Can a book forecast a dream?

October 2015 was a strange month for me. The staff I had working in my house had played me up during the year but it became too much so I said they had to go! It was dramatic but my husband handled it so I was glad it was over.  But while this was going on, in the background I had thought of a title of a particular book I had read.  I couldn’t remember its name nor the author.

After quickly washing up the dishes and tidying up the living room, I went upstairs to our fully stocked library and searched. I couldn’t find it.  Was it at one of the other houses or did I take it with me to London?  No I thought, it’s definitely here…somewhere.  I searched high and low, pulled out a book thinking I had found it due to the cover design.  So what was it about this book that preoccupied my mind? It was about a young girl’s experiences of living with her mother who had dementia.  Throughout the mother’s struggles, she never forgot about her children and her responsibility towards them. Even while fighting the authorities, or being in the mental institution, she tried as hard as she could to be there for them. But for me what was striking about this book was its ending.  The young girl’s recollection of a dream she had about her mother when her mother had already passed away. The girl dreamt of her mother visiting her and how she was so prettily dressed and wearing a bright smile.  She sat with her daughter in the warmth of the sun and the two smiled constantly at each other.  They spoke of nothing in particular but the daughter felt they were the only two in world, and for the daughter, this was an everlasting feeling. Eventually, the mother told the daughter it was time for her to go, and how everything would be fine, and that there was nothing for her to worry about.  As she spoke, she was moving closer and closer to the light until she became a tiny speck in the sky.  The little girl cried.  When I had read the book for the first time some years ago, I remember then being impressed with the book’s ending.

The following day I checked my emails for the first time in the week.  There were so many things to do in the house now that the staff had gone plus, I had just began the beginner’s class in Iyengar Yoga, forcing me to completely forget my mails.  Anyway, there was an email from the residential home where my mother resided, saying that my mother had been admitted into the local hospital on Monday. (I should add at this point that I live abroad but I travel to London twice per year).  The day I checked my email was Wednesday. I was surprised and annoyed.  Why should it take them over a day to contact me? I was about to call them when I changed my mind and decided to call my brother David instead.  David, who lives in London, also said that he only just found out and was annoyed how they delayed with the information.  He said I shouldn’t worry as he would quickly go to the home. But I called the home and spoke to the sister in charge for the evening. She said my mother had not eaten or urinated in 24 hours so they sent her to the hospital.  The hospital put her on a drip but found it to be ineffective so the consultant had decided as my mother was not responding to treatment they would discharge her. The other key thing the sister told me was the reason also for my mother’s discharge was there was not anything else the hospital could do for her.

The following day I called the home to find out what ward she was in.  They did not know so I called the hospital.  It was only after the fifth attempt that I managed to find out the name of the ward and was put through.  The Ward Sister said that my mother was in a poor state and that the intravenous feeding was not having an effect.  There would be a meeting with the consultant and they would decide what to do.  I then called my brother and we talked. Later that evening my husband and I agreed that this coming Friday, I would go to London.

The following morning, it occurred to me that one of the words of the title of the book which had escaped me was ‘Pilgrim’. After an hour or so on the internet, I managed to find the title: Pilgrim State and the author was Jacqueline Walker.  And would you know when I went to the library, there it was!  I searched for the last pages and found what had been on my mind.  Now that I had read it, I was still wondering what was the big deal: why was I compelled to read this.

Friday had crept up quickly as before I knew it, I was in my seat, on a British Airways flight to London.  When I had arrived to my mother’s house in Tottenham, I rushed up to what used to be my bedroom, grabbed the car keys and went to the garage.  The weather I would say was in-between warm and cold. Lots of leaves on the ground and yet, still lots of leaves to fall from the trees.  I warmed up the car for some minutes before leaving to see my mother. When I arrived it was a relief to see her, and to see that well, she was no different from when I had left her on the same day I was leaving for Nigeria, which was exactly one month ago.  Perhaps she was a little gaunt but still had the same glazed expression and jerking to every sound she heard. When I called her name, she jumped, looked about herself but she could not see me due to glaucoma.

Every day I would go to see her and spend most of the time with her. But as the week drew to an end, her breathing had become shallow and short, her mouth was permanently open and her eyelids never seem to close. Each time she paused before taking another breath, my heart would skip a beat. There was a day I fed her some soup, and it surprised the staff as it was the first time in ages that she had taken something to eat. It uplifted me but the following morning, her beautiful unlined face was shaped into the famous visage in the painting The Scream by Edvard Munch.  Not a flattering description I know but it was the image that came to mind upon seeing her. But I was depressed as it was clear that her situation was not going to improve. I believe I spent the rest of that day waiting to exhale.

