Whom Is Pride For?

An Early Farewell

The Manchester Pride Weekend comes to an end today, and it could not have come much sooner. The August Bank Holiday, from Friday until Monday, is taken over with festivities, revelry, and debauchery, depending on what takes your fancy.

I would rather be elsewhere, however. Last year I was in Cape Town, in the company of my husband and taking things at my own pace.

Falling Out

In the thirteen years that I have lived in Manchester, I have grown progressively disillusioned with the event, both for its commercialisation and its seeming lack of broad representation.

From the day in the Easter break of 2013, when a friend and I were refused entry to a club for no discernible reason beyond bouncer ego and racism, I have fallen out with Canal Street, which constitutes the main part of the Manchester Gay Village, along with the adjoining streets.

What frustrated us further was that there seemed to be no recourse, no obvious means of registering our displeasure. Yet a search of the Internet turned up news reports of exactly these discriminatory door policies, predicated not on fact but on prejudice, assumption, or the subjective judgement of the door staff at many venues.

An Unfair Assessment

That experience coloured my view of the Gay Village and left me with the impression that all the associated voluntary support organisations were of the same ilk. It was an unfair assessment, I concede, but it took hold because none of the ones I hoped might help were willing to do anything.

I live on the border of the village, yet I am the least engaged with the place, apart from walking through it if I need to get to other parts of the city.

Rights and Nuisance

As for Pride itself, the whole area is cordoned off into an enclave of activity that requires a ticket to attend; even so, you cannot be denied the public right of way to traverse it if you need to get through.

That, some years ago, became a point of contention between the security personnel, who did not know the law, and the police, who affirmed our rights.

Beyond that, there is the unneighbourly inconvenience of the cacophony, and of inebriated and sickly attendees becoming a nuisance on our side streets.

Not My Demographic

For what is supposed to be a community event, given the cost to attend and the interest in whatever entertainment is arrayed, I have found that I am probably not the demographic best served by most of what goes on there.

When I have deigned to purchase a ticket, I have never attended any of the performances; and once caught in the thickened crowd, I am already suffocating, so I rush back home for respite.

It is simply not a place of any comfort, whether alone or in the company of others. Now, I avoid it altogether and skirt the place, rather than insist on my right of passage.

Losing Its Way

Beyond community, Pride is supposed to help good causes, and we have many that represent different interests.

A few years ago, the establishment running Pride hiked prices, made their greatest profit, and then reduced their charitable contributions. It had lost its way, trying to rival and outdo the events in Birmingham and London by bringing in global acts best viewed at entertainment venues.

These acts were an exorbitant waste of resources in the quest for fame, and it led to the eventual, and just, collapse of the organisation, which still owed lesser acts who had given their time, resources, energy, and talent in the community spirit.

A Case for Change

This year, we were assured that the event would be more representative. I have not noticed as much. The ticket prices were still high; and whilst the acts celebrated more local talent, so that the total cost came to twenty per cent less than what was paid to the main act last year, I am still failing to find any sense of engagement.

My premise for sponsorship is broader accessibility and affordability, without anyone having to declare that they are in straitened circumstances to qualify for a concessionary ticket, assuming any are available at all, or so few that access becomes a lottery.

The influence sponsors hold over Pride management should be codified as invitational rather than institutional, never commanding or directing what Pride can and cannot do. There must be strict autonomy, alongside broad community representation in the decision-making process.

Watching from Afar

Apart from stepping out of my apartment block onto the street with my folding chair to watch the parades on Saturday, which had over 150 distinct participants, including organisations, companies, clubs, charities, establishments, and political parties, I have done nothing more.

The clouds did gather and rain on the parade at certain times, but it did not dampen anyone's enthusiasm. I was in my rain jacket and poncho, which kept me dry, though some braved the chill and the wet as if it were a bright summer's day.

Even the Service for Pride at Manchester Cathedral, which I would usually steward and sometimes take part in, I gave a miss. Two invitations to garden barbecues I ignored, rather than offer my regrets and risk being persuaded against my own inclination.

Protest and Celebration

It is my view that the Pride principle has long deviated from its founding ethos of both protest and celebration; it has become an over-commercialised affair that now merely grants access to those with the means, rather than a broad community celebration that recognises the diversity it comprises, in groups large and small. Pride has drifted from access towards exclusivity.

So the question remains: whom is the modern Pride for? The answer I have seen suggests it is not for everyone, nor for the well-meaning members of the wider community who wish to embrace one another in the pursuit of human rights and dignity, both for those affected and for their allies. These are all reasons why I am no more supportive of Pride in Manchester today than I have been for the past few years.

No Curmudgeon

As peace returns to my city by the end of today, I am not being curmudgeonly. We can simply agree that not everyone is energised by these things, and that there should be acceptance of this without heaping on any kind of excoriation.

Maybe, next year, I shall be just as absent from this annual charade, in the company of my husband, who, for his lack of exposure to these settings, is far too easily excited about Pride events for my liking or comfort.

