A score years from Amsterdam

Arrival Schiphol

Twenty years ago, today was a Saturday, I had packed a suitcase, left for the airport and boarded a flight to Amsterdam. At Schiphol Airport, Dick van Galen Last, now deceased, who I had met in Paris some 3 years before was waiting to collect me having offered to give me boarding for as long as it took to find my feet.

Thus, began my over 12-year sojourn in the Netherlands, the culmination of a series of events that began in January 1999 when a relationship of almost 7 years came to an end. It presaged a turbulent year of career upheavals, house moves, job changes, and a period of interesting adventure.

I was in London, having gone back to work in Ipswich where I rebased myself for 6 months thinking things had changed in my head from the 3 years before, but I learnt that situation was not a solution to turmoil. The job I took up was not offering the fulfilment I had hoped for and so I resigned as the end of November, just at the cusp of the Millennium, depending on where you place it.

Mid-life marauding

In the New Year, I returned to my original lodgings in London and found that the search for work was fraught with difficulty, applications going out by the truckload, responses returning by the trickle and interviews rarely leading to offers. That was when John Coll, also deceased, suggested I see an occupational psychotherapist.

We met for a chat in Central London whilst I relayed what my circumstances were. His view was that I was doing quite well even if I was not getting the results I wanted. It was also a difficult realisation of having gone through probably half a million pounds in earnings without having much to show for it. There are two things I took away from our conversation, that I was going through a mid-life crisis a decade early and the need to change something radically in my life, location, career, or purpose.

A romance in Europe

That set me on the quest to look for work outside the UK, something I was quite reticent to consider for years. In that same conversation, I was informed that Belgium, Germany and The Netherlands presented the best choices for opportunities. Soon, I was on a flight to Munich for an interview with Compaq, I was not as forward-looking as was expected, I dismissed Intellisense in its infancy as bunkum. I stayed in Munich for a week, it was just before the Dot-Com bubble burst, how I tried to persuade a stockbroker in a Munich sauna to cash out as if I was that prescient.

Back in the UK, I scored an interview, it was conducted at the office of a recruitment agency where set questions were posed to us and the whole charade recorded on video for the customer to review in a team of technicians before selecting those they thought knowledgeable enough. I got the job and was commuting the Reading whilst still looking at prospects on mainland Europe.

A clean break

For the first time ever, I was in a shift pattern of work, 12-hour days every 4 days and 2 days off. The pay was not close to my peak, but the hours made up for it. In the second week of taking the role, I heard back from a prospect in Amsterdam, they wanted a face-to-face interview and as luck would have it, it fell on the days I was off. I took an EasyJet flight to Amsterdam, attended the interview and returned the next day when my laptop suffered a battering at the hands of baggage handlers.

I have not flown EasyJet since then. On my return, I received an offer for the job in Amsterdam. On having a conversation with my manager in Reading, we decided on a quick and clean break, it was fine with me. I hated the work environment, people were promoted beyond their capabilities to manage the team, it was cliquey and toxic, I was glad to be shot of the place.

That is how I began the Dutch phase of my life history, it would be one of the best decisions I ever made; the opportunity to begin again, make a new life, find new friends, and live new experiences. Much as I tried, my conversational Dutch was poor, I became an Englishman abroad.

Making sense of the people to people of (Odo Ayanyelu) Ijesha-Ijebu

Roots, trunks, branches, and leaves

I do not know if I am ready to take on this onerous task, an activity my father has been working on plotting the genealogies of the people of Odo Ayanyelu of Ijebuland, not Epe, more commonly known as Ijesha-Ijebu in Ogun State and quite different from Ijebu Ijesha in Osun State.

One cannot help the fascination with names and nicknames along with the legends and stories that explain the relationships between the people, the families, the age-grades and animist institutions that represent the cultural identities of the people of Ijesha-Ijebu.

The document needs extensive formatting, probably the use of genealogy software with it being put online for others to fill in the gaps, for there are many. I learnt new names, especially of my maternal grandfather who died over 4 years before I was born.

Building the links

The task if I should extricate myself from this Garden of Gethsemane travail of wondering if this cup might pass from me to another, for this is no task to take lightly. The impression I have is to have this transferred to an online genealogy application with unlimited generational relationship and point-click referencing that would allow visitors to the page to research individuals, add notes, extend scopes and grow the trees.

The deeper work would be contacting descendants, families, relations, and friends to put flesh on the bones, the incomplete and missing parts that could become a tapestry of communal significance.

It needs to be done and refined, all credit goes to my father, Otunba J. O. Akintayo, who has through his life and still now continues to serve the community of Ijesha-Ijebu in formidable and exemplary ways. I would think about this in due course.

