Dreams of eating life with a big spoon in London
Botsalo Ntuane | Friday May 27, 2016 10:05
The Mighty Have Fallen
My life changed the day I lost elections. I saw it coming. Back in June 2014, four months before the polls I had a chat with my missus and told her there is no way we are winning and she must brace herself for the worst.
I just could not understand that election. I have been politics my entire post teenage life and throughout have been able to read the ebb and flow of political sentiment in the country. But 2014 was just odd. I told everyone around me to brace themselves for calamity. Calamity comes in many ways, including flying cattle class.
Cattle Class/Thursday
As the years go by, my wanderlust grows. And so here I am at OR Tambo about to check in to British Airways for departure. For the first time I am travelling cattle class, an ignominy visited on me by the election outcome. It is such a strange feeling. For my entire 10 years in Parliament, I travelled business class on taxpayer-funded jaunts to exotic places like Rio De Janeiro, Geneva, Prague, Brussels, Port Moresby, Tunis and even nearby Kinshasa. In fact, before the 2008 recession we, the peoples’ representatives, flew first class. What a life we had. The discriminatory thing about economy class is that before boarding, the privileged class are ushered ahead of everyone. During my first class days, I would swell with pride as I scored one over the business class passengers. But when we downgraded to business, I felt jealous of those that took my place in the front. As for the plebeians in cattle section, they would stare at us with both envy and hatred as we prepared ourselves, pampered and fussed over by the flight attendants, to settle in for the long flight.
Tonight as we board for London the shoe is on the other foot. The tyranny of class manifests itself on long haul flights. And true to custom, they start by inviting business and first class to come forward. Then the rest of us follow. And as I am herded to economy class, I glare at the pampered as they snuggle in. This time there is no taxpayer to pay my fare to England, and I find myself squashed in a four-seat row. The thing about economy is that everyone is miserable. I never knew the feeling was so intense. We are sad little souls because life has dealt us a bad card due to the fact that we are unable to fly anything better on our own meagre resources.
On Board
Stuck right in the middle, I decide the best way to survive the 11-hour trip is to knock myself out with two sleeping tablets. I have no wish to watch movies on that tiny screen attached to the seat in front. In my past life when the taxpayer took good care of me, I was accustomed to the big foldable screens in the front part of the aircraft. As for the dreary dinner I pass. Why would I eat from the disposable containers with the toy plastic cutlery? What are they suggesting; that if we are given a proper knife and fork we cannot be trusted not to stab each other? Neither do they provide us with any newspapers. Once upon a time, I had a choice of the best publications. For crying out loud, do they think everyone in this section is unlettered, hence the absence of papers? None of my neighbours talk to one another. We are all glum. I pass out in a most uncomfortable posture I can remember.
London
We arrive in England. It is just before summer, but it’s as overcast and cold as I remember this country from my first sojourn back in 2001. Then, I was enthusiastic, young(ish) and looking forward to life and study in a country that has always held some fascination for me. In no hurry, after quickly processing immigration, I amble over to the newsstand. The titles are an embarrassment of riches and like a child in a sweet store, I scoop up more than I can read the entire day. Many are complementary copies. I never cease to marvel how these newspapers with great writing and layout are able to publish every single day. Of course I am travelling like a budget tourist. A knapsack strapped on my shoulders is all I am carrying. After a few trips during my business class days, I realised we Africans just loved carrying lots of luggage. I had been to conferences where fellow delegates would change twice a day and females even more. I noticed that other races would actually bring minimal attire and launder their clothing overnight. For a weeklong trip, a man just needs two suits and the same number of shirts plus a single pair of shoes. I thus adopted the style and always carried hand luggage. On this trip it’s two pairs of jeans, a few t-shirts and jumper for me. Very convenient.
Sights
Where to go in London? For my itinerary, the first day is an open top bus ride. Just like all tourists who venture to this fabled city. But first I find basic, but clean accommodation at an easyHotel out in Paddington. After a shower and nap, I get an all-day ticket and hop on the original city sightseeing open top bus tour to view the famous sights of London like Hyde Park, Trafalgar Square, Buckingham Palace, Big Ben, Westminster and others. I also take a ride on the panoramic London Eye and by this time I have hooked up with a Filipino tourist and we take turns taking snaps of each other. I have never taken a selfie before and the friendly young man shows me how to adjust the phone camera. All the way to London to learn how to shoot selfies! I am fairly organised and have an idea which tourist attractions I want to visit. With a smartphone it’s easy to find directions. Although the city does not offer free internet, almost every coffee shop or fast food outlet offers connectivity and I make the most of it. This is a tourist city. There are so many of them from all over the world. The open top buses clearly do brisk trade and I am reminded that I once tried to introduce a similar service for Gaborone. But the red tape and endless documents that have to be filled eventually defeated the best of intentions. Ours is not a facilitative culture. It seems for new ideas those in charge are all too quick to identify why the idea CAN’T work and not HOW to make it work.
Motown: The Musical
I am not done after the bus ride. The highlight of my evening is the West End where they have all the theatres and cinemas. Quite a number of shows are running and I pay 25 pounds for a seat in the stalls to see Motown: The Musical that has been playing to packed houses at the famous Shaftesbury Theatre. The production is just incredible and it is truly astounding how the performers are able to pull this off practically everyday of the week. It is a two-and-half-hour extravaganza of drama and music from Motown as seen through the narrative of the founder of the music empire, Berry Gordy and his creative sidekick Smokey Robinson. The band playing in the pit below the stage is just superb. Most memorable are the characters of Diana Ross, Marvin Gaye and little Michael Jackson. After the show, it is dinner at a Rodizio where the beef is soulless and not as juicy as ours at Riverwalk. A black cab taxi ferries me back to the hotel. Very pleasant first day in London.