Community and The Neighbours We Never Knew

The Vanishing Neighbours

It was only a few weeks ago that I had a conversation in the office kitchen, near the coffee machine. I was curious as to why a company on our floor seemed to keep a three-day week. They were in on neither Monday nor Friday.

The lady I spoke to said that they worked from home on Mondays and had Fridays off. As usual, this week I did not expect them in on Monday, but by Tuesday it became apparent that they had gone. The hive of activity that sat between my office and the kitchen became a scene of eerie calm and emptiness. A part of my office community had gone without notice.

Communion and Loss

Earlier in the week, during Communion at church, people lined up for the gifts. My place in the seating arrangement means that I am one of the first congregants to go forward, ahead of others.

After returning to my seat for contemplation and to listen to the choir sing, I could also watch the other congregants go forward for the breaking of bread. A male couple usually sits to the side, on the right as one looks towards the altar, but only the taller of the two went forward.

It seemed peculiar, as they were never apart, and the shorter of them still carried his age well, being a nonagenarian, though I cannot say why we had never exchanged pleasantries in all the time I had seen them.

Comforting the Bereaved

After the Sung Eucharist, I saw other church members go to chat with the one who was present, and it caught my eye that they were shaking his hand and patting his knee. Everything pointed to the premise that something might have happened to his partner, and from these interactions, I had drawn my own conclusions before I enquired of another person.

The old man had passed away during the week, and they were comforting his partner. I had not made his acquaintance well enough to be familiar, yet I felt that we had, even from the distance I maintained, lost a dear member of our community. May his soul rest in peace.

A Summer Barbecue

Our village, which comprises five apartment blocks with shared facilities and a rather cantankerous WhatsApp group of restless people who have not yet found the natural circadian rhythm of silence and peace at a certain time of day, gathered in the communal garden for a summer barbecue.

I was not sure I would attend, as I am not good with crowds, but when my neighbour, one of the organisers, saw me a few hours before the event, I could not excuse myself from the fête. I paid for my ticket and took a bottle of South African shiraz and a bottle of orange juice to the gathering.

Gathering in the Garden

Dressed in traditional and colourful apparel, I was easily the centre of attention, while at the same time hoping to be inconspicuous. This was the first time something like this had been arranged in our decades-long residency of the village, and over forty people came.

From someone who had moved in only a fortnight ago to others who have lived here for over thirty years, I gleaned enough from the conversations I had. I was better off sitting in one place, with people interacting with me, than moving around networking extrovertly, which is a total drain on my mental reserves.

Proximity Without Intimacy

It struck me then how strange it was that so many of us should live so close and yet know one another so little. That WhatsApp group is the perfect emblem of it; we are near enough to disturb each other's peace, yet not close enough to know the names behind the complaints.

We had shared walls, stairwells, and a garden for years, and it took a barbecue for some of us to exchange a first word. Proximity, I realised, is not the same as intimacy, and living side by side is not the same as living together.

What Community Means

What it revealed to me was that we do not do neighbourliness and community enough, at least for those with an interest in others. I once had a neighbour whom I never met and who kept to themselves in the eighteen months they lived next door. Whether a recluse or simply indifferent, one could only be glad they were gone when I learnt of the situation.

I only want neighbours I can check on and who check on me; people who, when we meet in the corridor, would stop to have a chat; people ready to help one another in the ordinary and the more so. They become a kind of family, and that too is what community is all about.

A Google NotebookLM AI Podcast on this blog

Finding Dignity at Zeitz MOCAA

Finding Kindness

Having done some shopping at Woolworths in the V&A Waterfront, I walked to Silo District past the Nelson Mandela Gateway to Robben Island to hail an Uber back home. The Friday evening rush hour, combined with the impending weekend, meant it was quite busy. However, leaving from this end of the V&A Waterfront cuts out a good deal of the traffic involved in exiting Cape Town.

I did not get an Uber for eight minutes, and when a driver was found, he was ten minutes away. Then he cancelled three minutes into my waiting time. Uber began looking for another driver, just as I realised, I had chosen this location to get me home on time, before getting caught in the traffic I might encounter if I had hailed a cab from the Breakwater end of the V&A Waterfront.

A Pressing Dilemma

It became a battle in my mind: should I wait for a cab or seek the use of facilities? The nearest one was about 250 metres away, up flights of steps that I am usually supported in navigating. But I was alone in town with two heavy bags of shopping and a walking cane I could not use if I needed to balance the load.

My better judgement intervened. I cancelled the Uber and decided to try my luck at the Zeitz MOCAA, the Museum of Contemporary Art Africa, which was behind me. As a total stranger, I would not have been able to just walk into any establishment to ask to use their toilets. Or maybe I have never really had the courage to. Besides the museum, there were two hotels nearby, but we had been fully paid-up members of the museum before COVID-19 struck, and I knew where the entrance was.

