immigrant tales

of culture, religion, faith, race and all things divisive

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They sat around the tables as the Imam led the Dua for Iftar. Quietly conversing, eating fruits and drinking inside the church when I entered.

I noticed my Ward Councillor and a few other Community leaders were already there. Paused briefly to say my greetings then moved in and sat beside the #BAME team.

“I can see you already broke your Fast” I jibed at Adam, a White British guy who was eating chunks of Watermelon. Layered across the tables were platters and bottles of Watermelon, Dates, Yoghourt, Sorrel, water and some more indigenous drinks

platters of watermelon, apples and grapes
 

 

“Oh yes, I have” He laughed good naturedly.

A cursory glance around and I took in nationalities – An elderly Far-Eastern couple who looked Japanese in my eyes, bunch of British men and women, a few blacks. Another look to the left of the hall and I felt myself freefalling back to Kaura Namoda.

Kaura Namoda is the quaint town I grew up in Zamfara state. An extremist Muslim state in Nigeria’s Far North. I was living in Kaura well before my teenage years arrived. And was there when they moved on. So you can tell that Kaura was the base of my formative years.

Kaura was the place where my mind stored up Ramadan as a time for feast. Feast of tables arrayed with Sweets, Savories and an assortment of foods. Tables of food were placed in forecourts and anyone could walk in to eat. It was a time of fellowship. Communion and Community.

Your Faith or lack of it did not matter during Ramadan. You had an open invitation to a feast and it does not matter in whose courtyard you stepped in. The only password you required was an “Assalam Aleikum” and you were made welcome.

Kaura was the place where I learnt to eat Dabino [dates]. Where I went to the house behind us and watched Alhaji Mai Shanu’s wives make Fura Da Nono [Millet-based Yoghourt and Goat’s milk]. It was where on my way to Junior School daily, I would stop by and watch Hussaina and her sisters milk the cows and goats, before they came to School.

It was Kaura that taught me tolerance. A love for humanity across the external separators of cultures, regions, languages and beliefs.

Therefore, when I agreed to come and join this Iftar session, it was the beautiful memories of my childhood which led me here. To come sit at the Table and break bread with my fellow Africans who are Muslims. And as anticipated, all the memories surged out of my repository, suffusing me with feel good hormones.

Meanwhile, head covered in hijab, I sipped my Bissap [a spiced-hibiscus drink], reading the room and wondering. This pheromones floating across this room – causing laughter, banter, men calling themselves brother, niqab-clad women sharing food with those in pants, burqa-covered teenagers speaking British English with their peers – why is it not strong enough to permeate our divisive walls?

 

 

Savories like puff-puff, buns
Meatballs
Coolers of food
A dish of rice with vegetables
A dish of jollof rice

The Undignifying Circle of Life

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a man sitting on the steps of a building

·Caveat: Sensitive Post**

 

Sleepless.

21:53

My eyes are tired. They have been attempting to shut down for more than an hour now. Yet, my head refuses. It is still taking stock while Tim McGraw’s Humble and Kind wafts in through the hallway.

My head does this nightly ritual. It pulls up the Day’s scorecard and shoves it into my face. Not asking my permission. Or does it do the same to you too?

Well, it has dredged up the image of that Baba inside the bus. Baba, a multilingual word for father, also used by Nigerians to denote respect for an elderly man. And with that image, came the visual of the other baba at that funeral party. That, finally called up the memory card of my father.

Alright.

Exhale.

Let me connect the dots for you.

It was this afternoon on my way from the hospital. At a bus stop, a handful of new passengers boarded. And with them came this putrefying odour. The stench was overpowering enough to turn heads in it’s direction.

**Caveat: Sensitive from here on**

A quick scan showed an elderly man dawdling towards a seat. He had on a loose jeans which seemed okay from the back as he ambled past me towards a seat. Then a cursory downwards glance showed it. Oozing out from the leg of one jean and onto his white trainers was watery poop.

I went cold.

“Oh no, this man has had a faecal accident!” I thought as my eyes noticed his perceptibly wet flap

“Why did he not have diapers on?”

“Is he incontinent or he could not access a toilet?”

Is it diarrhoea?

