Coronavirus streets in Manchester - LXXVII

Leaps of fleshly walks

It had rained earlier besides the fact that there was a forecast of further rain episodes in Manchester. I was dressed in anticipation of adverse weather, but when I stepped out this afternoon to replenish my supply of cranberry juice that eases urinary tract issues, there was much to see.

There are people still adorning facemasks, they seem to be visitors from the Far East, in my case, I know that the Coronavirus is still about, five years on, because I only recently got my biannual booster, bringing my COVID-19 jabs to ten, in all.

However, as summer is now upon us, you cannot help but notice two things, the lips and the legs. The former is seen in both males and females, lips filled like balloons with fillers or Botox, all so unnaturally like big-lipped fish, very much the giant grouper or the Napoleon wrasse look. [A-Z Animals: Fish with Big Lips]

Flesh is not quite fresh

This is one case where beauty is hardly in the eye of the beholder other than whoever wants this unsightly cosmetic procedure that distorts from the natural and presents the utterly bizarre. For this and the latter issue, much as you want to look away, you are forced to see the indescribable that speaks louder than farce.

The rising mercury allows for the revealing of more skin, from shorts that should only be worn for a burlesque performance in a dingy poorly lit nightclub, well away from our common streets, to body parts that are best kept under wraps.

Whatever makes these fashion trends attractive fails to persuade me of either the self-awareness or the sensibleness of the purveyors. Yet, one must live and let live. Each time I walk through Manchester, one must curb the need to comment after seeing the outrageous to the dastardly.

It is still a bustling city of contrasts, changed and changing by circumstances, residents, and visitors alike. We cannot forget that the pandemic also wreaked havoc on our idyllic existence.

Time after time

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Like a foreigner to them

It is a source of amusement when I consider those who dismiss my viewpoints as borne of Western ideals totally bereft of understanding the cultural norms of my forebears.

I appreciate that I am quite detached, if not absent, but to mistake any of that for being oblivious is to fail to understand the power of influences of place, people, and position on the character and personality of a person.

One gets dismissed as a foreigner, mostly for convenience in terms of taking guidance, one's generosity is however more welcome and accepted than when one’s Western-tainted wisdom is dispensed. People only align with you where there is some advantage they can gain.

Time is not time to them

The somewhat unfortunate and conspicuous Englishman in me is rarely gratified on the use of and the sense of time as a material of precise measurement, by others.

You could be forgiven for thinking you live in a totally different universe, their timepiece is usually lagging yours by hours, and any synchronisation takes no consideration of putting any value on your time. It is assumed; you always have the time to suit the needs of another rather than yourself.

What a foible it becomes, if you are fastidious and punctual, making every effort to be on time and on schedule. You strive on principle to ensure any inkling of not making an appointment is always communicated with respect and courtesy to the other person.

Making allowances for them

Time to them maintains and retains an elasticity totally indeterminate, that no properly functioning watch can aspire to give it any sense. Your attempt at giving time a bare modicum of precision is to be viewed as an obsession indicative of a mental health problem.

Even with the allowances made for tardiness, patience is ultimately a finite resource, and if others have no better things to do with their time, it is not universal. In the Western world of thought to which I have belonged for longer than I can remember, the abuse of your time is a clear sign of disrespect.

This is why I have adopted the flexibility of allowing the other person to decide the time and place for any meeting. I know I'll be there, on time.

It begs the question when the person who chose the time and place for our meeting is not there on time and has not bothered to communicate why. If you cannot keep to the time you set for yourself, what can you successfully do for yourself?

Iya Banji

From whence we came

The kind of life my parents served me created a radically different history and story from the one they had experienced. More fundamentally, what defined their childhood from the little village where they made their first friends to the unforgettable memories that they have rarely shared separates us even further.