Navigating the Process

The first thing was to get my Just Can't Wait card up on my mobile phone, which was running out of battery. I had to put it on Power Saving mode to ensure I could at least call an Uber before it died. I showed the card to security at the door, requesting to use the toilets, and she directed me to reception.

At the reception desk, one of the staff took a picture of my Just Can't Wait card on the phone and then gave me directions to the toilets, which were in the basement. My explanation that I needed urgent use of a toilet because of a medical condition was sufficient.

As I walked to the lifts, another security guard stopped me. I believe he checks for entry tickets, and I did not have one. I explained my situation, and he even offered to have my shopping bags deposited at the check-in desk. But I did not have the time; I needed to be at the toilets immediately. Even the lifts were slow in arriving, but I was soon where I needed to be, as relief and gratitude welled up in me.

People Over Things

My experience with this organisation reminded me of the spirit of their Executive Director and Chief Curator, Madame Koyo Kouoh, who passed away last year after a recent cancer diagnosis, even as she was about to serve as the artistic director of the 2026 Venice Biennale. In the museum's tribute to her, she was remembered for her belief: "People are more important than things," and for quoting the African proverb, "If you want to go fast, go alone. But if you want to go far, go together."

We live in communities shaped by experiences and circumstances. Some are so fleeting and yet significant in simply having empathy and understanding for invisible yet critical human vulnerabilities and responding to such encounters without question or judgement. People do not even have to have walked a long, hard mile in another's shoes. Even in South Africa, where basically no one knows of the Just Can't Wait card, a human story becomes the willingness to help rather than the fear of losing one's job.

Not that I want to remember what happened barely a month before, when I was refused the use of facilities with all the desperation written across my face, in my own Manchester, of all places. Thank you, Zeitz MOCAA, for simply being human. It meant a lot to me.

Blog - The Just Can't Wait Card Test

Zeitz MOCAA Staff Tribute to Koyo Kouoh

A Google NotebookLM AI Audio Overview Discussion of this blog

Thought Picnic: When Support Becomes Self-Insertion

A Childhood Memory

It was July 1977. My father had lost his great-aunt, the wife of my great-grandmother's younger brother. From letters he and his great-uncle exchanged in the 1960s, I could see this man had been a highly respected mentor and confidante. The funeral would take place in our hometown, and we would all attend.

At the graveside, as the priest finished the oblations of dust to dust and ashes to ashes, we all proceeded to sprinkle earth on her coffin. At that moment, I became inconsolably distraught. I began bawling and weeping, overcome with grief. I literally became a distraction. Even as we left the graveside, people continued to console me.

One thing I noted about that day was that no one else, not even the grandchildren, put up such a performance. I was genuinely affected, but others might have wondered why I was weeping more than the directly bereaved.

Learning to Respond

Understanding how to respond to human misery is essential in ways that may not be easily understood. We often mistake our kind of engagement as sharing in the burden of others' misery when it is not.

This became quite apparent to me after my first encounter with cancer. Before that, I had neither the understanding nor the frame of reference to appreciate what people were going through. I could offer a sense of concern, perhaps a lot of sympathy, and possibly some empathy.

On occasion, I have inserted myself into another's misery by narrating my own tale of woe instead of listening to them and offering both comfort and succour.

Nowadays, my experience of cancer, its mental toll, pain, and other life issues makes me knowledgeable enough. Yet I would never suggest to someone in that situation that I know what they are going through, even when I understand their predicament based on what I have experienced.

Finding the Balance

Fundamentally, what is important is not being more affected than those who are truly affected, more distressed than those genuinely distressed, or becoming too ingrained in a situation to which we have no direct connection or relationship. We need to be aware of the degree of affinity, determined from intimate to acquaintance, and further to belonging, whether in a community or through some other sense of identification.

Then again, there is a place for activism on behalf of others. Causes with which we identify can benefit ourselves and others, addressing issues like disengaged officialdom, injustices, advocacy, and knowledge sharing, as I do when informing others about prostate cancer.

However, my prostate cancer awareness activity does not become one where I begin to bear the prostate cancer risk of others. That is not helpful to anyone, and that is the broader lesson: be conversant without becoming absorbed, be understanding without becoming overbearing, and beware of inserting yourself into an issue so completely that you become the issue through how you express yourself about matters for which you have deep feelings.

A Google NotebookLM AI Podcast on this blog

Yuletide Pilferer, present

Homecoming Challenges

On my return from Cape Town in early September, I was informed that the keypad on our antiquated door entry system had become sticky. You could not guarantee getting the code in after an umpteenth number of tries before having to go around the back of the building to gain access to the apartment block.

Worse for me was being already pressed by the time I got to the door, promising myself that I only had a few more steps before I wet myself. Many an unfortunate mishap of bladder incontinence occurred as a personal event when you were close enough to home, before the public saw something amiss, without any knowledge of the backstory.

Temporary Solutions

The keypad will not be replaced, as the parts are impossible to reorder. Instead, we have a temporary fix, along with facial recognition entry systems installed at other entry points in the village. Our village consists of six residential apartment blocks.