On the last day of the month my mother passed away just as I was about to leave to go home. It’s a strange experience witnessing death take over as life makes its exit. I remained with her alone in her bedroom for another five hours before the suited undertakers came and removed her body.

Weeks after the cremation, I thought about the book Pilgrim State. I now understood why I was preoccupied with locating the book; it was a sort of preparation of what was to come. Since I quickly forgot my dreams after waking, perhaps it was for me to know, through the ending of Pilgrim State, that Mummy wanted to let me know that there was no need for worry, fear or upset as everything would be alright.

I was happy that I arrived to the UK in time to spend one last week with my mother. I had time to tell her I was sorry for my misunderstanding, that I forgave her when I felt that her support was not enough, to thank her for sacrificing her time and needs, that I loved her, and to say good-bye.  May she rest in perfect peace.

My favourite post in 2015?

 

I noticed recently that the above title was placed in ‘Hot off the Press’ before the year ended.  As the comments were  closed, it occurred to me that I could scroll through my posts and see which one was my favourite.

My favourite post  I wrote in 2015 was about Rachel Dolezal –  the controversial academic who pretended her way – by darkening her skin and braiding her hair –  into being somebody she was not.

I liked the story simply because it forced me to delve into an aspect of my past which I had completely shut down. It was a painful time. Lots of bullying, unsympathetic parents and more importantly, not understanding who I was or the environment I was in.  The quick response as to why this was, my parents shaped me into something they thought the world would find acceptable. If my P’s and Q’s were all in place, why shouldn’t I be able to get along?  But little did they know that it caused an offence to those in our community and others.  It seemed I was a stranger to them.  Having said that, moving around with or hiding behind a set of girls  I went to school with, made up for who I wasn’t.  It helped me to cope.  X amount of years on, there is a stronger sense of who I am and accepting who I am.   There are no judgments or forced questions upon myself.

Re-reading this piece, forces me to travel back and confront all that went on. It also gives me satisfaction and relief.  Maybe Rachel should be thanked for enabling me to do this.

Cilla Black

Gosh! Memories. I must have been just six years old when I heard Cilla’s Any One who had a Heart. I loved it so much that my father took me to the record shop in Stamford Hill and he bought it for me. It was the beginning of us regularly buying records. About a year later, my parents bought a radiogram, again, purchased from a large electronics shop in Stamford Hill and I played this 7” record non-stop.

Radiogram

It is difficult to know at such a young age why I liked this record so much: was it the passion she injected or the way it trailed off at the end? I was also too young to know that the song written by Burt Bacharach and sung originally by my mother’s favourite, Dionne Warwick was released first. But no matter, it was Cilla’s version that was truly embedded in my mind; that each time the song is mentioned or is covered by someone else, Cilla’s voice comes to mind.

Cilla

My condolences to Cilla’s family and may she rest in perfect peace.

7th July ’05 to be remembered

Yesterday, I watched on Sky News the service of those who lost their lives on 7th July ’05. 52 people died and over 700 people were injured.  The survivors and relatives of victims were at a simple ceremony at Hyde Park.  It was very moving and inspirational to listen to loved ones speak of how they have coped with loss. They were very similar to the families of the massacred African-Americans who lost their lives in the Charleston church shooting on 17th June.  Their sentiments, their strength and their forgiveness for those who carried out these atrocious acts.

I was in London when it happened but a friend of mine whose cousin’s son lost their life in the  London Underground explosion was present at today’s ceremony; and although at the time it happened, the son’s mother spoke very powerfully but today she sat, dignified and in quiet repose.  I am sorry for their loss and totally admire them for their courage and pray that the Almighty Father continues to give them strength.

The Complex Relationship between Writing and Loneliness

I just thought this was so beautifully written with a hint of sadness.  Any truth in this?  What do you think?

Cody Delistraty

Anyone who spends a good deal of time writing knows that it is a lonely pursuit. Nearly every other job has at least some aspect of socializing to it — even other creative jobs: actors exchange dialogue; musicians are often in bands or at least collaborating on songwriting; even painters, sculptors, and drawers can be in the same studio together. For the writer though, solitude is perhaps the single most important requirement to success. Especially when writing something long — be it a novel, a play, or a screenplay — there are so many loose parts spinning about in the writer’s mind that even the din of a café can be too much. Time locked away in isolation is precious.

