Happy 100th Nelson Mandela: What I know now.

I’ve finished watching the last of the documentaries on celebrating ‘Nelson Mandela, One Hundred‘; I thought I knew all I needed to know about the man, about the country, about Apartheid, the tortures and the atrocities, but I was wrong.

This time around I realise just how close he was to all the saints we know and that probably (although not in my life time), he’ll be made a saint. I also learnt that my other idol, Maya Angelou died not too long after Mandela. I wondered if when she wrote the poem His Day is Done that some six months later, it would also apply somewhat, to herself.

His benevolence, tolerance and altruism reminded me that I still need to be more forgiving, to be a much better listener and more importantly, that it’s ok to have high standards, just as long as I realise to temper those standards when applying to people and situations.

What Mandela’s freedom did for me could almost be equated with being cleansed by the blood of Christ. If not for Mandela’s victory election, as a black person I would not have been able to live in South Africa and had all those incredible experiences. I am so grateful Nelson. Happy 100th and you should know, that we will never forget you.

 

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Rest in Peace: Joe Jackson, Father to the Jackson 5

I have just finished reading an obituary of Joe Jackson, father of The Jackson Five in The Guardian newspaper. But it is expected that such a monstrous article would focus on Joe’s lack of compassion and concentrate instead, on the cruelties he inflicted upon his ten children. Of course it would ignore that Joe had to feed his family on a paltry wage he received from working as a crane worker at a steel plant in Gary, Indiana; it would also ignore the everlasting poverty, the racism that was always there ready to inflict its hatred on anything which tried to be successful.

I guess what is probably frustrating for the author is how Joe was totally unapologetic and neither ashamed of his parenting methods. He was hard and unrelenting but as crude as he might have been, he basically did what he had to do.

I can understand Joe Jackson. If MJ were still alive, he would have been the same age as myself. My parents, in particular my father, was incredibly ambitious and persistent. He refused to accept that as he left the sugar plantation estate in the West Indies cutting cane, he did not leave for the UK so that I could become a typist or my brothers would be bus drivers. To him, education was the be-all and end-all. I was not allowed to go to parties, have boyfriends, my head had to be buried in books at all times. I can remember, gazing at my father with astonishment as he declared that he wanted me to go to University.  Go to University?  Was he for real?

Unfortunately, myself and my brothers experienced either lashings via the leather belt or had a copy of The Yellow Pages crashing down on our skulls! This happened several times to me and I decided that it was not going to happen again so I did what he wanted.

Yes, at the time I considered my father to be an unforgiving brute! He was aggressive towards my mother and his sisters. He did not suffer fools, whether they were as dark as he or any other colour.  He was not scared. When the infamous Notting Hill riots took place some months after I was born, he participated. Clearly, depending on one’s point of view or politics, my Dad was far from perfect.

As a result of failing my exams and being really fed up of the whole thing, I mustered up the courage to confront my father and tell him that I wanted to go to work. My father was angry but accepted if I wanted this, then so be it but…whilst I lived under his roof and worked, he never gave up in continuously reminding me of the mistake I was making.

After a year of working at a job I found locally, I remember feeling bored, feeling how mundane and repetitive the job was. It was then, it occurred to me that if this was work or my future with regards to work, I did not want this. It was then, that my father’s ambition became my own. So while I worked I went to three evening classes per week. I did this for a year before applying as a mature student to a University. I never heard a whisper from my father again, instead I received his blessings and respect while I lived at the family house. And as for my mother, she played the ‘good cop’ to my father’s ‘bad cop’; she supported and loved his ambition and respected him as a good caretaker.

For those who want to crucify Joe Jackson for how he brought up his family, one thing that cannot be ignored, if Joe Jackson was not the parent he was, no matter how bad (Bad – such a great track) we most certainly would not have had the Jackson 5, we couldn’t have known Michael Jackson, and the latest Janet Jackson CD, the fantastic Unbreakable simply would not have existed.

I doff my cap to Mr Jackson, for his strength, his endurance, for his determination and ambition. It is clear that if he did not possess these qualities, the world would never have witnessed such a phenomenon as the Jackson Five which was and still is, the first of a kind.

My Party, along with Harry and Meghan’s Wedding

I’m not likely to watch the forthcoming royal wedding between Prince Harry and Meghan Markle, this weekend as I’ll be celebrating my birthday with a party. For once, I’ll be away from the TV, preparing my speech, ironing out the creases from my special dress, satisfied that friends and family have all been notified and will turn up. My husband is responsible for the organising so I’m confident he will have everything down to a tee.