Meanwhile, new closed-circuit television cameras with motion sensors have been installed in the foyers. There is a possibility that I have become the local Mr Bean, making faces and sticking my tongue out at the camera as it follows my every movement.

I have been tempted to jump around a bit until the mechanism just breaks. It is all recorded, and it is only a matter of time before my well-mannered mannerisms are published as the prankish exuberance of a lovely man.

The Porch Pirate Incident

We also had our own episode of a daring and returning porch pirate tailgating other residents or using subterfuge to gain access to our mailroom and making off with deliveries that could have been Christmas presents.

The resolution quality of the cameras is commendable. He, a well-spoken man with an Irish accent and dressed well enough to blend into the setting of our village community, had the sheer luck of being captured on camera and in the act.

Then the presents in his presence presented an opportunity, but his heretofore free Christmas presents lost him his freedom, as he was marked present before a magistrate and is presently resenting his luck in a police cell.

When you have a pretty face, you had better not resort to petty crime. Whatever other deeds are caught on camera might be shared on the village WhatsApp group that I joined long after everyone had had a good laugh at his expense. I was only a decade late to take my seat at the showing of the Yuletide Pilferer.

Thought Picnic: Adversity Reveals True Love

Finding Clarity

I have just stepped out of the shower to warm up because I was out in the cold for an extended period. My moments in the shower can be thoughtful and meditative; the washing of water seems to include an invisible internal cleansing of the mind, allowing clarity to emerge.

On the last day of my 59th year, it has been slow and perhaps somewhat lazy. Though I intended to do certain things, I was caught between youthful rampage and ageing progress; my voice reduced once again to a slur, revealing fatigue and lethargy, yet my mind was in overdrive.

Reflecting on this year, I decided to focus firstly on caring for myself, leaving behind situations and complications that caused unnecessary anxiety and stress. This was especially true in my different relationships and the communities to which I belong.

When Family Comes Last

Regrettably, family was last, with respect to friends, church, support groups, and work. In all those areas, I still maintain some influence and respect. I can offer advice and anticipate a degree of consideration, even if my nuggets of wisdom were not always valued.

With family, I had become like a clashing cymbal. I am contacted for a viewpoint, but they have already made up their minds. It was as if my perspective no longer mattered, and this was inadvertently displayed through many significant situations within the extended family network.

I had to decide that there was no point in being the dog barking in the dark. I will not become like Ahithophel; it’s not the end of my world or the world itself.

Having faced two bouts of cancer, I see similarities between the support I received then and now. Apart from my other sibling abroad, there was none. My transactional credit waned during periods of adversity and ill health; now, it counted for little beyond platitudes. The mere fulfilment of all righteousness could not be achieved through a cursory glance.

Adversity Reveals True Love

It brought to mind a song by Chief Commander Ebenezer Obey from the 1960s, “Ọ̀rọ̀ ṣeni wò, kálè mẹni tó fẹ́ ni.” This translates to, “May a momentary adversity reveal those who truly love us.” Perhaps I am truly loved, but love must be active, tangible, experiential, and felt. Somewhere along the line, that familial connection was lost in its journey to me.

My focus on other relationships became a source of strength: the unconditional love of Brian, the prayers and counsel of my best friends, my neighbours, and at church where everyone was concerned about my wellbeing, and at work, where professional support systems and the understanding of many who have been touched by cancer in their own families meant they appreciated some of what I had gone through.

Peace in Letting Go

Then I no longer need to hold anyone to account. They have their own lives to attend to, and the deliberations leading up to any decisions made contrary to other counsel are their prerogative, over which I should not arrogate the power to control. It is essentially none of my business.

However, the radio silence I have self-imposed since August has been a source of peace and rest, whilst I devote my energies to regaining full strength and vigour.

I keep all of them in my prayers, supplicating for their wellbeing, health, prosperity, and peace. May the goodness, peace, and blessings of the Lord continue to abound in grace and mercy with lovingkindness towards us all. We are signing out of 59 at midnight, by the grace of God.

Living the breeze of Cape Town

Cape Town on My Mind

I might miss Cape Town this December, but when I look back on the last seven years, I have spent a bit of every month of the year there, except for February and March.

This city brings me more than joy. I get to spend beautiful moments with Brian: walking the promenade, shopping at the Victoria & Alfred Waterfront, eating and dining in friendly restaurants, feeling the breeze on long stretches of beach that seem to have no end for miles, attending cultural events, and basking in the nature and beauty of Kirstenbosch National Botanical Garden.

If we wander away from Cape Town, it is to a wine estate, though we have not done that in a while. We live and desire Cape Town as the destination of our dreams. We can be as occupied as we can be idle, but every moment is fulfilling. Nothing beats the yearning to return and have an extended, or even permanent, stay there.

The Cape Town I Know

After Brian met my best friend in Pretoria last month, Kola left for Cape Town, where he saw the city through my eyes and my knowledge of the places he went to, as if we were there together.

