Ashli Babbit, a needless death

What a shame for her

Ashli Babbit, 35, an Air Force veteran from San Diego, California was at the US Capitol yesterday as a staunch supporter of President Donald J. Trump having been fully persuaded of the unfounded claims of voter fraud determining his loss of the presidency.

Egged on by the president, she, unfortunately, found herself at the end of a bullet to the neck or the chest, as she climbed through a broken window as part of a hooligan mob invading the sanctity of the Congress, depending on the reports you read and soon she was dead and probably will not be remembered or celebrated for her needless martyrdom to a hopeless cause.

Silliness as patriotism

Some will have us believe that she was a patriot and there are many who fly the flag, stand for national anthems recite pledges of allegiance with gusto, who believe they are patriots or are more patriotic than those not so enthusiastically consumed of nationalism, jingoism, and belligerence.

The concept and meaning of patriotism has been corrupted, abused, and misappropriated to odious and nefarious ends. Many so-called patriots need to sit back down and have another in-depth civics lesson on the constitution, the rule of law, the separation of powers, the freedoms we all have in the kingdoms and republics in which we live and the responsibilities we have as citizens of our different domains.

Cut loose or perish

I am sorry that Ashli foolishly and needlessly lost her life in the pursuit of an alternative reality that had no evidential bearing of truth even in the broadest sense if there is an afterlife where an account is required of our deeds, anyone would hate to be in her shoes, it almost qualifies for a Darwin Awards citation. If you lose your life hitching your wagon to Donald J. Trump, you should be entered for that award and it is likely Herman Cain is celebrating his somewhere in the Great Beyond.

It is a salutary lesson, regardless of what you are asked to believe, take time to engage your head and do not be so closely hitched to anyone that you cannot cut loose when they are careering into a ditch.

In embassies of embarrassment

Done without a fuss

This morning, I had an appointment at the British Consulate in Cape Town for 9:00AM. It was just a kilometre from our apartment and with a brisk walk, I was at the reception with 10 minutes to spare. The wait to get registered was exacerbated by people ahead of me who appeared to be unsure of why they were in the building and then by staff at the consulate itself acting like Pinky and Perky trying to discover my name from the appointment sheet.

Once I was let in, I filled in the CoVID-19 monitoring sheet along with my mobile phone number in a space that was not designated for that information but had to be entered by their instruction. Next, I rang the bell at the service counter and a very pleasant and friendly lady appeared, asked for what I was after, took a pre-typed form from the tray signed it and stamped it. My official purpose was done.

She wished me well as we had a little chat about my getting married, I was out of the building at 9:05 AM.

Moribund systems of angst

My consulate experience was easy, quick, and efficient. Then I learnt of another involving the US Consulate that required a payment for which there were no electronic payment systems that the person had to make a 10-hour round-trip to Cape Town just to make that payment. Bureaucracies can be completely insufferable and frustrating.

Just to the North of South Africa is Zimbabwe, and one would expect with a consulate in Cape Town, no one will suggest you must return to Zimbabwe to obtain a document you need for an activity in South Africa. That assumption was shot to bits when an official did say a document should first be obtained from the country and then brought to the consulate for certification.

There is no logical sense to this and apparently, no recourse to any alternative arrangements as it seems, the bureaucratic systems bequeathed to many Commonwealth states by the British have become beacons of red tape inertia, completely impervious to improvement or progress.

My experiences indicate

It reminds me of when I visited India in 2011 and the visa acquisition process was so fraught that my European or British citizenship almost counted for nothing that the pertinent information, they required related to that of my parents and I was already in my forties. Whilst it was eventually sorted out in 5 days, there was a likelihood of an 8-week processing time and I paid the processing fee a Nigerian would have paid, even though my passport was British.

However, in my experience, British consulates have been helpful and efficient. I would presume my status and standing gives me those privileges. Even in Nigeria over 30 years ago, it was a breeze for me when it might have been an ordeal for others. I knew why I was there, I had everything needed to request what I wanted, formalities were quickly dispensed with and we settled into banter and small talk with raucous laughter. It could be better for others too.

Coronavirus streets in Cape Town - III

Streets with meaning

Stepping out this afternoon to catch a breather from the onslaught of bureaucratic hurdles I could do without, the illiterate Dutch collided with my mastery of English in the naming of some streets in Cape Town. Obviously, I should be careful not to suggest that Dutch and Afrikaans are the same language separated by centuries and the tropics but must give due consideration to the distinctive difference that makes each language unique.

