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The Stolen Dreams of Africa

MBONG’S MEMOIRS

My old friend Mike often said traveling is a privilege.  As a Christian, I’ll have to say, it’s grace, one which I am grateful to have enjoyed.

In my twenties, I was obsessed about traveling the African continent, so I did. Then the last decade came along with a generous supply of opportunities to explore Europe and beyond. From Amsterdam to Athens, Madrid to Munich, Istanbul to Prague, Barcelona to Vienna, Dalfsen and in between, I got a chance to experience some of Europe’s most  intriguing cities, every single one of them with a unique yet similar story. My love for history and storytelling always made me a perfect visitor in Europe. These cities hold a rich history of which they are ever so eager to tell. A history perfectly preserved for the world to savour. And I savoured each one of them with great curiosity.

But there was something about London.

It wasn’t Buckingham Palace, I had seen a palace quite as glorious in Madrid, with a water fountain that left me dazzled. It wasn’t Big Ben, Prague’s meteorological clock told as big a story. No, it wasn’t St Paul’s Cathedral either, Barcelona’s la Sagrada Família would otherwise take the prize.

London was all about dad. My father had such a liking for the English that my UK trip went over and beyond any other trip to Europe, it was a way to reconnect with someone I loved and lost.  London was no doubt dad’s ultimate city to visit. He never got a chance, but here I was in London and I could think of nothing else but what it would have been like if he was here with me.  It has been several years now, since dad left us but the things he loved, the things he said have continued to stay with us. 

Dad would talk about the Chancellor of the Exchequer with a level of insight which grasped and held everyone’s attention. He would make a great argument for Oxford and why it was the greatest institution of all times. You could tell by every word, exactly what his wishes, dreams and aspirations were. 

If dad walked into any conversation where the topic under debate featured titles like the 10 Downing Street, House of Lords, he would listen closely. In a way he thought he had authority over that topic and could make a correction or two. And indeed, there was no better way to grasp dad’s attention than sounding smart. And in dad’s world, sounding smart had everything to do with a good command of English, a command of English made in Oxford to be specific.  

As kids we loved speaking Pidgin English, in fact I still do, and we often ran into trouble speaking pidgin. Dad would often chastise us to stop speaking ‘crude English’ as he called it – he found pidgin English to be draining. He never uttered a word of pidgin. His English vocabulary was over the top and he flaunted it at every chance.  Dad loved the Brits and everything English.

Dad often lamented the lack of support to achieve the great things he felt cut out to do. But his investment in his children’s education was starting to pay off. Here I was in London for two weeks on a work trip. I thought  I owed it to dad to do all the things I knew he would have loved to do.

Dad invested in his own studies later in his life, taking short courses with a few British colleges. My hunch is that one of his British bosses saw his passion and determination and encouraged him to. 

In my previous trips to Europe, I had run into the habit of browsing European cities as a way of managing my brief stay. And there’s a quick and easy way to do that.  Hop onto a city bus, get your  earphones on, ensure your volume is stronger than the threats of the wind and enjoy all the stories the city was eager to share on the city bus radio transmission.  In London, I walked, I walked and walked some more. Every step was a homage to dad.

Before embarking on my long walk through all the landmarks I thought dad would have visited, I ensured an early start to the weekend. I got treated to an evening out at dinner by my old friend Eya in London city centre, took a Friday visit to my uncle Peter in Coventry and spent the night. Saturday was all about Oxford. First my cousin Collins spoiled me with an English Breakfast, later that evening Elsie took me on a tour of the Oxford University campus. 

Oxford was no doubt one of the places in the world dad would have given up his savings to be at, and here I was, speechless but hopeful that it counts for him. 

I returned to London midday on Sunday, we had managed to go for mass that morning in Oxford. Back in my airbnb, I hastily dropped off my bags and took the train to the city centre where my long walk would begin. There was so much more I needed to see or be seen through my eyes. Oxford was a great start but I needed to do the whole enchilada. A bus ride wouldn’t suffice this time, I needed to take every step, feel every moment and walk the grounds. This was my chance to go places he would have absolutely loved to go. 

My walk started at St James’s Park, then to Buckingham Palace, then to Big Ben, all through to 10 Downing Street and finally some shopping for UK souvenirs on the corner. 

I called hubby and kids along the way, and thanks to Facetime, gave them a glimpse of what my trajectory had been. Somehow talking on the phone has a way of soothing a long walk. I thought of calling mom to tell her all about my Sunday’s adventure but I knew exactly how the conversation would go down. “You dey London for two weeks? You leave pikin dem with Beaufils ye one?” she would say. Mom was our pidgin accomplice back in the days. In a reproaching pidgin tone, she would complain that a woman shouldn’t be away from home for more than a week. I thought about what dad would say if he was a call away.  Dad would ask if I managed to go to Oxford, what 10 Downing Street looked like in actual fact, if Big Ben was “big enough” I can’t tell you how much I wish that call was possible. It would have been a long call, which would have no doubt ended with a commitment from both ends to work towards another trip. But alas!!!

By the time I retired to my accommodation that evening, I had been walking from 2pm – 7:30pm. My legs were what my daughter would call soup, I was toast, my brain and legs were totally out of sync. One thing both parts agreed I needed was a hot shower to shake off the winter cold I had accumulated, so I got one. My brain came out of the shower eager to do more, it wanted to write all about my day.. I have no idea exactly how many kilometres I had walked but I did walk and walked some more. Every step was fulfilling and emotionally charged. 

My brains cry to offload all the emotions triumphed that night. I wrote and wrote the longest letter I have ever written. My writing went into several pages. I had appeased my legs, with a pillow slightly lifting them up as I wrote from my airbnb bed. I remember writing until I dozed off after 1:00am.

The long writing was nothing but an outpour of what I wished at the moment, at that hour and at every second. It was an outpour of all the feelings and emotions that I wish I could tell dad. It was a long letter containing everything I would say if there was a phone line to Heaven. It was everything I had to say that day and all the days before that.

London was a lot of things, and it could have been everything and more if only you were there…

Continue to rest with the angels

Happy 72nd Heavenly birthday Dad

Your daughter,

Mbong