Though I have some fond memories of visiting our hometown and meeting with cousins, grandparents, and distant relations, I find none of the affinity for the place as one parent does, and another so thoroughly reviles. I have no such identity with the place except in the compulsion and diktat of my forebears; I was last there about forty years ago.

Significantly, these people who once came out of that town and travelled the world as it was their oyster and, in the process, became successful professionals of every sort, have returned to this place to retire enjoying the good fortune of old age and the misery of watching peers and juniors pass away around them.

Balls on the road

One memory best told in our dialect of Ìjẹ̀bú, in which I have the most laughable proficiency, if any at all, finds its best delivery in my faulting but unmistakable recollection.

My mother was driving from Lagos to Ijesha-Ijebu with my aunt, who was my dad’s immediate younger sibling. She was known to us through the name of her first son, and it was evidently disrespectful of us all, because he is the first and eldest of all our maternal and paternal cousins.

As we passed from Ikenne towards Ilishan, on the home straight to Ijesha-Ijebu, the spare tyre in the undercarriage at the back of the Peugeot 504 she was driving detached and fell onto the road. Someone called in Ìjẹ̀bú that the testicles had fallen. “Wóró ẹ̀ ti jábọ́ o.”

We stopped and I went to pick up the tyre, rolled it up to the car and fixed it back to the undercarriage, securing it properly with the clip. My mum and aunt were out of the car, watching that everything was done properly. As I finished, my aunt quipped in Ìjẹ̀bú, “Well, the person of whom it has been said their testicles have fallen, now has them tied back up in the sack.” “Ọni rán fọ wóró ẹ̀ jábọ́, nà tí so padà yẹ̀n.”

In tribute and sympathy

This remains one of the lasting memories of my aunt, her great sense of humour delivered dead pan with such seriousness, yet you could not fail to get the joke, which by happenstance was also the spelling of her name, meaning who we care for together, she was no joke, by any stretch of the imagination.

A hardworking, strong, purposeful woman and a purveyor of wholesale foodstuffs, she was kind-hearted, lovely, approachable, and ever so considerate. Definitely, one of the best of my father’s siblings. She was the female leader of the Muslims of our hometown.

I learnt Monday afternoon that she had passed on, and she was interred according to Islamic rites on Sunday. Better to rewrite the feelings expressed here, unfortunate as it seems, each person has their individual issues and perspective of things, that might never be that well understood.

Inna lillahi wa inna ilayhi raji'un. (Al-Quran 2:156) “Indeed, to Allah we belong and to Allah we shall return.”

A prostate cancer diagnosis, one year on

Time always matters.

In the passage of time lies the recognition of many things: living, living well, and the joy of living. This is true despite, and in spite of, other issues such as adversity, disappointment, unfulfilled yearnings, betrayals, and episodes of diagnoses that lay bare our vulnerability and mortality.

I count my blessings and celebrate each day as an opportunity to enjoy and behold the goodness in people, ideas, and places. Having the strength and means to do so places us among the privileged in ways we often fail to appreciate.

I rarely consider myself lucky; I am more inclined to think of myself as fortunate, not by my own doing or ability, but by mercy and grace. I can only express my gratitude that each day brings opportunity and ease, ample ability, and extraordinary capacity.

The extent of our imagination and vision defines our limitations; we can only exceed them through inspiration and revelation. The scope of our influence can be limitless, but until we believe it and are convinced of that possibility, we resemble chickens seeking the perspective of eagles.

Once you know, you know.

A year ago today, I was reading hospital notes from the consultant I had seen the day before, and in an instant, I became a victim of computerization without appropriate human oversight.

A diagnosis that I should never have learnt about before meeting the responsible consultant appeared in my records and was something the consultant I visited the day before should have reviewed before posting.

That is how I unwittingly discovered the diagnosis of adenocarcinoma of the prostate. A year is quite a long time when it comes to a cancer diagnosis, as you are left wondering what it entails, if it is treatable, how you will tolerate the treatment once you have decided on whatever course is available, and the aftereffects of that ordeal.