Such is the familiarity and sense of belonging that we, Brian and I, have acquired. However, we need to cultivate stronger ties and relationships beyond just knowing the city: to have friends and become part of the community.

In some ways, Brian also needs to take the initiative on planning and scheduling, rather than suggesting outlandish ideas that he would never attempt, like hiking up Table Mountain or paragliding from the mountain to the Sea Point lawns. He uses these crazy ideas as a tactic to get me to suggest something less dangerous.

Cape Town in Our Hearts

We rarely do anything on the scene, just as I have no such interest in Manchester, but there is much to gain from engagement in the churches we attend.

We seem to attract both interest and curiosity, and for most of the time we have met with a very welcoming and enriching atmosphere. Brian, though, would rarely attend church alone, usually after I have left, when being there could provide some succour for the feeling of separation.

Cape Town exudes that vivid quality of pictures, memories, events, and feelings, all too real in my mind. Even from 9,900 kilometres away, I feel the warmth, hear the waves, and could touch the wooden slats of the benches at Nobel Square, watching the clouds billowing over Table Mountain and listening to the marimba bands performing as we sip Mango Bang fruit smoothies. We do love Cape Town.

Withstand the narrative

What They Are Saying

The immigration debate, if there ever was a decent one where polite conversation with a frank exchange of ideas was possible, is becoming so coarse that it is difficult to appreciate whether the utterances have been seriously thought through, or whether this is a race to the bottom in a quest to gain the populist crown.

One Tory MP deemed to be a future party leader suggested at the weekend that legally settled families be deported to make the UK "culturally coherent". Apparently, those with a legal right to stay in the UK might have their status revoked to force them to "go home". [The Guardian: Tory MP criticised after demanding legally settled families be deported]

I am neither shocked nor alarmed; we have heard many variations of the same theme going back to the time of Enoch Powell, whom my father withstood in a Wolverhampton pub soon after his "Rivers of Blood" speech. [Wikipedia: Rivers of Blood speech]

What is evident is that people with influence and a prospective handle on power are putting their thoughts into words, for the record, that we can now read, quote, and choose not to forget. I hope we do not just wring our hands in disgust but work against this narrative as a seed that could become the rallying cry of the unwittingly led to endorse odious views inimical to social cohesion and progress.

What We Must Withstand

The perilous trajectory of these words aims to undermine and erode the foundations of fairness, justice, human rights, and the rule of law in society and the community. We must hold firm to the spirit, the letter, and the defence of the quote often attributed to many great men of the past: "What is morally wrong can never be politically right."

Condemning the viewpoint should just be the beginning, even if the person apologises for their choice of words that convey intent rather than action. The impetus is on us to challenge these narratives with data, facts, the truth, and better-argued points that engage our better nature, rather than appealing to our basest instincts.

We all have the capacity for intelligent conversation; we should resist the inclination of the malevolent to drag it to the gutter of humanity.

Essential Snobbery 101: Judicial ire for communal warmth

No sense of consequence

The motivations behind certain actions just escape me, whether it is for clicks on social media or personal thrills, a communal and societal pact seems to have been broken.

That awareness of action and consequence is lost in a reckless belief that there is no one to hold you accountable and no time for anyone to investigate the situation.

Two incidents have brought the law into the lives of some thrill-seekers with far-reaching implications.

Even with the advent of TikTok, which can produce useful content with a bit of imagination, malevolence for laughs and shockability appear to be more attractive. The lure of going viral is irresistible.

No concern at all

For example, two teenagers are facing the law at Stratford Magistrate Court because they threw a large seat off the top floor of a crowded shopping mall as an internet prank, which did go viral.

When confronted and questioned by the police, the boy who threw the seat said, "It's not that deep, it did not hit no-one.” [BBC News: Boy admits throwing seat off Westfield's top floor]

While there is a real chance that if the seat had hit someone, it could have caused serious injury or death, we might be getting ahead of ourselves. The key question is why the boys believed they could achieve anything by hurling a large seat off the top floor of a shopping centre, whether it was crowded or not.

What kind of pastime could have occupied their minds enough to dissuade them from such an act? We may never get the answer, but there is no reason why they should escape punishment for this egregious act, which showed a complete lack of understanding of the harm it could cause innocent people in a public space.

A chop for gaol

Additionally, as for escaping punishment, two men have just received four years and three months each for cutting down a tree.

Just a tree, but that tree—the Sycamore Gap tree—is a renowned sight, over a century old and near Hadrian’s Wall in Northumberland. [The Guardian: Two men behind ‘senseless’ felling of Sycamore Gap tree jailed for more than four years]

Their quest for notoriety, recorded on a mobile phone as one used a chainsaw to fell the tree in minutes, shows they travelled 40 minutes at night, then walked through a storm for another 20 minutes from a car park to conduct this pointless act.