But given what I’m reading in the press about this wedding, do I want to watch this event slowly unfold into a fiasco? With step-sister Samantha Grant really laying her bitterness into Meghan, stating she (Grant) cannot be censored and refuses to be censored; Meghan’s step brother Thomas, in this statements say how Meghan is ‘conceited’ and ‘jaded’.

There are other estranged members who believe Meghan owes them and therefore deserve to be invited to the wedding. But then, there’s the father, Mr Markle. He has been accused of faking photos of himself being measured up for suits, constantly running to the media outlet TMZ saying he will walk his daughter down the aisle, then changing his mind, then changing his mind again. The latest now is that he is scheduled for a heart operation meaning that he will not be able to attend to his daughter’s wedding. The whole thing is turning into a more than tacky reality show.

The Queen is said to be angry and you can’t blame her. Although according to the feminist Germaine Greer, the royals do not want Mr Markle to be there, hoping he will be so overwhelmed by the mere idea of walking down the aisle with over a billion people watching, that he’ll pull out.  But she doesn’t say why the royals may not want Mr. Markle to attend.

The journalist and interviewer Piers Morgan wonders why the palace has not sent someone to Mr Markle to speak to him about procedures and protocol, or invite Markle to the UK where he can take part in rehearsals enabling him to feel confident on the day. I feel bad for Meghan. She must be totally mortified and pressurised under her new family’s watchful eye.

I’m confident that my day will go well, that friends and family will turn up and that on this occasion where I can celebrate reaching a milestone, it will be a day to remember. For as long as I can remember, royal weddings have always been a treasure to watch.  They are meticulously planned, with incredible music, the bride and bridegroom dressed to perfection. I really hope that Harry and Meghan have their day, uninterrupted.

The King’s New Clothes: Couldn’t the King’s robes be a little more regal?

Sometime in February, my husband and I went to see Black Panther at the Jabi Shopping Mall in Abuja, Nigeria. And what a turn out it was. Even when the film came to an end and we left, the waiting area also was jammed, overflowing to the car park area. It was interesting that the crowd were dressed in casual European clothing yet later at home watching the news, I was really surprised how the UK/US crowds turned out in Nigerian/African clothing.

But whilst watching the film, I have to say that as I am constantly surrounded by people wearing traditional attire, I was disappointed in how the protagonist, King T’Challa was dressed. I couldn’t help but think that what he was wearing was no different to what my boss’s driver would wear. No disrespect to my boss’s driver but the point is, the clothing of the King was simple, with the exception of his superhero suit.

If you take the outfit he is wearing in the above photo, yes, it fits his fine frame, but it seemed as if a simple fabric was used. I was even tempted to write to whoever was in charge of wardrobe department to send ideas of what the Chiefs (such as my husband) wear so that they can see how absolutely gorgeous and beautiful the fabrics and designs are. The inventiveness and creativity that has manifested plus the level of tailoring has greatly improved in the twenty odd years that I have lived here. I am always amazed when hubby brings home yet another outfit his tailor has made. As it bound to be so unique, so creative and tailored.

I did enjoy the film; I loved Chadwick Boseman, Daniel Kaluuya (as I totally loved him in Get Out) and the rest of the cast but I would have liked the King’s clothing to be a little more luxuriant, liberal and more padding which would have certainly given him the right amount of pomp. Remember when the Eddie Murphy and Arsenio Hall characters in Coming to America, arrived at the airport were wearing those killer coatsExaggerated, yes they were but the coats were so appropriate.

And talking about Coming to America, I have just learnt that a sequel is likely to be made. I very much look forward to seeing this. Can’t wait to see the costumes in this!

 

The Spear has fallen

There is nothing the apartheid government has not done to me. There isn’t any pain I haven’t known ~ Winnie Madikizela-Mandela

I was talking to my husband this morning when I saw the banner running under the program on the TV.  It said Winnie Mandela had passed away. This strong, defiant beautiful incredible activist is no longer with us. Her struggle had to be the toughest, fighting the oppressive apartheid system, immured in a jail cell and separated for years from her dearly beloved, the great Madiba – Nelson Mandela.