Giving thanks always.

I was not prepared for a second diagnosis of cancer, but when it came, I encouraged myself with words and sermons about healing and living, seeing beyond adversity, and leaving no room for discouragement, regardless of the prospects ahead.

Obviously, some eight months after completing radical radiotherapy, some lingering side effects remain; my voice is light, high, and sometimes sounds quite tired, but in myself, as Brian would typically enquire, I am doing fine. All thanks to God, my partner, my friends, my colleagues, the teams of medical personnel striving for the best outcomes, and that earnest desire to tell a better story.

This puts everything into perspective; each day is a blessing.

Blog - Photons on the Prostate - XVIV - I Just Can't Wait

Blog - Men's things - XXIV - A presentation

Blog - Men's things - Prostate Cancer blogs

Urinary incontinence: One of those prostate things

Not holding tight enough

I found myself looking at a range of men’s underwear for a particular issue when I realised that my sturdy resolve to postpone a nature call until a time when I could access suitable conveniences was leading to embarrassment.

The pair of red trousers I wore recently turned a dark shade due to wetness, but I was literally at my front door, and the little control I seemed to have before was no longer effective; I had just wet myself.

As it stands, this is the second time I have had to deal with urinary incontinence in a week. It is cause for concern as it is understandable that the complete resolution of prostate issues will take time.

Wear to wherever

For the long-haul flights to and from South Africa, my incontinence underwear cost a fortune, and their care required special washing machine bags with a low-temperature and gentle cycle programme.

Tena seems to have a more affordable range with less stringent maintenance and care factors to keep them in use. Most of the time, I do try to be near public conveniences, and it also makes sense to use them as often as possible, to avoid being so hard-pressed and causing a mishap.

Generally, these are for leaks rather than for full flows; containing this within the underwear rather than allowing it to show around the front and down the trouser leg could be a saving grace too.

Every pretension to Africa for Africa Day

Africa Day in Manchester

I had planned nothing for the past Bank Holiday weekend except to catch up on some much-needed rest and sleep when I was offered a ticket to attend the Echoes of Africa event at Aviva Studios/Factory International on Saturday the 24^th.

This was in commemoration of Africa Day, previously known as African Freedom Day or African Liberation Day, initiated by the Organisation of African Unity on the 25^th of May 1963.

Looking at the agenda of events running from 11:00 AM to 6:00 PM, I was unsure if I had the stamina for 7 hours of potential revelry and entertainment, but I was determined to show up, if only out of gratitude for the invitation.

Please, I’m not fooled.

The Live Painting Workshop, which had begun in the early afternoon, was already underway when I arrived. I took a seat on one of the long sofas at the back, and I tempered my cynicism regarding the artistry of the participants, who were pretending to represent some essence of Africa. It easily resembled a messy children’s paint class, yet people of all generations were engaged in it.

We have been led to believe that a certain combination of vibrant colours and abstract shapes is representative of Africa in context or origin; it reflected everything Toto’s Africa was, but not the reality of what Africa is. The inspiration for the song originated from a late-night documentary about Africa and likely the recollections of missionaries to Africa who became teachers for American schoolchildren.

An unrelatable discussion

The next item on the agenda, beyond the over-representation of Nigerians on the discussion panel, focused on a topic likely more suited for those seeking a career in Afrobeats or some contemporary genre of African music. Having first met a lady of Portuguese and Guinea-Bissau descent who knew the lyrics to everything the female disc jockey played; I spent more time with a grandmother of Caribbean heritage tending to her noticeably Caucasian grandson.

Indeed, what is now deemed the music of Africa is quite pervasive; it has a global audience, and collaborations are extending its reach into places one would never have expected such music to resonate.

Yet, in my conversation with the grandmother, I thought a more relevant topic would be how we preserve the significance of our African heritage in the diaspora and provide younger generations a sense of belonging in the various spheres that influence education, experience, and identity.