What kind of thrill could they have been seeking in their apparently restless lives that this tree became their target for reckless vandalism? Though in court, before turning against each other, they acknowledged that what they had done was being covered in the news.

The importance of community

Despite any mitigation that might temper justice with mercy, many seem unable to foresee the consequences of impulsive actions, showing a lack of deep thought about our deeds.

Furthermore, there is little consideration of how our actions might impact, offend, upset, or harm others. This reflects a selfish society.

If only there were a sense of community in these individuals’ minds, perhaps they would have realised their actions were wrong and chosen to find another way to contribute positively rather than to harm.

The point is recognising others, like not littering, keeping noise down in residential areas at night, wearing headphones on public transport, or avoiding reckless stunts on the main road—are fundamental signs of respect.

Surely, there is an unwritten code of conduct, learned at home and reinforced at school, based on the simple principle of treating others as you wish to be treated.

Maybe it is asking too much of that African proverb, “A child not embraced by the village will burn it down to feel its warmth.” What price some pay for that need for warmth, which can often lead to the unnecessary heat of judicial retribution.

Making much of my Sundays

My church, a community

My church, the cathedral in my city, serves as a community where I find fellowship and friendship. While I have been a steward, I have not resumed that function since I went for treatment, my energy levels are much better now, not at the stage where I could be an effective steward.

The more public activity is when one does one of the readings, the last time I was scheduled to do the reading, in December, I had to give up my place as I was going to be away in Cape Town.

The first version of the rota published a few weeks ago had me scheduled to read the only reading for Palm Sunday, I carried that in my bosom until I reviewed the updated rota, a more prominent person had supplanted me.

At church with improvements

Whether I had my natural voice back or not, I was determined that I would attend whatever readings I was scheduled for with electronic amplification for my frail voice. Each service I attend shows some improvements, such as not needing to use the conveniences until after the service or being able to fully participate in the standing parts of the sung eucharist.

The more obvious one is that I can walk the distance from home to church and back, whereas before I travelled, I needed assistance because I lacked the strength to do so.

The other Sunday, I arrived as the processional hymn was being sung, it is quite unusual for me to arrive late to church so I sat in a different place close to the children’s corner. What I racket they made; it was impossible to concentrate. Then last week, the Racial Justice Sunday had York visiting, I sat in the same row as his wife and the dean’s spouse. As in the Archbishop of York.

How things are developing

The row behind us as a child and his parents, they chuntered through the whole service, my backward glances did nothing to moderate the disturbance. The same garrulous troupe was there today, I do not know what informed them to move towards the more adequate children’s section before the service commenced.

One of the hymns had quite a discordant tune. I could not follow it until the fourth verse, and it was still a struggle. I sing all alright, but I do lag in the recitations and singing, too. In the end, I plumped for the decaffeinated coffee. Since decaffeinated tea is rarely available, I had to get on a bus for a 30-minute ride to a big supermarket to replenish my stock of decaffeinated Earl Grey tea.

The last Village Church service I met in the middle of the homily, my nap ended a few minutes before the start, and just as I thought of taking a rain check, I got a message from a friend asking if I was attending. I dressed up and rushed out; it was just around the corner from my place.

The Lord’s Prayer in Yoruba, I wrote that out this morning with all the essential diacritical marks, it is what I recite when it comes to the time for prayer. I might be doing that on a recording of it for a week of the recitations of the Lord’s Prayer in other languages at a church event in May.

Church is a community I enjoy.

Àdúrà Olúwa

Baba wa tí ńbẹ ní ọ̀run,
Kí á bọ̀wọ̀ fún orúkọ rẹ,
Kí ìjọba ìrẹ dé,
Ìfẹ̀ẹ tìrẹ ni kí á ṣe ní aiyé,
Bí wọ́n ti ńṣe ní ọ̀run,
Fún wa l'óúnjẹ òjọ́ wa l'óòní,
Dárí ẹ̀ṣẹ̀ wa jì wá,
Bí a tí ń dárí ẹ̀ṣẹ̀ ji àwọn tí ó ṣẹ̀ wá,
Má fà wá sínú ìdánwò,
Ṣùgbón gbà wá lọ́wọ́ bìlísì,
Nítorí ìjọba ni tìrẹ, agbára ni tìrẹ, ògo ni tìrẹ,
Láí Láí,
Àmín.

Feeling the warmth of a community church

Decisions for the good or the bad

We had a decision to make about where to attend a church service today without making the mistake of visiting a church with a self-absorbed worship team entertaining a congregation that was failed out of not being spiritually fed. At least that was our impression of the Hillsong Church in June.

We dared think of returning hoping that our first attendance was an off day, but we wrote to both the Cape Town campus and the mother church in Australia, and we received neither an acknowledgement nor a response. We had better go to a place where they are courteous and welcoming.