From Buitenkant (Outside corner) Street, you begin to get a feel of the history and the geography of the city which I will not delve into that much apart from offering a snippet of my observations as I walked and sauntered in the heat of the sun.

A slipper of a masked dog

For by happenstance or a yet to be determined means, a slipper or probably a shoe found a home on an air-conditioning unit quite out of reach, the other foot whether right or left was not right beside it and for whatever reason got left behind. Much as we are under legal compulsion to wear face masks, as he walked past me, he was wearing something that looked more like a neckerchief that if he were ordered to don it as a mask, he most like would strangle himself.

In the back of a truck they call a bakkie in these places, something moved that I expected to be a big shaggy dog. Another blink and a man it was, unleashed and left there alone without anyone else in sight. I could have asked, but he might well not have mastered speech. Therein is some inconvenient truth, some people are still being treated as subhuman, else, he could have been just standing beside the vehicle until the owner returned.

An English history here

Edward, yes Edward VII, what are doing in the Grand Parade where Nelson Mandela made his first speech when he was released from prison. His mother, Queen Victoria regales the front of Parliament as a jubilee statue. The English not only were here, but they were also trouble too. To my hearing, trousers hanging under a canopy shop and the exchange in unmistakably Pidgin English has an accent much closer to another home, I made no further inquiries.

On to Strand or Beach if translated properly, but that was a long, long time ago, it is a more a boulevard with cars travelling as if their brakes have been tampered with until I saw a splash of golden Jesus painted on a rock or perhaps the ruins of a once palatial edifice. Need I travel back in time to see?

Ocean views on a bicycle

The Strand soon becomes High Level Road and just at where it peaks, I have an amazing vista to the Victoria & Alfred Waterfront and just in front of me is a grave memorial of Muslim ancestors with an ocean view. It makes you wonder if in life they did command that view before they were so revered in death.

A road takes me down to the Main Road and then the promenade at Sea Point where she mounts a rented bicycle, Gucci bag on shoulder, stilettos screaming kill, completely oblivious of anyone that she might just run us down and then she is off, the belt on her trousers flexing out and pulling down to reveal, that’s all.

Easy on the ice cream

The sea wall protective and may be exposed for it is a Designated Mugging Area, I cannot say what time of day, but I was immediately conscious of the fact that I was some 50 yards from the next person, not that I quickened my steps, for there were other such designated areas. We can assume we are safe for now.

I ask for 3 kinds of Italian Ice Cream, bubble-gum flavour did not pass the muster, but pistachio, strawberry and vanilla became a hefty 6 scoops. The calories I had burnt in completing 10,000 steps were to be replenished with what might require another 20,000 steps today. Let’s indulge with no regrets.

Salvation from the waves

Out on the sea he paddled in a canoe whilst below him lay many wrecks and watering graves, though it is quite too sunny for the lighthouse, it stands as a beacon to maritime history and safety. My view is then momentarily obscured by a big house, she like us all was rolling everything and more accentuated than we could ever attempt. Let’s not talk of fitness, but my friends appear to carry around a bit more than their wallets.

As I was quite far from home, I called an Uber to take me back and my driver’s profile was as spiritual as they come, not that I was blessed as I boarded nor regaled by gospel music from the mouth of angels playing instruments that would take you right up to heaven, but he had this much to say all the way from the Democratic Republic of Congo, “I’m a Christian, I strongly believe in Christ.” For those of us still weakly believing, we have many more beaches, seas, and lands to cross.

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It's walking and it's working? - VII

Keeping at a good thing

It could be quite easy to relapse whilst on holiday from the routine I adopted from the end of July 2020. I guess one of the things I miss from measuring my progress is weighing scales, even as I try to ignore the issue, I could be a bit obsessed about my weight and getting it to where I want it to be has not been easy.

It is summer in Cape Town and from early in the morning, the sun is out, and the weather is warm, by the time you have done the first kilometre of the 8 you need to get your 10,000 steps in for the day or the workout, you are sweating, and you have the compulsory facemask on.

And a natural inconvenience

Soon you also want to use the public conveniences too and hopefully you are walking route takes round somewhere you can get to ease yourself or you’ll be running back home just before you wet your pants. In the meanwhile, it probably is still working from just walking.