And yet the causality between writing and loneliness is misunderstood. Writing does not breed loneliness so much as loneliness breeds writing. People do not start writing because they want to be lonely; they start writing because…

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Can living a lie be ‘passed’ off as living real: The Rachel Dolezal matter

The Rachel Dolezal story is an interesting one.  Her story forces me back to my past, the late 70s when I was a teenager growing up in Tottenham, North London.  For as long as I can remember, the black community would battle its way against racism as well as fighting to hold onto its self-respect and dignity.  The encounters it experienced from the host community were many, but the one which intrigued me the most were those who hustled to befriend you, that is, to be you. Dreadlock-Hairstyles

The girls I moved around with were black but there was a white girl, who also used to hang with us.  Her name was Norma.  She was pale in complexion, sported long blonde dreadlocks which she bunched up under a large tam bearing the colours of the Jamaican flag.  Ackee and salt fish (a traditional Jamaican dish) was her favourite meal; Jamaican patois poured from her mouth as if its origins began there. We’d all meet up after school and most times our activities would involve roaming from each other’s house to the next and purposely checking out the High Rd (just so we didn’t miss the opportunity of accidentally bumping into some guy we were hoping to meet).   Another one of our regular haunts was visiting the many record shops in the area.  Norma would show off her knowledge on the latest reggae ‘tunes’, and could tell you about the forthcoming ‘pre-release’.  Added to all these qualities was her relationship with black guys.  They liked her.  And if there was any resentment on our part, it was how we automatically melted into the background when she was around.  She acted as if it was all natural to her.  No one would confront her with any of this but we would discuss it behind her back.

There would be the odd occasion where she was challenged.  During her predatory moments, when she was interested in a guy, it didn’t matter on whose toes she trod. Girls, whose boyfriends she took, would face her at one of the disco’s or at the local park where the fight would take place. In fact, when she was involved in a fight, it would not meet its expected conclusion. Guys would get involved and break it up before any damage was done.  On another occasion, she was confronted by black girl named Rita from Stamford Hill. Rita had a reputation as a bully and she was also a good fighter.  At one of the discos, Rita confronted Norma about her identity.   black female dread

“And what do you look like?”  Rita scowled with contempt.  Norma just laughed with her locks swinging from side to side. Her blithe response was fearless. Rita, built like a tank could have floored Norma, easily.  But as with Rita and the rest of us, there was an assumed feeling like some sort of edict, that physically attacking Norma would result in her parents, our parents and the police descending on you. In the days where Child Line was yet to be born, getting ‘lix’ from your parents was a fear, far greater than other parents or the police!  Norma was sacrosanct: an untouchable, where she could do whatever she wanted and they’d be no consequences from us nor interference from her own community.  Just as a pretender who has usurped the throne from its rightful Queen and remains unsurpassed, was like Norma.  And just like a Queen holding court, she would ridicule her conquests and be untroubled by her defeats; she would inject and impose her opinions on top of our views while editing our experiences.

At times she would make it hard for us to criticise her when there were injustices. It would make her angry when young black men were being stopped and searched by the police or, pitied hard-working immigrants who could never satisfy the relentless criticism.  And just like anyone of us, she was also contradictory.  There were moments when her actions worked for us?  I remember an incident which took place not too far from the Gestetner factory on Tottenham Hale, when one of us were called names by an elderly white woman. I remember Norma charging towards the woman, snatching her hat from her head and hitting her continuously with it.  A crowd closed in as we all watched her belt the woman with suRachel Dolezalch fury.   It was incredulous to believe that Norma was doing this, on our behalf.  We told her to stop, as the incident was taking place on the High street somebody was bound to have called the police.   We dragged Norma away and the woman quickly retreated into one of the shops.  I remember seeing the woman again, a week later. Maybe she recognized me, I don’t know, but she took one look, and crossed to the other side of the road.

Years later, one of the friends in the group, Brenda, told me she saw Norma in Enfield Town.  She said Norma had married an English man and had two children.  With the dreadlocks and patois gone, she spoke in a Standard English accent about her eldest getting into university and wanting the family to move to a better area.  She appeared happy and satisfied but she did not ask any questions of us or the guys.  Brenda, tempted to ask for her mobile number to arrange a reunion of sorts, sensed Norma’s disinterest to be reacquainted with the past.  In fact, Norma wished her all the best when saying good-bye. ‘It felt final’, Brenda said ‘as if she didn’t expect to see me again.’