Blog - Between haughty Hillsong and bounty biltong

Planning without yawning

From Muizenberg to the St. George’s Cathedral, quite unlikely; when getting Brian out of bed on a Sunday morning is a herculean task at best, just perish the thought. So, I did a survey of churches in Muizenberg and two evangelical churches caught my interest, small, out-of-city, new, and growing. We set our minds on staying in Muizenberg.

It would have been a 45-minute walk or thereabouts, but we called an Uber taxicab to convey us to the Main Road of which there might be hundreds in South Africa, we had to be specific before I repeated the mistake of finding myself 33 kilometres from where I intended in Johannesburg, some 9 years ago.

Welcoming warmth and feeling

On arrival, we saw the church flagpole, but unsure of ourselves, we waited outside before someone came to the door. They were friendly and welcoming, and as she invited us inside, introductions followed. They all came to welcome and greet us.

Interest and engagement were evident in a small community church that espoused our Pentecostal beliefs. It was there that we learnt that a priest we knew at St. George’s Cathedral, the cousin of a congregant, had passed away last year.

As we were similarly attired, they wondered if we were band or choir members, we tend to turn heads on Sundays. I said we were partners, but they heard brothers even as I repeated myself. We eventually acquiesced to whatever they wanted to identify us as.

Simple yet impactful

It was low-key, intimate, and friendly. I was called forward to be prayed for, and the sermon was informal and easy-going with contributions from other members of the congregation. I began wilting later in the service but survived to the end before needing the use of the gents.

I took the offer of rooibos tea which I rarely have, sweetened without milk, it tasted good enough, I however do not intend to form a habit of it. We had a splendid time at church before walking back home. We will probably be returning next Sunday.

Thought Picnic: On refusing to be defined by cancer

Like an impatient patient

I became a cancer patient long before I had the option to consent because every cancer diagnosis in the UK gets put on what is essentially a national cancer registry. I was informed only as a matter of courtesy that this had been done. I would think it was weeks before I had a conversation with the consultant, and I had known of this diagnosis because of the poor sequestration and handling of information within my local NHS trust.

Beyond this, you strain every sinew within you not to be defined as a cancer patient, yet that is somewhat taken out of your control, my spirit, strong and commanding, willing with strength over the deprecations my body exhibits in symptoms of both the cancer and the treatment of it.

Chief among these side effects is fatigue that results in tiredness, irregular sleeping patterns, nocturnal insomnia, and a weakened timbre of voice in speaking, the urinary tract is slightly irritated, and bowel movements seem rather restricted.

Willing against bodily handicaps

Having determined I would attend church today as I could not last Sunday for the simple reason that I hardly slept the Saturday night before, the same was happening today. Unlike a fortnight ago, I knew I wouldn’t be walking to church, it was best to do this by Uber.

As the alarm clock went off, I did not bother to put it in snooze mode, I stopped the alarm and pondered whether it was beneficial to grab the sleep I could or rise to the challenge my body was unwilling to meet, but my spirit ruled against.

I rose and went to the bathroom for the essential ablutions. I bedecked myself in the apparel I wore for my last radiotherapy appointment on Friday before hailing an Uber ride to church. I arrived as the processional hymn was sung and sat beside a steward friend.

I only stood up for the gospel and for Communion, the collects in my saying lagged the congregation and no attempt was made to sing any of the hymns, my voice just could not modulate toward tuneful expression, it would have taken all the strength out of me.

The community, our church is

My absence last week left many quite concerned and I received messages and calls asking about my welfare. I was also not aware that many other members of the church knew I was having cancer treatment, and some were praying for me. I sometimes forget how closely knit our church community is.

If I had not attended church today, I would have had people at my door checking up on me, in a sense it is lovely to be noticed and missed. Next week is the Judges’ Service signifying the opening of the legal year. In other circumstances, I would have attended to steward the proceedings as it is a civil service, I think I’ll have a lie-in and recoup my strength.

Another Uber ride back home even in infirmity, let the weak say I am strong.

It's a focus group treadmill

Lend us your views

Within the last month, I have been invited to and attended a few focus groups and research study forums seeking to understand my usage and experience of healthcare and mental health services in the diverse community areas in which I find some belonging.

I guess recently, I have been both forward and willing to offer a perspective because whilst I am affected and impacted by many issues, I am not in a sponsored or activist role, I probably speak for an underrepresented demographic of people who usually keep to themselves and seeking no recognition.

Stuff your vouchers

Now, there is the perverse view of the organisers that we attend because we have been enticed or induced by some sort of incentive. It helps, but if every engagement was for the acquisition of vouchers, that would be unfortunate.

Yesterday, I agreed to attend one such focus group, I arrived on time, only to find that the session had started and there was apparently a restriction to the numbers that could attend. To add insult to injury, I was being offered an alternative engagement for the bounty prize of a voucher.

If the look disdain would could capture for posterity, I think the people in that room could not have been less convinced. You think I came for your voucher that I probably cannot find a place spend before its validity expired. Well, the first part was duly expressed as the latter part was absorbed in my thinking. I came for a focus group I was invited to attend, at the time stipulated, even though the convenor arrived much earlier and decided to start before the scheduled time.