Music and fashion to the world

Perhaps this was not the forum for such a cerebral debate, and thus far, it had only intensified my scepticism regarding the purpose of this gathering. Each time we were urged to make more noise like Africans, there was a feeling that English reserve had crept upon us unawares.

The live music performances were interesting, but I knew none of the artists or their music, and I was barely connecting until one performer took the stage like the Bobby Caldwell of Afrobeats.

If there were no visuals, one would imagine the performer hailed from a large city in Africa; he had mastered everything and could pass for being as good as the popular Afrobeats artists.

Then came the fashion show; the mispronounced words by the compere regarding atelier to Aso oke were quickly forgiven when it became clear that the distinction between African designer and African fashion meant the latter garnered less attention compared to the former. Some of the items showcased on the catwalk were comical at best, but I am not the target audience for this kind of attire.

Before I knew it, it was almost 6:00 PM—a delightful day out and a reminder that the Echoes of Africa were just that; an echo is a reflection of the original sound and should not be mistaken for the real thing.

Of bigger balls of discomfort

We, the vulnerable

Each visit to the hospital presents an opportunity to observe humanity at its most vulnerable and, at times, a few at their most irascible. It also showcases the society in which we live.

Illness does not selectively affect individuals based on class, race, status, or identity. There may be susceptibilities indicated by certain groups, but these are often ill-defined.

We all visit the hospital because something beyond our control has afflicted us, and we require assistance against whatever the onslaught may be.

Do the shower inspection

In the spirit of Men’s things, while I was in the shower on Saturday, I noticed my left testicle was swollen. Signs of this, the day before, led to the feeling that my underwear was a size too small. However, I ignored that indication throughout Friday until a shower inspection raised cause for concern.

We should all be doing a shower inspection and checking ourselves, examining our intimate parts for anything unusual. Men should check their testicles for swelling, hardness, lumps, redness, or heat, just as women should examine their breasts likewise.

As breast cancer can affect both men and women, we must also be mindful of assessing those parts too.

English as standard

While I acknowledge that during my time in the Netherlands, I never became as Dutch as might have been necessary, English was generally the language of transaction in business and all matters aside from government and politics.

In Dutch hospitals, the professionals, typically multilingual, would switch effortlessly to the preferred language of the patient.

I remember a 91-year-old Englishman in my ward nearly 16 years ago who had lived in the Netherlands for 50 years, and despite his fluency in Dutch, you could still hear that polished English accent from a bygone era.

How do they cope?

However, I was taken aback by the number of ethnic minority couples who visited the Accident and Emergency Department on Tuesday morning, who could barely communicate in Pidgin or broken English. Each relies on their spouses to register and relay their issues to the nurses and, eventually, doctors.

I was left pondering how they navigated society and how isolated some might feel. Whether any would receive a proper or complete diagnosis without the ability to speak for themselves is a concern. Imagine those with a rather stifling conservative background having to speak to strangers about intimate matters affecting their partners. Are the words for those issues the same ones we can comprehend?

Much as many of these couples were parents with children who had been schooled in English, exhibiting local and foreign accents confidently and expressively. No one under the age of 16 could act as a chaperone, due to safeguarding regulations. Invariably, it is probably for the best that children are not answering for their parents regarding their sex lives and similar subjects.

Bide your time

From triage through registration, basic checks, blood tests, and consultations that led to an ultrasound scan and ultimately a diagnosis. Everything pointed to inflammation, for which I was prescribed antibiotics.

At A&E departments in UK hospitals, arriving is the easiest part, even if you were blue lighted into resuscitation. Alright, perhaps that’s an exaggeration. One can expect to be there for a conservative estimate of six hours.

Take a book, a bottle of water, a phone charger, or better still, a power bank; let your patience be tested but do not suffer for the privilege of free healthcare at the point of access, regardless of status.