Brenda and I explored this.  We remembered she did not have a good relationship with her family and perhaps found sanctuary in the people she moved around with. Being us, or having another identity perhaps enabled her to escape the shackles of her own life. Our readiness to accommodate her without question is what she embraced.  Norma mimicking us or appropriating our culture, I did not see it as a threat because deep down, we all knew it wasn’t for real. How could it be?  You could not compare her to the level Rachel Dolezal took it. Norma heading the Race Relations board or becoming a lecturer on Black Studies at Middlesex Poly by ticking the wrong ethnicity box? I don’t think so.  I remember the time when we no longer saw Norma.  We wondered what had happened to her. We called at her home where she had lived with her parents (they said she had moved out and staying with a relative, which I didn’t believe) checked her last boyfriend and she was nowhere to be seen. I think somewhere within us all we were not surprised.  If I were to hazard a guess, perhaps black life was becoming too real. It was time to get rid of the disguise, since it had served its purpose, and head to the suburbs.white dreadlocks

As for Rachel Dolezal, she had given lectures on black hair, helped to fight some of the injustices faced by the black community.  You could say she had good intentions but spoilt it all by stating in one video that she is black. She used her make over, her knowledge to transition herself to secure a top job with the NAACP.   But as one African-American writer Alicia Walters writes, ‘the black identity cannot be put on like a pair of shoes’. Norma did this and Dolezal is still doing this.  I welcome Dolezal’s concern but I’m not sure whether pretending to be black or culturally nicking bits and pieces of a culture is the way to go about things. There are a number of white people who similarly hate injustices meted out to ethnic minorities but don’t find it necessary to pretend to be something they are not.  Also I feel the dishonesty reduces the seriousness of a people’s experiences as well as mocking them.

The other key thing whilst practicing Mindfulness Meditation, you realise that you eventually learn to embrace and love who you are. As someone who has struggled over the years against the pervasive, dominant images that I see from the press and print media, forcing me to rework my look, hoping that one day, the reflection in the mirror will return the ‘look’ I want.  Trying to exist in someone else’s image does not lead you anywhere. So whether I braid or relax my hair, I will always look like me.  Rachel, I hope you’re listening…

Faith Bandler: May God rest her soul.

FAITH BANDLER FILE

Faith Bandler

 

Some years ago I worked in a high-end department store in West London. It was a great experience working in an environment where the customers served never seemed to blink an eyelid at the prices of items sold. The majority of the customers were famous – whether they were politicians, Hollywood actors and actresses as well as the British ones’, and then of course the musicians – whether pop stars, opera stars or divas’.  But there was one lady I served, Faith Bandler, an Aboriginal activist who campaigned against the plights and sufferings of Aboriginals in Australia. She did not tell me who she was as I  recognised her from a documentary I’d seen on TV.

Ms Bandler successfully campaigned for the indigenous Australians to be recognised as full citizens and to be given rights under the constitution. She was totally humble, warm, intelligent, passionate and possessed a quick and easy laugh She was also curious about the black community in London.  I am really happy that she will be given a full state funeral by her country.  May her soul rest in perfect peace.

Becoming Mindful for 2015

2014 was sort of an okay year. I say this as it sped past in a single blink, and added to that, I’m guilty of not having done too much!  There has been the daily routine of work (I manage a shop), I attended several conferences, managed an exhibition, attended meetings, and travelled to London. The year ended with the family coming together for Xmas and the New Year, and each moment was a treasure which I thoroughly enjoyed (my kids study abroad). But I feel as though I should have done more.  So now that 2015 has begun, I’ve decided that I want to learn something, not something that will contribute to my work, but to me.

morning sunOf recent I’ve noticed how my mind likes to do its own thing. By that I mean, it likes to chat endlessly.  It likes to tell me what I can’t do, what to worry or whine about; it leads me to believe that I can experience my past, which has long since gone, or experience the future, which is yet to be.  It seems to feel threatened by the present and so far, has managed to convince me that happiness is obtainable, even though I know it’s a fleeting experience. It fights the belief, ‘nothing is ever permanent’ and therefore keeps you stuck in the notion that ‘things remain the same’. I get some relief when I’m with family/friends or at church.

It is said that ‘a mind can be a humble servant or a dangerous master’.  It is how you use it that will decide which direction it will take. If you don’t ‘direct’ it, you are just left confused and unfocused. There is a lot of information on courses where you can learn to study the mind such as Psychology or NLP; or you can learn to quieten it with Mindfulness Meditation. My rule for this New Year is that besides improving my health, I have to look after my mind. Has anyone taken a course in Mindfulness or NLP?  How did you find it?  If you live in London, which courses did you take and where?  I would love to know.

If 2014 was a great year for you, then brilliant.  But if it wasn’t, then I hope, for you and I, the New Year brings us what we want and surpasses our expectations.

Is Humour a one-sided affair: The Paris bombing.