As those thoughts swirled across my mind, I felt an anger. Anger at Life for injuring this man’s pride.

If a pre-schooler has ever stood shamefaced before you with an “I had an accident again”, then you may get the picture

Meanwhile, I was glad it was off-peak period. The uniforms were still in school. His pride did not need any further dent.

About two stops down the road, he alighted and shuffled off. A glance through the window showed him stood outside, unmoving. The whole length of his inseams now soaked.

A harbour with high tides. Birds and a ship sailing on it.
That phase of Life when your tides are high and bursting with activities

 

Life is a Humbler

As a vulnerable person following a cancer battle, it proved a disturbing sight for me. I know what it means to be running on your track today then unable to stand up tomorrow. And trust me, such an experience toys with your head.

In there, mulling over that incident, another image appeared on my mind’s screen. A high profile party at Lagos. The deceased was the first female chartered accountant in Africa. In addition to being a former president of the Institute of Chartered Accountants of Nigeria (ICAN).

By tradition – her former colleagues - past ICAN presidents had a 

 {This is a lengthy article.  If interested click here where it was originally published} 

 

 

 

 

 

of racism and our red milk of human kindness.

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“How is your knee today?” The elderly man [whom I will name baba] asked him “Better, it’s less painful.” Young replied cheerily “Oh, you remembered. Thank you for asking” I said to baba as the minus-1-degree icy cold shook my body mercilessly. “Yes, he was limping the other day and could barely walk” baba responded … Read more

enslaved. abused. deported. a tale of the vulnerable migrant.

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“One more footstep and all these will be over” Hajara looked at the sea entreatingly “You are too young and still have your life ahead of you” her heart remarked “What life does she have? Is this a life?” her head jeered “This life. She is here. Things can turn around, you know” “Ever the … Read more

he lost his marriage to this relocation

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“A family broke up as a husband and wife were sleeping with each other when their spouses were at work” the black man who sat across from me proffered in halting English

“You mean the student who left her husband for another man and he had been sent back to Nigeria? Ola turned towards him

“No. This woman was the dependent so the man is still here. He is my colleague and not Nigerian. Said the black man.

I cannot recall his name now. I was meeting him for the first time. Earlier during the introductions, he mentioned his friend prevailed on him to attend the session. I do remember he is from Equatorial Guinea

It was a new week and we were back for the Wellbeing session. We seem to be getting more men now. Black men too. As a black woman myself, this speaks volumes. It says that these men – finding themselves away from the enabling patriarchy of the African continent – now realised how much out of their depths they were and willing to try something different.

“How do you mean sent back to Nigeria?” asked Ashley, the coordinator for today

“She took him off her visa” Ola volunteered

“They were working shifts and never home alone together” Equatoguinean remarked

“Please, let’s take this in turns” Ashley stated as more two other women interjected

“You go first” Santos, she pointed to the man whose name I did not recall.

“They were our neighbours in the flat upstairs. Two families with five children living in a 3-bedroom flat. When the second family moved in, they informed us it was the wife’s sister and her family who had newly arrived. It was only after the issue escalated we find out they were total strangers to each other”

“So what happened?”

“They were all working different shifts and home at different times. The older kids go to school but both families has little ones out of school. So one partner would be home with the child and all that” One husband was a student though. Well it happened”

“How were they found out?”

“The student came home impromptu at a time when he was meant to be at work. Met them in the bathroom. His wife was not remorseful and that aggravated him so he began beating her. The other man intervened and both men started fighting and throwing things”.

“It was so bad she was screaming, the two toddlers at home were crying too. We do not know which neighbour called the police. Their saving grace was they claimed it was the men fighting, not a wife-battering”.

“And now, two families with kids are scattered. The children attend the same school so this is quite messy”

“Different families with various challenges” Anna opined. An Espanola who grew up in Morocco before migrating across the Channel.

“Still want to share Ola?” Ashley asked

“Not today” Let’s talk about something cheerful.

I came in here to cleanse my head. Ironically, it is now muddier. I find that despite my limited social life, these unsavoury harrowing stories seem to keep floating in the air anywhere I go.

How can I help my people? remains the constant refrain in my head.