Dorcas Durojaiye: No child, no papers, 20 years on the run
By Taju Tijani
The fast train from Glasgow sneaked lazily into the Paddington station. Dorcas could not but marvel at the speed of development in real estate from the busy Edgware road to the bustling Marble Arch. High rise hotels jostled for spaces with modern apartment buildings that sit majestically overlooking Kings Cross bypass. Dorcas “DD” Durojaiye rubbed her tired eyes and gave a sigh of relief. The summer sun was overcast. It beamed its warm rays on DD. She put on her sunshade as she pulled her luggage to join the train going to Brixton.
Dorcas Durojaiye is a middle age woman. Dark skinned, average height, plumb, unsociable, nomadic worker, God fearing, soft spoken, careful and stingy. It was a sunny summer day in 2019. The church was packed as we listened to the charismatic messages of Pastor Paul James. James, our pastor, comes from Yorkshire and has plenty of that region traits in him. Tall, bald headed, intelligent, warm and affable. He is a fiery preacher who preaches with aching passion and teary declamation when it involves the suffering of Jesus Christ for humanity. Across the church hall are heads of South Asians, Africans, European and Chinese people. It is a real multi-cultural church.
“E kasan sir,” the greeting boomed out. I stood still as we exchanged pleasantries. “You hardly talk to anyone in this church. I have been observing you,” DD accused me. “Madam, kori be, you know after the service, I always rush to go for my shopping before going home…so I am always in a hurry,” I responded. “Anyway, shewapa.” “Ope fun Jesu.” DD confessed that she had been watching my coming and exiting from the church. She got to know I am from Nigeria from my summer wear of buba and Sokoto. Your sartorial identity can offer an identifier on you so to speak.
The British Airways flight from Nigeria in October 2000 was full. DD was a passenger. Fed up with life of drudgery in Nigeria, she packed up and fled to the UK. She was married for 15 years. The husband got fed up. He abandoned DD due to barrenness and pitched a camp with another woman. The shame of childlessness doted DD’s life throughout her marriage. She had been to hell and back looking for ways to conceive but it was not happening. She became a convert to Celestial Church of Christ for years walking barefooted. The child was not coming. She tried orthodox and unorthodox methods. Still there was no luck.
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DD narrated her ordeal in the hands of Nigerian lovers who promised undying companionship but were scammers and wolves ready to eat you to the bones without leaving anything for the morning. Mr. Balogun is from Egbaland. Tall, dapper, stylish and loud. DD loved him. He professed love back. He confessed to having no wife. Either in the UK or Nigeria. Two years later after spending fortune on Mr. Balogun, the truth emerged. Mr. Balogun had been married to two previous women and has seven children. His current wife relocated to the Midlands.
Beaten, battered and disappointed by Nigerian men, DD vowed that she would go for men whose wives were dead. The desperation to have a child of her own turned DD into a serial lover. In her late sixties but her unshakeable belief in the miracle of her coming pregnancy is next to none. She has a Davidian faith that could kill any Goliath of doubt and unbelief. When I mentioned IVF, DD shrugged her shoulders and insisted that a baby will come out of her womb – naturally.
The immigration consultation was uneventful. DD had gone to Dulwich to speak to a consultant regarding having a legal stay in the UK. She had been battling with this giant for over eighteen years. The consultant was ready to assist but the charges momentarily staggered DD. She will need to spend £15,000 in fees to get her legal status. She debated for weeks if it was worth it. She had been in the UK for 23 years and will soon return to Kogi as a returnee to enjoy farming which she loved. She had been saying this to me for years but the allure of collecting more pound sterling kept her from her homecoming dream.
Dr. Sam Okoli and his wife were both medical doctors. They love DD like a sister and enjoy her childcare services. Both live in Golders Green in an expansive house in a very well-appointed and quiet neighbourhood. DD was given a room to herself. She was a domestic staff who handled house cleaning and offered childcare to the twin babies of Dr. & Dr. Okoli. The doctors were protective. They were aware that DD had no papers. So, they paid her cash in hand at the end of the month.
DD hardly rented accommodation. She was a live-in to her clients. She was able to save a lot of money through this exceptional working system. She moved from client to client through glowing recommendation from satisfied clients across the UK. My phone rang. It was DD. I hesitated from picking up. I was weary of being bombarded with her earthly woes of work and no child. Of her life of nomadic child caring across the UK. Of the money she had made. Of her plan to return to Nija. Of the lifestyle of ease and comfort she enjoyed with well-heeled professional Nigerians who took her on as a child minder. Then…
“Mr Teejay, otisu mi, honestly ilu yi ti sumi. I have been working for the last 23 years moving from one home to the other. I look after other people’s children but I have none of mine,” DD said sounding emotional and grief stricken. I kept quiet for a while. Then I reminded her of the rock like covenant she once had with God. “Mo mo, sugbon agba ti nde now,” she said. At 69, DD is afraid. Afraid of her dying faith in God. Afraid of being barren for life. Afraid of what to do with the nighty thousand pounds she had saved in the last 20 years of life as an itinerant child minder across the UK.
“Bawo ni Glasgow” “Ewo Glasgow wa… I was actually there for two years.” DD sounded tired on the phone. “I have to come and see you. I have an idea I want to share with you,” DD said. “Motigbo, of course, I will be happy to have you around after many years,” I promised. In my mind’s eyes, I pictured the woman at the end of the phone. I see the picture of a crafty and penny-pinching woman who will not spend money to regularize her stay. I see the picture of an old and rugged Londoner who could not understand why she had no child of her own but had been nursing and raising other people’s children across the UK for decades…