As stated in other blogs I was born in London of West Indian parentage.  I now live in Nigeria and have done so for a number of years.  When I lived in London, amongst friends and family members, I would make jokes and people would laugh.  This did not make me a stand-up comedian but I knew I had a quick wit, a sense of humour and a sense of timing, and was able to make a joke out of a situation. I guess as a result of living in the UK and being exposed to the humour that I saw daily on TV, especially the ‘put down’ variety, was something I had gotten used to and therefore did not question.  I felt it was normal to use this same kind of humour when making jokes. But when I got to Nigeria I realised my humour was not seen as funny. My ‘jokes’ were considered acidic and unkind. I eventually got the message when I was at a function; getting carried away telling one anecdote after the other, when the couple at my table got up and sat elsewhere. On another occasion, someone who was a friend actually stopped talking to me because she couldn’t stand my ‘jokes’.  I was surprised.je suis

I had to take two steps back and realise that ‘humour’ can be a one sided affair.  After all, how can a joke be funny and inclusive if people did not get it?  And really, I should know better, that is, not getting the joke or more to the point, when a joke is mocking me.  If I dig into my past and relive some of those toe-cringing experiences, it would be similar to going to a theatre house, where I am the only black person seated amongst a white audience, and on walks the comedian say, Jim Davidson or Bernard Manning, where a large chunk of their material is making jokes about black people etc. I laugh, but with some element of shame at the fact that I am the butt of their jokes! The rest of the audience is satisfied that I ‘see’ the joke but when everything comes to an end and I’m left with my thoughts; I feel humiliated, demeaned, disarmed and powerless followed by the emotion of anger. I’m not, as I said, a comedian nor satirist; I don’t have key contacts or belong to any institutions that can support or protect me. Of course, I can take refuge with family and friends, who gives me the needed support but at the end of the day, they are just as disarmed and powerless as I am.

To make it worse, when I complain to my white friends, they fob me off as suffering from the classic case of ‘chip on my shoulder’ syndrome.  So therein my resentment remains firm, simmering and waiting until a time comes when I can express myself. I understand that the role of humour is to let off steam, release tension.  Laughing at something that deep down is found to be threatening, humour can be the antidote that removes the sting out the bite. For those who find the whole business about immigrants/immigration threatening, humour perhaps, can give them some space between what they feel and the reality of the situation.

What happened in Paris is absolutely tragic. I feel for the journalists who were killed in the bombing and my sympathies goes out to their loved ones.  My understanding is that the magazine where the journalists worked – Charlie Hebdo – was satirical in its content and was well renowned throughout the country.  But I wonder if they went too far, in putting out their brand of humour?  Yes, freedom of speech is at the heart of democracy, but upon seeing a few of the cartoons I can understand why Muslims would be offended. However, I’m relieved that they found it abhorrent that extreme violence was used as a way of ‘correcting’ the problem. They realise, as we all realise, that no amount of provocation can ever warrant or justify violence.

I implore France to do what is right and not allow the histrionics of the Far Right to dictate the fate of the country and not see what has happened as a ‘clash of civilizations’. The New Year has just begun, but it is clear we are living in dangerous times, (as I write this, a bomb exploded killing a number of people in Baga, North East of Nigeria) we should all court tolerance and strive towards unity, if we hope to make it!

Is the new BMW i8 sheer poetry?

The new BMW i8 vehicle was launched in August, this year. Whilst I was in London the ad was shown regularly on certain channels.  It impressed me.  I thought, why should this poetry be used on a vehicle when it can be rearranged and used to uplift us humans, in a positive way?

Perhaps it had something to do with the way the ad was presented – slick, stylish and smooth, with a different narrator each time you saw the ad.  The narrators, two male and one female were used but what they had to say was the same.  But it was convincing, convincing enough to believe that a car can possess such beauty and invoke such poetry. and this is how it went:-

I am the impossible. I am the idea, too bold to be chained. Too powerful to be tamed. I am the big bang. I’m changing the game for all you worriers, doubters, preventers.
I am the idea that has to be born, the revolution that has to be won, the story that has just begun.
I am unstoppable: a rocket, a cannonball; a carbon fibre body lighter than wind, stronger than storm.
I am born electric.
I’m sheer energy, the force of tomorrow.
I am possible
I am – i8

But this is my take on the ad which I’ve titled The New Me

I am the impossible. I am and have always been, the created, too bold to be chained.
I am changing the game of those of you who have doubted, prevented and decided who I am, refused who I was.
I am – that has to be born, that has just begun.
I am unstoppable
I am born
I’m sheer energy, the force of tomorrow
I am possible
I am – God created.

Are there any ads you’ve seen where you are not interested in the product, but just the words?  Then let me know!