The memory of the time we spent together in Joe’s one bedroomed apartment flooded my mind as I dressed up to meet a thriving community of Lagosians knit together by sheer bloodlines.
By Taju Tijani
It was a lazy Saturday morning. I had finished my daily morning Bible devotional. Yes, I am a work out buff. I specialised in dancing, press up, strength training and squat to stay in shape. Then my beloved egg and sardine sandwiches and brown coffee. At the background, Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart was strumming away at his piano sonata. I use baroque music to neutralise my flighty ego and calm it down. Then I offer my usual writer’s prayer before I start slamming on the keyboard of my beloved Dynabook laptop. A dear old friend once gossiped about the fossil remains of some washed up Lagosians lining the borders of Brixton and Peckham.
The writer in me could not wait to sound out these Lagosians who have formed a thriving enclave of their type in a hidden corner of London famously know as little Lagos – Peckham!!! Peckham reminded me of Joe Okafor. It was in the early 90s. Joe was then a hardened Peckhamite. Each time he visited; he delighted me with Peckhamese street lingo. That added to my credentials then as one in the know. Joe prototype was second to none.
We met in A/Level classes at CMS Grammar School. A tough, confident and clever chap. His rough skin could not hide his handsome face. Joe was a creative dancer like me. When Fela Anikulapo, the chief Priest, ruled the Afrobeat realm in the 80s, Joe was a paid-up subscriber to Kalakuta Republic. He was a die-hard fanatic of Fela’s music, his gyration, yabis and mannerism cultivated through his initiation to Kalakuta’s coven. Joe’s juvenility transgressed the boundaries of decency. Yes, he had his fill of marijuana, bohemianism and visit to brothels lining Ojuelegba, Ayilara in Surulere and Tejuosho. I was a dutiful student learning from the temple of the master.
When Joe japa-ed to the UK, naturally, he gravitated to Peckham. Joe left Peckham after his law degree which brought him a good job which then encouraged him to migrate away from the place of low lifers to a more respectable area of London. Today, Joe is a gentrified gentleman. He lives in a smart two-bedroom flat in Kent. He is a senior lawyer with a Council and at peace with his love of classical music. The memory of the time we spent together in Joe’s one bedroomed apartment flooded my mind as I dressed up to meet a thriving community of Lagosians knit together by sheer bloodline.
The train ride from Stanmore to Elephant and Castle took 45 minutes. The weather was beautiful. There was this air of giddy gladness in the sky. I took out “Ibadan, the Penkelemes Years” by Wole Soyinka and feasted on the memoir like a dutiful sergeant major. Soyinka’s pounding literary fecundity brightened my trip. After the marathon journey that took in twenty stops, I alighted at Elephant and Castle. I joined a red double decker bus and through the window I could see the razzmatazz of Peckhamites and the melting scenario of a truly multi-cultural South London.
A Somalian restaurant sat awkwardly in one corner. Then I went through a narrow alley until I got to my destination. I could smell fried plantain with a strong aroma of jollof rice coming out of this small but smart shop. But I wasn’t going to a restaurant, I mused. Two boys walked briskly out of the shop. Hey, I asked one of the boys about Uncle Babatunde Savage. He pointed to the shop. I waved him bye. I pressed the entrance bell – it was the modern eagle-eyed one. Cleared, I was ushered in.
On the wall of the large, warm hideaway was a large inscription, “Eko Koni Baje”. I took in all the pictures on the wall depicting the power, wealth, and influence of the sons and daughters of Lagosians from antiquity to the modern time. I spotted a large mural of Eyo procession in their royal white regalia. I saw the pictures of Marina and Broad Street in their glorious, unspoilt days. Then the picture of iconic Carter Bridge and Iddo Power station when they were iconic Lagos landmarks. The air of Lagos encircled me. I felt the glow and warmth of Lagos in this decrepit coven of proud Omo Eko.
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I was ushered into the inner chamber where I met grey headed humanity busy with one activity or the other. Then the roll call started. Tunde Savage introduced me to Wale Rhodes, Kunle Oshodi, Femi Haastrup, Laoye Akintoye, Jamiu Kosoko, Ladi Perriera, Lanre Williams, Demola Allen, Tokunbo Agoro, Remi Shitta-Bey, Yinka Thorpe, Abiodun King, Seun Macaulay, Doyin Peters, Dipo Fernandez, Timi Vaughan, Kola Alakija, Siji Randle, Yomi Benson, Dele Folawiyo, Niyi West, Kayode Ajasa, Bayo Ojora and Layi Okoya-Thomas. Chemistry of ownership was going through my veins. “These are my people washed ashore by the inanity of a great a nation called Nigeria,” my restless mind kept repeating.
“Where is the smell of jollof rice coming from”, I asked Tunde Savage. He burst into laughter as he took me straight to the kitchen where I met a large woman called Yewande Gomez. What beat me was the method in all these chaos around me. Some were playing “Ayo”. Some were playing cards. Some were busy with Ludo game. Some were throwing dice. Some were fiddling with snooker sticks. Some were watching football game on a large screen. Some were throwing dart at a target. Some were too intoxicated to know what was going on except tapped their legs to the music playing at the background. I looked at their faces. On each face was etched eternal story of ruggedness, trials, failures, strength to carry on, poor choices, bad planning, stagnant dreams, hopelessness, mild success, abandonment, apathy, resignation and fortitude.
Tunde sensed my hunger. He got me a steaming plate of jollof rice, dodo and fried fish. I wolved it down like a true disciple of these delicious combo. He moved me into a secluded room to tell the story of their lives in the diaspora. “Come next week, the habitues of this haunt will tell you the perverse glamour they once lived before they got trapped in London,” Tunde promised.
“No problem, my bro, I will be here next week to hear you guys out,” I waved my hand and disappeared into the night. On the road, my mind kept repeating…Trapped in London…. Trapped in London…Trapped in London…. Can one be trapped in London?
- To be continued next week …
