talents. It was just a matter of time. Her mind drifted to Betty. She imagined Betty leaving to dine with her liberal friends who made up the Great and the Good.  But Hyacinth wondered how many people, like herself and others in the class would be there.

Relaxed hair verses natural hair

As a young girl growing up in Tottenham, my mother used to ‘press’ my hair. Because it was unusually long (I’m quite dark skinned so it was considered an anomaly), it didn’t make me popular amongst my black peers and of course, to white girls I was still black. But my mother insisted that I should ‘straighten’ my hair because it was time consuming if it was kept natural, and because she wanted to show me off to her friends. And in those days you didn’t challenge your parents. I was supposed to be proud of being blessed in this way but I was not. It just left me miserable. The key thing is how we, black women, so much despised who we were and our looks and wanted so much to be white – I included, even though I was not exempt by having long hair. However I do remember teachers, and some white girls commending me that I had the ‘best looking hair that they have seen a black girl’ but ‘compliments’ could only take me so far.

And of course there are the practicalities of having long straightened black hair: running out of the rain or keeping away from anything that resembles water; retouching the virgin bits of hair every three months; hair gradually falling out due to chemical left on too long or the weight of the hair being too heavy (??); when they style that you’ve worked so hard to resemble (in those days it was Farah Fawcett-Majors just ends up looking too dry and sticking out, then the whole thing is defeated.

Some thirty years on, I constantly keep my hair in braids/extensions and really love my look (after all black skin does age well). But the fight now is to convince my daughter that she should keep her hair in braids but she wants to relax her hair and look like Raven! I guess it will always be a fight to make sure that black skin/hair is fairly presented along side with long flowing curls.

The friendly face of Racism?

The friendly face of racism?

Never thought the day would come when I would write something on my blog about Nick Griffin, leader of the British National Party.  I guess this shows how far Old Nick has come. The annoying BBC with its need to show ‘due impartiality to a legally constituted party’ has made this man’s wishes come true by giving him all the publicity he needs and therefore enabling 1 in 5 people in Britain to vote for the BNP. Doesn’t Auntie ever learn?

The man tried hard to show himself as the friendly race of racism, that he can hate blacks but still sit next to them and smile with them.  And on top of that, he has the nerve to say he is neither a Nazi nor a racist. I wonder what he will say next.  Perhaps he will be disgusted with Peter Tatchell’s view that Malcolm X was gay or that Martin Luther King had extra-marital affairs.

The Trouble with Black Madams……….

Paul and wife, Janet.

So, Janet Boateng has embarrassed her husband, the current British High Commissioner for South Africa, Paul Boateng, by allegedly bullying her staff.  You may think, what is the big deal about this story.  The big deal is, Paul and Janet are Black and staff in their home is predominantly Black. Given the history of the two, Janet, a former Labour Councillor who successfully managed to prevent White families from adopting Black children, on the grounds that White people could not begin to comprehend racism and Paul, the first Black government minister, there is the feeling that they should have known better.  Between herself and her husband, back in the day, they were vociferous in fighting against injustice and inequality, especially when it came to Black people.  I remember seeing Paul Boateng, one of the few Black faces, always ready to speak out against racism, cleverly articulating the Queen’s English to the max.  He spoke out even more when the British Prime Minister, Tony Blair, sent troops to Iraq.  Boateng was rewarded by being sent South Africa.  But then that’s another story.  The one I want to talk about is that now we have a Black President in the White House, and more and more Blacks taking on high profile positions around the World, I wonder how they cope, leading a

Black staff who must obey and indulge their every whim and must not answer back. 

  

I, a Black woman, married to a high profile Black achiever well known in this country (somewhere in East Africa), finds it an ongoing dilemma.  We came to this land about 18 years ago to work for a well known international organisation. What made the whole thing exciting were the perks – the mansion, the grounds, the pool and sauna and gym, and of course, there is the staff.  One qualified, uniformed cook, two house-helps and two drivers plus security men. There were private schools for the children which was heavily subsidised.  Initially, of course, I was over whelmed by what I had gained but given my humble background (back in Manchester) and life experiences, I was conscious of not taking advantage of the staff, always thanking them each time they brought me a cup of tea (and belting the kids around their heads whenever they didn’t say ‘thanks!’), making sure I brought presents each time I returned from an overseas trip.  For several years, it was all bliss until things started to happen making me realise that my ‘niceness’ was perceived as being weak.  For instance, I would ask the helper to sweep the floor in the living room.  When I leave to do something and then return, the helper is lying on the couch, reading one of my magazines.  This continues until I do something that I have not done in a while and that is argue.  She threatens to hit me and I have no choice but to call in security to have her removed from the house.  I walk in on the cook only to find him watching the cartoon, Tom and Jerry on the TV, and the steak he is supposed to be cooking, is burning to high heavens.  When I challenge him, his eyes are glazed due to the wine he has drunk (and nicked!) and he refuses to leave. I leave to call the security; he slams the door and stands in front of it, not allowing me (and the children) to leave. Luckily, the security can see what is happening through the window and knocks firmly, gaining the attention of the cook, who eventually lets us out. When I sacked another cook for mixing up a strange concoction then refusing to tell me what it is made of, he turns up two days later at my company and threatens me.  The worst of these experiences is of a woman who had worked for me for three years. When she stopped seeing her boyfriend, he decided to pay her back by showing me all the things she had stolen from the house. I was devastated and although I don’t know all the facts, something tells me these experiences are not too different from what Janet was encountering. 

 

Beautiful home in Cape Town.

But other then all of these experiences, there is another factor. I think, since I’m responsible for the upkeep of the house, I have to set rules but because I am Black there is some deep inherent thought within the staff that I am meant to treat them differently, i.e., there is no master and servant relationship here. We are all Blacks, so we are ‘friends’. I state this as I know there are rich White households elsewhere in this country and everybody knows their place. The article I read stated that the complaints were not against Paul but against Janet.  Well, of course Paul will not be ‘attacked’ because he is not dealing with the staff on a day to day basis, but Janet is. Janet, (and perhaps me), is only a human being. We are bound to get it wrong, bound to go overboard in imitating our colonial masters and still expect to be loved irregardless; because of our new found status we expect everyone to bow and curtsey, figuratively that is, at all times.  Janet, I’m sure made mistakes but I’m also sure that her staff had certain expectations from her which were not fulfilled. The woman, at the end of the day, sees her job as making sure her husband’s environment is comfortable at all times and she is determined to do that. I can’t believe that former wives at the High Commission were always polite to their staff. Here, where I live, everybody shouts at their staff.  And that’s the truth and I hope Michelle Obama takes note

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