Bloodlines: Voices of Lagosians trapped in London
By Taju Tijani
Tunde Savage grabbed my hand and gave me a warm squeeze. He looked dapper in a Polo shirt, jean and a pair of Timberland shoes. He showed off his black, Garmin Vivoactive 4 GPS smart wristwatch. I spotted a heavy, flat, curb gold bracelet on his right wrist. He smelled good in Paco Rabanne. As we moved across the hall, noisome activities rent the air. It was a mad house this very particular Saturday. I received nodding welcome from faces I met last week. I was stunned when one of the guys called my name. What memory!
By natural instinct I grew fond of the guy who remembered my name. It was Wale Rhodes. I excused myself from Tunde Savage and tackled Wale. He wore a Ted Baker hat and a pair of khaki chino over Balenciaga trainer. He took me to the snooker room and there we had a long chat. I fixed a writer’s gaze on my quarry not knowing if the meat of his story will be delicious or not. I was debating within me what he had to say. Was he once a killer? A drug addict? A paedophile? A gangmaster in South London? A genius lost in the whirlwind of London life? What? My curiosity knew no bound.
“Do you mind if I call you Teejay”, he began. “Yeah, I’m known by that,” I answered. He took off his Ted Baker’s hat and I saw a sawdust of grey hair on his head. Wale’s dad, Chief Wole Rhodes was once the chief accountant of a big company in Lagos. He made fortune and sent all his kids abroad for education and the chance of a better life. They lived in an expansive house in Victoria Island where Chief Rhodes had three other houses. Dad was a landlord till death. At age 18 Wale became a Londoner.
He came into the world of his uncle who had lived in Tottenham for 25 years. Wale as a greenhorn and starry-eyed teenager lapped all the mores and street lingo of Tottenham in the early 80s. His neighbourhood was rough – very rough. Wale lived in Broadwater farm estate. That was the theatre of massive riot in 1985. He was part of the crowd that held placards against the racist treatment of Cynthia Jarret in the 80s and once walked as part of a protest procession with late Bernie Grant the then Labour MP for Tottenham in Haringey.
There were gangs all around him. He knew the Disciples who wore black with blue hat. He spoke about the Brothers who wore black and red hat. He said that the Disciples wore their hats to the right and the Brothers to the left.
The two gangs never wore their hats straight. So, anytime either member was crossing over their neighbourhoods, they must remove their hats as a form of respect to each other’s territorial districts.
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One sunny summer day, Wale was in the park with his friends. They were drinking beer, playing music on a mobile ghetto blaster and having fun. Eight boys jumped out from nowhere and were all around Wale and his mates. They had baseball bats and one had a gun.
“Hey guys we don’t want any fight. Why don’t you go your way and leave us alone. We accept you won,” Wale begged.
“No man we gonna fight you fucking Africans…you lot,” the gang leader threatened. In seconds, robbery took place. Jewelleries, wallets and wrist watches were taken by the gang from Wale and his merry making friends. From that day a seed of hatred and dislike was sown in Wale’s mind against all West Indian people. He was a joker. Tottenham then was the cradle of Caribbean immigration heartland. He reckoned the robbers were Jamaican gang members driven by the demon of marijuana. That experience relocated him elsewhere…
Wale moved away from Tottenham to Kensal Rise. He was now the team leader of a recruitment agency. He loved his job. They called him dapper Rhodes. He was now in his 30s. He was single, career-minded, focused, ambitious, responsible and creative. He studied Digital Marketing and Analytics from the University of Liverpool. The mother kept reminding him to marry so that she could hold his kids. Wale shrugged off her mum’s desire. He travelled across Europe and bought a very mean looking BMW to impress the girls in his streets. No one took notice.
Except Cynthia Johnson, the Customer Service Officer at the front desk. Cynthia sat near the photocopy machine in Wale’s Kings Cross Office. Fair skinned, dutiful, soft spoken, clean, serious, God fearing and a Pan Africanist even though her parents were Caribbeans. Cynthia had been a secret admirer of this black, dapper, intelligent man called Dapper Rhodes since he set his foot in the office building. She had been building character resume of Wale. And she waited!!! Vulture is a patient bird she must have reasoned.
Meanwhile, Wale had been confiding in one of his friends his weakness for Cynthia. The cultural demarcation between West Indians and Africans in the diaspora bothered Wale. West Indians are known to be disdainful of Africans.
They lay the blame of slavery on our ancestors blaming them that they sold their grandfathers, grandmothers and children into slavery in a trade by barter for common mirror. They view Africa as the heart of darkness. Would love now break centuries of hate and suspicion? Power of love is unequal. It could disarm a fully loaded shooter. It could right wrong. It could heal. It could bring closure to anything. It could reset our thinking from long held prejudice against one another. Cynthia and Wale were blinded by love and through that blindness, old bigotry for each other’s ancestry paled.
The taxi meandered through the sea of humanity along Idumota until it reached Daddy Alaja Street. The dream of Cynthia was fulfilled when she stepped into the ancestral home of Wale Rhodes. Uncles, cousins and nephews were overjoyed to meet Cynthia. Cynthia was assimilating the aberrations of Nigeria – the culture shock, the poverty, the stench, the lawlessness. Her mind was documenting everything. She also visited Victoria Island where the Rhodes family relocated after leaving the ancestral quarters in Daddy Alaja. Two years later, she took Wale to St. Lucia. Wale was astounded at the development of that country, the civility and orderliness of everyday life. The contrast was too mind boggling for Wale.
“Teejay, it is amazing how my wife loves Nigeria.” “That’s the power of love innit,” I said. “Guess what”. “What?” “My children Jermaine, Roy and Jakie hate Nigeria”, he said sadly. “They have never been to Nigeria because of what they hear and see about Nigeria – the killings, the scamming, the Trumpian shit hole label, the robbery, the lack of infrastructure, the insecurity and the poverty.”
Hmmm….. I was silent for a minute. Wale should know that where other countries plan for the future, Nigeria plans for today and so the politicians steal as much as possible today because there is no future to plan for. Wale Rhodes escorted me out wondering why I was silent. On the way, I forgot to tell him that I once worked for late Chief Yinka Rhodes as one of his salesmen in the early eighties selling marbles of all descriptions from Botticiano Classico, Belgian Blue, White Carrara, Bianco Neve, to Calacatta Colorado, Calacatta Oro and Calacatta Vaticano.
- To be continued…