The numbers from last year are 3,088,840 steps for an average of 9,360 steps a day, the bulk of which was done in the last five months of the year, because until then, I only exceeded 5,000 steps once and that was in January. I probably can do more but I have to pace myself, because either a strain or a nerve ending is playing up in one of my legs that gets a regular hot press.

Blog - It's walking and it's working

Blog - It's walking and it's working - II

Blog - It's walking and it's working - III

Blog - It's walking and it's working - IV

Blog - It’s walking and it’s walking - V

Blog - It's walking and it's working - VI 

Unwrapping a brand new year

Like flipping the page

We ushered in the New Year quietly, no fanfare or gatherings as we were under a curfew in South Africa. The ban on alcohol sales also meant there was no bubbly to click glasses to and without live television there was nothing to keep us prompted on the passing of time.

With an eye on our watches, we lit a candle each o reflect on a year we could never have anticipated, to remember the many who we lost to the pandemic and other causes along with the blessings and grace that has kept us, and to resolve to live, tell, and write better stories.

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Not a paradise for many

When it struck midnight, some people came out of their houses to hail in the New Year, a lady above us was beating a pan and hollering at the top of her voice. We looked out to see what was going on, acknowledged and exchanged celebratory greetings until the persistence from street level indicated something else.

The man was pleading for alms and others were already lining up to ask for something if I acceded the first request. There is grinding poverty in Cape Town, it is difficult to look into the eyes of some people and not feel your heart go out to them, but there is little you can do. Once you give to one, literally out of nowhere many appear acting completely oblivious of the fact that you had just been generous. Suffering has no nuance, survival scrapes for anything.

Not too ordinary a day

At that point, we kept away from the window until the police dispersed the people whilst we made to retire and go to bed. When we eventually woke up, we went out for brunch before making for the V&A Waterfront. Finding a quiet spot by the Mariner’s Wharf, we soaked in the sun, at a large harbour of yachts all overlooked by the natural emblems of Cape Town from left to right, Lion’s Head, Table Mountain, and Signal Hill.

On our return home, I fell asleep on the couch, it was another day, an auspicious day by the calendars we share and with it we close the chapter on a year that was yesterday and begin to plan to a different tomorrow. Most of all, I did all this with my fiancé, Brian, the love of life and amazingly wonderful man.

Closing the chapter on 2020

An unpredicted year

The year 2020 will be etched in memory for many reasons, but we must start with a sense of gratitude in the midst of circumstances and people in charge who were anything but. It began with a great sense of hope and expectations, none dashed, just delayed for more advantageous times.

As I was returning from South Africa, I was supposed to resume a contractual engagement, just before I boarded my flight, I received an email that it had fallen through. It left me no time to reschedule and delay my return, the wintry cold of Manchester beckoned.

As I was inadvertently thrown onto the job market, within two weeks of my return, I was down with a water infection that landed me in hospital, with some observation the prognosis was better than initially feared, I was discharged and treated as an out-patient but the time to full recovery took about a month.

The cloud that shadowed

This was as the threatening Coronavirus was looming in the horizon, ignored by heads of populist governments whose penchant for wishing away big problems with simplistic but unrealistic solutions were met with a reality that did not subscribe to the gullible bullshit that got them into power. When the UK government eventually acted, it was the only option they had and what a disaster it has been since then.

By the end of April, a job opportunity came up with the engagement process so different from usual, the context and concept of the workplace had so radically changed, and it transpired that an interview conducted by answering scripts was aborted for an on-boarding process and within days I was in work from May.

The pandemic had taken hold, the lean months presenting challenges that were assuaged by team meditation exercises that lasted 21 days beyond which faith and resolution brought calm as things swirled around with no inkling as to what will become the immediate talk less of the distant future.

Hope is a spirit

Each day, Brian and I conversed in the hope that soon we would be able to meet up, but the pandemic stood as an impediment, no progress could be made on that matter as lockdowns and tiers tested the resolve of the citizenry even as it exposed corruption, ineptitude and incompetence in many countries with the UK carrying the worst news of the whole of Europe until Italy recently overtook in the death toll.