Please, do not waste my time

Anyway, I was not going to waste my time if my time was not being valued and my person respected, as an apology came from many directions until the person coordinating the invitees decided to ask if others could join the focus group. Eventually, I was invited to join the activity that had barely got beyond the introductions and ground rules.

Whilst I commend many who work in the non-profit and community engagement sectors, the availability of people to help and volunteer themselves in activities and other research endeavours should not be taken for granted. I can only wonder if I would again be persuaded to engage with that agency after our first encounter.

It was unfortunate, but where I would not be treated with courtesy and respect is not a place or an environment I want to be. From a cynical perspective, I do wonder how any of these things I have participated in would improve the services we use. I guess it is a wait-and-see thing and then calling them to account further down the line. You can only attend so many focus groups before you begin to wonder whether it is merely for funding acquisition rather than service improvement.

Essential Snobbery 101: The waning art of discretion

In view of the setting

It is interesting to review a day in which some settings within which I found myself brought a mix of behaviours, attitudes, prejudices, and indiscretions which, on reflection, just indicated how much we need to be self-aware of how what and how we do things can affect others.

In the first instance, the engagement, which had moved from the necessities and essentials of effective communication last week, was initially an exercise in how the same instructions given to a group can present different results in comprehension and action. Though the core element for the day was the broader subject of diversity, equality, and inclusion.

An undress in address

In a multicultural grouping of diverse and variant abilities, this would bristle against the learned long before the acquired suits you to the environment. My first encounter came with an enthusiastic fashion aficionado who, in my view, probably knows what goes with what for what time of the day but forgot to recognise we were not being groomed for either the catwalk or the red carpet.

As I asked to sit with them, my acknowledgement of compliments on my apparel seemed to open the door to a level of intrusion that should have been invited rather than imposed. However, she took it upon herself to instruct me on what colours and styles should match what I was wearing. I could have brusquely rebuffed her and asked her to mind her own business, but I made the allowances in observation of an intriguing display of the use of discretion.

Absent filters of sharing

As the day progressed, there was something about just giving out too much information, where even as you begin to cultivate familiarity in a grouping, you let down your guard too easily to reveal what probably should be kept to yourself in some eagerness to share something that might yet not be known about you.

Even though I can be quite expressive, I still filter the products I share and consider what a no-need-to-know in consideration of how what one dares to share might affect others. Discretion is an art in and of itself.

Once some secrets of others were shared, there were a few instances where I could have interjected with ‘Me Too’, but I was not so inclined. I learned much and revealed little else, but in the observation of character, you appreciate who to keep in your confidences.

Of prejudice in scowls

Then came the apologies, this was in the aftermath of both discrimination and prejudice that some would have observed as redolent of a stereotype belonging to a certain demographic that, for a matter of discretion again one would think but never voice.

The need not to voice everything that comes to mind, even when there is irresistible prompting, is a discipline in awareness and sometimes necessary not to upset others.

That I found myself in the middle of the exchange whilst offering an example to buttress a point was incidental, but I was only ready to reveal so much about myself without laying myself out to avoidable vulnerability and exposure in sharing information that was not germane to the discussion. It was rattling and eventually resolved; uncomfortable would not fully describe what happened.

Platform pearls before swine

Back at home, I happened upon a tweet that included a clip of a BBC interview with an unctuous ingenue, a Nigerian male YouTuber who, with little urging, seemed to spill the beans on the immigration inclinations of his fellow countryfolk, just at a time the UK government has been looking for a means to reduce net immigration and dependants joining students during their sojourn in the UK.

He, apparently a dependant himself, in his excitement, ingratiated himself with a forwardness lacking self-reflection that could implicate him in immigration fraud when he inferred that he had helped some falsify documentation, apart from painting Nigeria and Nigerians in a very bad light. His quest for notoriety and clout presented more than an opportunity for indiscretion and lascivious boast of questionable ability or prowess. If ever the pearls of a large platform were cast before swine.

We remain, good ambassadors

He no doubt irked many a Nigerian at home and abroad, but I, being a 25-year resident of the UK and another 12 in the Netherlands, and we Nigerians, by birth, heritage, or allyship, are unwittingly ambassadors in the communities wherein we are, and no upstart, regardless of the platform they gain, can rubbish the good and useful contributions we make in our communities.

Honest Nigerians need not fear a backlash in their quest to emigrate; this would blow over, as we have always faced hurdles from as far back as memory would allow and have still made the moves and progress we have desired. Our YouTuber, who would not be granted even basic recognition, would fade into obscurity at just the same speed at which he came to our notice. An irrelevance in the scheme of things.

In the sidebar, I joined a Twitter space to assure Nigerians of continuing our good work, and for all I had to say, one was too distracted to listen, for he had read my profile and all he could glean from it was to ask why I am gay. I could have been exasperated, but when you realise that some can never learn to mind their own business, you make a cursory note and ignore it.