Nigeria: Ibrahim Gambari caught in the arrogance of indispensability

A distinguished ambassador

The appointment of Ambassador Ibrahim Agboola Gambari as the Chief of Staff to the President of Nigeria, Muhammadu Buhari is one of particular interest. On the matter of the appointment, he is eminently qualified and that is by the way. [Wikipedia]

I probably got a bit more acquainted with the man as a friend of mine who I met in the early 1990s was a classmate of his at the London School of Economics in the 1960s. Interestingly, this was also during the time when my father was in the UK reading accountancy.

Of my parents’ generation

My parents who are within a 5-year age range of the ambassador have had interesting and commendable careers in their different professions, my father in rose to various C-suite positions before shipping out to retirement. My mother went into education and was appointed a pioneering principal to a school that is now over 40 years in existence.

The old students’ body returns to the school to contribute to buildings, facilities and equipment, every time inviting their old principal who has been a pillar in her school community since she first took that position, in retirement, she is by no means forgotten, she is the constant guest of honour at those events and recently one class arranged a fully paid pilgrimage to Israel as thanks for her service and leadership.

My mother went on to head other schools, but the affinity the old students have towards her is unstinting and full of gratitude. I usually say to her, she has many children and for those relationships we, her blood children, are exceedingly proud.

On the side of my father, the people he has supported, mentored, tutored, advised, promoted, and recommended are innumerable, he is a community person to his bones. Many have gone one to forge enviably successful careers, he did his bit and moved on. They can still call on him for advice and guidance, but he has left the stage for the generally active life of an octogenarian in his village.

An abject failure of leadership

Now, at 75, Ambassador Gambari does have utility and usefulness, that is why he has been called upon to serve Nigeria again. However, he could have gone one better, he has had a reputable academic career and a distinguished diplomatic career, along the way he has taught and mentored people, he was recommended and brought into the diplomatic corps by others who recognised his potential, this of all times might have been one to pay it forward. [This Day – Another Testimonial on Gambari]

From his network of proteges, when the President made that phone call, it could not have been beyond the capability of the ambassador to thank the president quite gracefully, decline the opportunity and actively recommend probably two or three proteges for the role, vouching for their bona fides, qualifications, and expertise whilst giving assurances that for whatever difficulties they might encounter, he would be available to help.

Again, this is not to pull up the ambassador, but we need to address the matter of Nigerians who have been in positions of influence and in the corridors of power for up the four decades and somehow cannot find ways to call time on their service to allow others succeed them in generational capacity building that a country like Nigeria with a majority youthful population needs to launch into the future.

A gerontocracy, I observe

One could be forgiven for thinking Nigeria is hardly a democracy and closer to a gerontocracy, there are times I have wondered it is not caught in the grip of an unconscionable kakistocracy. Leaders of a certain generation marooned in the time warp of an era of bad history, fossilised somewhere in a distant past reluctant, unwilling, and impervious to considerations of the 21^st Century.

Fundamentally, they are disconnected from their electorate and have failed in the basic test of leadership, which is the ability to raise other leaders to carry on their legacy. In countries around Africa, many leaders have overstayed their welcome, they have arrogated to themselves omnipotence and omniscience to the point of delusion believing no one else of their fellow countrymen can do those jobs or even do better. They think themselves indispensable and irreplaceable by anyone else.

The arrogance of indispensability is an affliction and an addiction, I hate to think the ambassador has succumbed to this unfortunate ailment.

Coronavirus streets in Manchester - VI

Universities of note

On my outing yesterday which was a 2.8 mile (4.5 km) walk to and from Whitworth Park, the main thoroughfare of Oxford Rd all the way to the suburb of Rusholme was the most deserted I had ever seen Manchester.

Oxford Rd going south divides the main campuses of the University of Manchester to the left and Manchester Metropolitan University on the right. In some cases, the universities share facilities and departments, both tracing their origins to the Manchester Mechanics Institute in 1824, but following different trajectories, amalgamations and name changes to the present day.

I walked up the left side of the road in a leisurely pace, cyclists whizzing past to my right on the cycle lane, a counter located further up the road to show how many bicycles have used the lane in a day. Some restaurants and fast food shops were open for takeaways only, with mainly Deliveroo couriers gathered at the entrances with little consideration for physical distancing.

3 couples and 5 people walked at a faster pace overtaking me, all giving space and some oncoming pedestrians gave a nod of recognition. Taking my time, I read plaques, notice boards, plinth notices and information boards. I was in no rush to get anywhere.

How my city is changing

The citadels of learning with buildings old and new, churches, museums, shops, pubs, meeting places, fields and parks made for an eerie ghost town that left you slightly more alert of your surroundings lest you be taken advantage of.

Though buses ply this route, they are mostly empty; what gives this corridor of humanity life is the student population that could number over 50,000 in semester term time. Most of the students have gone home in this lockdown and it has radically changed things. I saw a local supermarket already boarded up, along with a bank, a public house called a pub and a popular chain hotel. It is anyone’s guess if these businesses would ever open again.