My slight contact with the Mother of the Nation was during the time I lived in Johannesburg in 1994. My husband and I owned a boutique in the Sandton area of Jo’berg and at some point Mrs Mandela visited the shop. Unfortunately I was not there but my manager was present.  Another time when I almost was near is when we participated in a fashion show. The clothes from our boutique were used by the organisers to promote African wear and fashions. In fact, clothes were loaned from a number of shops.

Taking the clothes back stage to help with the models, I remember walking across the stage and someone calling out to me that Winnie is taking her place in the audience. I stopped to look. I could see in the distance, a woman wearing a long gown, her hair was a curly Afro and she was talking, smiling. When the lights went out and the show began, I took my seat in one of the front rows. It was a great show and I was pleased with the way our clothes were displayed and looked on the models. When the show had to come to an end, my manager went back stage to collect the clothes and I went to greet Mrs Mandela but when I got to where she sat, she had left.

Dear Winnie, you did what you came to do and made long-lasting achievements. You were truly a blessing to South Africans and will remain in their hearts forever. I offer my condolences to loved ones and know that your gentle soul now quietly rests.

Why was I crying?: Princess Diana, August 1997.

Why was I crying?: Princess Diana, August 1997.

In August 1997 I was in London visiting my parents, on holiday from Nigeria with my family. Prior to Diana’s death I had signed up for my son, who was nine at the time, to attend a summer activity and the location was not too far from Diana’s home. The day following her death was the day my son’s course began.

I remember there were lots of people in the Kensington area; flower shops were bare of flowers but fortunately we found a flower shop and bought a mixed bunch. We joined a number of people holding flowers, walking in unison to Diana’s home. A solitary gold coloured balloon was tied to the Kensington Palace gates, and on the ground were more flowers. We placed our own flowers on the ground and along with others, we bowed our heads. I believe we were there for fifteen minutes in silence. When we left and headed for the tube station, we met more people coming out of buses, more climbing out of the underground station and more on foot — all heading to the same place. It was as if they were attending a concert except their pace was slow and their mood, sombre.

I took my son to his activity and then we arrived to our home in the early evening. When I sat down to watch the TV, I was shocked at the volume of flowers that were now outside the gates. The balloon was still there except it was so far away from the public due to the sea of flowers. Like so many other people who were in deep shock, tears, strangely streaked my cheeks. Was I really crying for someone I did not know, or was I crying for myself? Crying for the all hurts I had experienced, for the mistakes I had made and worst of all, crying because I still had not made good the life which had been given to me.

My father who owned a news shop in Islington brought newspapers to the house. My mother volunteered to cook the children’s meals whilst I poured into every single article that was about Diana. Although I cried previously, I was now crying more. I did not realise she was so vulnerable, exposed, misunderstood and used. Her wealth and lineage was unimportant. The fact she was so open about her unhappiness was touching and relatable, that it forced me to forget her privileges. I was forced to see her stripped of any adornments, clearing the way to see her for what she was: a sensitive and caring human being. Her suffering and death humanised the Royal Family; it also made them to be vulnerable and to realise they cannot take the British public for granted. All of a sudden the whiff of revolution was in the air and smelling quite strong.

Next week I will be making my annual trip to London. I expect that as the country draws close to commemorate the day Diana died, they will be countless documentaries, articles, opinion pieces and so forth. I trust that as the country remembers Diana, we would have learnt during the last twenty years, there is nothing wrong in being vulnerable or sensitive. Diana’s death suddenly opened up and released a taut and reserved nation. I, for one, am happy about this change and hope that in next twenty years, we will realise more.

Darcus Howe: A Titan of a Man

 

Just found out by browsing through WordPress that Darcus Howe, the black British activist passed away at the beginning of this month.

 

Darcus was an interesting character: he was fearless, intelligent and articulate and never suffered fools. He passionately campaigned against racism and injustice for as long as I can remember. Constantly on TV, and so able to defend himself, I saw him as Briton’s answer to Al Sharpton/Jesse Jackson and Louis Farrakhan. I would regularly watch his programmes and documentaries, and enjoyed especially those that took him to the West Indies.

 

I know in our family he was considered a controversial figure – you either loved or hated him but you could never dismiss him. He was a warrior devoted to stamping out injustice, a stalwart supporter of the black cause which he refused to compromise.  I was just so glad, that he was there.  To speak UP.

 

Darcus, you have been tireless in keeping up the good fight, but it’s time to say goodbye, and for us to thank you for all that you’ve done. Be at peace in knowing that we, the community will always be grateful and you will never be forgotten.