Desire and longing not dimmed, the opportunity came, and it was seized, to end the year in the company of love and beauty could not have been a better wish fulfilled. We need to find ways to negotiate living with this pandemic, taking all care and precaution to keep safe. It has cast a dark gloom over our humanity and much as vaccines will help, it must not be sold as a panacea. It is one of the tools we need as we understand better how to contain and overcome this virus.

Pained and sorrowed

With 72,548 dead from CoVID-19 in the UK and another 28,033 dead in South Africa, there has been great grief and sorrow in the land for which especially in the UK I cannot find any reason not to hold Boris Johnson’s government for the carnage, it has been so fortuitous to have had such an unconscionable kakistocracy in Downing Street when demands of probity, capacity, and ability were needed to tackle a pandemic. If there is any justice in this world, for the lives, needlessly lost through the mishandling of this pandemic the people in this government would be held fully accountable.

Closer to home though not due to the virus, in October, I lost my stepmother so suddenly, just 4 days after her 56^th birthday, even as I have issues with my father on this matter, my priority is the comfort and security of my brothers. There is much to do. Another two weeks after, my father lost his best friend from childhood. We were visited by mortality so close and venerations with remembrances to be done.

Arise to the new

In all, we learnt that communication was critical, contact was important, concern was human, and consideration was empathetic. Friends mattered, neighbours succoured, dreams lived large, hopes never die, faith sets you on the course to things you cannot see, a long pause presages a new beginning, the year 2020 was the year of reset. I am not aware of any prescience that foresaw this passing year, but it will pass into history for better stories to be told.

Entering 2021 will have its difficulties but human ingenuity is such that when presented with great adversity there is resourcefulness and innovation to bring healing, progress, and prosperity to renew, replenish, restore and rebuild what was lost. We are grateful for life through the year past and look forward to new awakenings. Have a wonderful and Happy New Year!

From a Nigeria 30 years ago

The outlay

I really thought I will not write a blog today, but Brian said, I could do it and it will be an auspicious thing because it commemorates the day I have not forgotten.

It was a Sunday, the 30^th of December 1990 that I took a delayed flight with Nigeria Airways from Lagos to London and that was my departure from Nigeria. Things moved quite quickly in the space of 7 or so weeks.

I was a partner in a desktop publishing firm we called NextStep Limited when we decided on updating our equipment by making a trip to the United Kingdom. The activity would have been performed by a former business partner of the principal, but at the last minute, I was added to the trip, somewhat to protect our interests.

The situation

On the 18^th of November, I had arrived in England for a business trip that was to last a week, however, that stretched to two weeks because some of the kit we had acquired was to be delivered later than our previously scheduled stay. That night, Chris Eubank beat Nigel Benn in a boxing match.

That former business partner once worked for Nigeria Airways and knew his way around, all the VAT returns for our purchases of over £4,000 went into his UK account. Laden with our kit, I returned to Nigeria on the 2^nd of December, by which time John Major had supplanted Margaret Thatcher.

Whilst in the UK, I learnt that I had the skills for a thriving computer technical support market if I ventured the idea, I got a copy of my long birth certificate as it was not obtained my parents when they got the short version. With that in hand, I applied for the Certificate to the Right of Abode which only had a 3-week processing time compared to the 18-month waiting list for a British passport.

The execution

The interview was a breeze, more the exchange of banter about failed interviews and with my special visa to hand, I bought my one-way ticket to London for the price of NGN 3,200. I was ready to go even if very few believed my plans would be executed. I had determined I was going to leave before 1990 was over.

My 25^th birthday was given prominence at the Christmas party for the staff of Deji Sasegbon Publishers, a legal publishing outfit for which I was a consultant and through whom I had the bulk of my airfare to travel to the UK, as part of our contractual agreement signed some 14 months before.

The memory

The exchange rate then was NGN 15 to £1 and though I have left for a generation, Nigeria has not left me, I am impacted and affected by many things in Nigeria, most completely out of my control by inimical policies that take no consideration for the people. I cannot report that things have improved for the majority even as some have prospered.

On the matter of returning, even for a visit, I am undecided, and the passage of time has made it quite unlikely regardless of the event or the occasion, I think and dream of Nigeria, it is not home, just a place of memories, attachments, and influence. My hope is still that Nigeria finds peace and prosperity and hopefully at the hands of people who know what they are doing and will not squander the rare opportunities to do so.

My boarding pass from the 30^th of December 1990.