The Coronavirus pandemic is radically changing the face of my city, some things obvious and other things not so obvious and invisible. There would be no return to normal, a new normal beckons, in a future that is indeterminate and being shaped before us.

Button up Edward VII

At Whitworth Park, there is a statue of King Edward the Seventh, he was monarch for only a decade being the longest serving heir apparent until our current Prince Charles, the Prince of Wales. Edward VII was crowned at the age of 59 and ushered in the Edwardian Era.

There was much debate as to the kind of memorial to the erected in memory of the much-loved king along with where it would be situated. The location of the statue on a plinth in Whitworth Park which has the Whitworth Art Gallery as part of the University of Manchester faces the Manchester Royal Infirmary which had a new hospital wing opened in July 1909 by the king on his last visit to Manchester before his death. [JohnCassidy]

On the information panel splattered with bird guano, was a snippet of sartorial history, for the reason why the last and lowest button of the waistcoat is undone. Edward VII was a tad girthy, leaving that button undone made it fit better. It was adopted in the British court out of respect and it became fashionable. [Insider]

Sir Joseph Whitworth, for whom streets, parks, galleries, buildings and other memorials are named was an English engineer, entrepreneur, inventor and philanthropist, famed for the standardising the pitches of threads of screw bolts, the Whitworth rifle and the breech-loading gun.

Probably, on another walk around Manchester there might be a little bit of history overlooked to discover.

#IDAHOBIT 2020: Breaking the silence

A first attack

For the International Day Against Homophobia, Transphobia and Biphobia #IDAHOBIT celebrated every May the 17^th, I was between thoughts about what to write. [Wikipedia]

In my many encounters with homophobia, I remember two specific events in the early 1990s, I had met this lovely guy at Bang! disco and we decided to go back to my place. We got the bus from the London West End and alighted at a bus stop some 300 metres from my apartment around 2:00 AM.

As we walked back to my place, two men called after us, we ignored them, then they began to shout and hurl abuse at us, we knew we were in danger and so took flight, but they were already upon us, tackled us and relieved us of our possessions. We came to no harm and soon after getting home we called the police who visited but offered no support, it was 1991. Shaken we were, we lived, and beyond that had a 4-month relationship before we broke up.

A fearful existence

A few years after, I was having a walk in Finsbury Park, it is was quiet and calm, two guys approached me; I saw the glint of a knife blade as he motioned towards me. ‘Give me your wallet,’ he said, ‘And we’ll let you go.’ There was no hesitation, I emptied my pockets, and they left over a bridge into a labyrinth of alleyways. By the time, I found a beefcake to tell of my ordeal, they had long gone.

These were times when a lot of what was called ‘Queer bashing’ happened around London, I was fortunate not to suffer any injuries in my encounters, times I have had to run for dear life because a group of men with the intent to inflict grievous bodily harm set out to find gays and beat them up, even kill them.

My local librarian, who resourcefully and progressively stocked our library with LGBTQ+ literature, Christopher Dunn, lost his life at the hands of a serial killer who targeted gays. Hardly two weeks before, on holiday with my partner in a Brighton Bed & Breakfast, he was a fellow guest. On noticing him one evening, we wondered about why anyone would wear such tight Lycra shorts, we were just being sententious.

Breaking the silence

The theme for IDAHOBIT 2020 is Breaking The Silence; I would have preferred to talk more about other LGBTQ+ people in places, circumstances, and environments unlike mine today, where I have the freedom to express myself, a long way from the experiences of the 1990s. I can visit South Africa to rendezvous with my partner Brian, and not be ashamed to demand that we have a double bed rather than twin beds or separate rooms.

This is the first time I have written about my queer-bashing experience, yet, I must appreciate how long we have travelled from those times, acknowledging there is still more to do here and abroad.

For the past 5 IDAHOBIT anniversaries, I have donned the colour of the day, purple, and today, I went for a walk before taking a celebratory picture at Whitworth Park. [May17]

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A post shared by Akin Akintayo (@instaforakin) on May 17, 2019 at 1:10am PDT

From old IDAHOBIT Days

I commend this day to all, for the freedom to live, to express, to celebrate, to our allies, to the voices that are yet to be heard, the lives that are hidden from fulfilment, to the victims, to the powerless, to those who think they are alone, and to the souls sadly departed. We will rise.

IDAHOBIT 2020 at Whitworth Park today

Blog - #IDAHOT2017: The beliefs that harm us

Blog - #IDAHOT 2018: Of allies and acceptance

Thought Picnic: Becoming the channel to the unlimited potential of others

Life in the life of another

On the trailer for a new television series, the lady said, “The life I wanted with you, you’re actually having with someone else.” It was an outburst laden with emotional hurt and betrayal though I am not privy to the backstory of the relationships.

What I could glean from the snippet of the show was that the man was having an affair with the lady in question whilst at the same time having a baby with another woman. Whether the man was aware the lady had put much stock in the relationship to expect more or her love was unrequited, I could not say, but I can assume there were possibilities which led to disappointment.

What she said began to take on a deeper meaning, she was as invested as to think her future was bright in the relationship and the loss of it left her in regret and hurt, there would need to be a long passage of time if she would move on from this episode in her life to find another fulfilling and rewarding relationship with another.

Limits that undermine our autonomy

Thinking about it, reminded me of the blog I wrote of the universes of fish tanks, the limits of environment and circumstance that constrain us in the present depriving us momentarily or considerably of visions of a better future. The limits constructed around us by our expectations when unfulfilled emasculate passion and hope.

Blog - Thought Picnic: In our symbolic aquariums of our human existence

Worse still is to be confined within the limits of the limited means, ability and capacity of another, almost like being enslaved in the prison of the mind of another under whose control you have found yourself unable to break free and chart your own course without their permission.

It is a loss of autonomy and the absence of initiative, the type of bondage we should pray never to be bound in for longer than it takes for us to realise we have the potential limited only by our ability to imagine and dream beyond our current or future reality.

Free the people you can influence

In this, I found I had a responsibility which I was able to phrase in the following manner, “Be careful not to frame the world of another in the limits of your own. If you cannot take another towards their own unlimited potential, you are probably bad for them.”

Furthermore, be a channel and watch those who come your way grow. If at any time you realise another you are with that looks up to you, who you mentor, who you influence, or who you support is constrained because of whatever you do, say, or espouse; be quick to set them free and help them go to live wonderfully amazing lives.

This is a rough diamond of mediation that hopefully in the thinking of others might be refined and cut into the brilliance of an exclusively exquisite jewel.

#Coronavirus: We all need protection and assurances will not suffice

Everyone’s a suspect viral host

The clamour to open up our country is beginning to sound shrill, for a people who have been in quarantine for 8 weeks as business, the world and life as we know it shut down, we have with patience and equanimity borne the strains, the pain, and the hardships with renowned British stoicism.

Yet, we must not be oblivious of the new reality, the reason we are in this situation is that we have to suspect everyone has the Coronavirus and so the ability to infect anyone they come in contact with. We also can be asymptomatic vectors of the virus or vulnerable to contracting it.

That is why we have the social distancing, but the 2-metre rule is at standstill, when you are moving, the distance needs to increase, people walking need to be about 4 metres apart to be out of the draft or slipstream of the person ahead. If cycling, that distance probably must increase to around 20 metres. The rule of thumb does not account for practical considerations.

Cover and test

Then, the use of face coverings, masks and respirators amid great demand and short supply. I hope to take delivery of some face coverings, but we must not be lured into a false sense of security, the threat is around us, unseen and cannot be warded off except by almost absolute sequestration with no contact with outsiders. We cannot maintain that for long.

The next line of protection or rather assessment is testing, identification, contact tracing, isolation, and treatment if required. The testing regime is a shamble, we cannot even be sure of the numbers bandied around by the government. The antibodies test is for now, for curiosity purposes as no one knows if the presence of antibodies confers immunity and if it does, for how long. There is still much to do.

Protect the teachers first

The quest to get the schools open by the 1^st of June in England is fraught with uncertainties and serious concerns. Whilst children might not be vulnerable to that much to the virus, there are indications that those who succumb to it present other symptoms than the known pulmonary issues observed in adults.

Otherwise, they might be asymptomatic, yet dangerous vectors of the Coronavirus to their teachers, parents, and guardians alike. It means adequate provision should be made for teaching and auxiliary staff in schools, probably PPE at the minimum, which might seem excessive, but not beyond the pale.

We must not be cajoled into making additional martyrs and heroes of the teachers after how the Coronavirus cut down the lives of frontline staff in the NHS, in care homes and transport services. These people were exposed to the public without adequate protection and the so-called heroes are dead and buried without ceremony.

Action, not assurances required

To add teachers to the mix only on the strength of government assurances without requisite protection would be murderous at best. We, as a people have sacrificed enough in life and livelihood, that the government now needs to shape up and actively work to prevent avoidable deaths.

Where employers are insistent to the detriment of employee health and safety, it is not enough to offer platitudes of reasonableness, there should be laws to directly protect an employee without running through bureaucratic hoops.

I am afraid, the UK government is still failing to distinguish itself in tackling this virus. Bullshit and bluster do not cut it, neither does propaganda or spin, people need to know they are safe, they will not be led to the slaughter for a cause the government has failed to persuade us of.

Maybe, the Houses of Parliament should fully resume, let the leaders lead by example and maybe, just maybe, we might all by appearance and confirmation come out of our foxholes and play the game they want us to play.