Day 2
It is a cruise on the Thames past all the riverside landmarks and other places of historic interest. Am making my way to the O2 Arena in Greenwich. This is on the outskirts of London. I am planning to visit the exhibition Muhammed Ali: The Greatest, which has been on show for about three months now. Trying to navigate my way, I walk through the University of Greenwich and am pleasantly surprised to walk into a Nigerian wedding in the campus chapel. It is very colourful and certainly not cheap with about two Rolls Royces and a stretch limousine waiting for the wedding party. Everyone looks chilled and at home. No furtive glances suggesting they are illegal immigrants.
These people have clearly put down roots in the city and evidently they are eating life with a big spoon, as they would say in Kenya. I arrive at the O2 Arena. Being a Saturday, the exhibition closed at 5pm. London this season does not fall dark before 9pm. There is still time for a ride on the Emirates cable car across the Thames, which provides a bird’s eye view of many parts of the city. Knapsack still on shoulders, tonight’s accommodation is at the Holiday Inn, much more spacious and roomier than that tiny easyHotel cupboard masquerading as a room. Besides newspapers, my other big indulgence is television. As a small time producer of content myself, I watch with an eye to gleaning ideas and also checking for gaps in the market. On my second night after hours of channel surfing, I already have two ideas for programmes that I am confident will diversify the television offering in London or even the UK. My head is spinning. Should my ideas ever come to life, I imagine myself rolling with those Nigerians I saw at the wedding, all prosperous and eating life with a big spoon in London.
Champ Is Here. Where is Bundini and the Entourage?
The Ali exhibition is well-curated and documents the life of Champ in photos, video and other memorabilia from his career. I never saw Ali in his day because I was too young. But as a boxing fan, I have religiously followed his life and times, and this exhibition just about does justice to the man and his place in the pantheon of global icons. My only gripe is that the focus seems exclusively on Champ and omits the colourful entourage that travelled the world with Ali when he was the king of the world. These are the characters so poignantly portrayed in the 1988 article; Ali And His Entourage: Life After The End Of The Greatest Show On Earth authored by Gary Smith. Had they also included exhibits on the lives of Gene Kilroy the flunky, Angelo Dundee the trainer, Ferdi Pachecho the doctor, Sarria the masseur who spoke only Spanish, Lana Shabazz the cook and of course the inimitable Drew ‘Bundini’ Brown, the court jester and Champ’s motivator, the exhibition would have ticked all the right boxes.
The Tube
Of the many inventions of the modern world, the underground railway system or the Tube, as they call it in London, leaves me incredulous. Just how does someone think of digging tunnels underground to run innumerable trains that are always on time, ferrying thousands of people below the feet of millions others strolling above? From East Greenwich line to St Pancras International is about 20 stops all done in between at breakneck speed. It is at St Pancras where all the trains to all parts of the UK, including Leicester my next destination, are caught.
Black People
In my few days in London, I am becoming something of an expert at distinguishing the different kinds of black people. It is a nice little game to keep myself amused. The blacks from home in Africa try to make eye contact because they can tell you are from home. They tend to be friendlier even if it’s only a friendly glance. They also have a tendency to greet just like in Africa where we greet complete strangers. In contrast, the blacks from England tend not to make eye contact the moment they can tell you are a black from Africa. They also have some swagger like they want to rub it in you that hey mate, this is home to some of us. But the most sorry looking are the blacks from home doing menial jobs such as street sweeping. They make eye contact, but then apologetically look away as if thinking you might recognise them and promptly tell the folks back in Africa that so and so does not work in an office, but is in fact, a street sweeper in London. However, the successful blacks from home, like the Nigerians at the Greenwich wedding, look you straight in the eye, all beaming so that if you happen to recognise them then they would be very happy for you to report back to folks in Africa that so and so is doing well in the land of the Queen!
Leicester Beckoning
The East Midlands train to Leicester takes around an hour and I find myself back where 15 years ago I studied for the Mass Communications Masters at the eponymously named university. The city certainly looks less grimy and more affluent. This time everyone seems to be floating on cloud nine because in the preceding months, the disbelieving eyes of the sporting world have been glued here as its local team defied all expectations to clinch the English Premier League title. The windows and shop fronts are bedecked in the colours of the team. Buntings have been unfurled across the city in the team colours. During my studies here, Leicester City were just minnows that could not even dream the impossible dreams of underdogs. I did not even support them. In Africa, I knew no one who cared for them. But now I am back here to consummate my new affections for City. Just like the usual suspects of Man U, Arsenal, Liverpool and Chelsea it’s not as if they all started off enjoying massive support in Africa. It is the explosion of satellite television, a growing middle-class and on-field success that generated for those teams a following on the continent. The same will happen with Leicester City if it continues its run of success. Already I count as a supporter. There are tv cameras all over the place for the open top parade tomorrow as news crews search for quotes and stories. On my way out of the main shopping centre after merchandise shopping, I bump into a tv crew from ITV Midlands and am soon doing an interview with the famous Sameena Ali Khan.
Memories
Kitted out in City scarf like practically every second person, I wander around the city areas I remember from back then. There is the old age home I worked at for a week before moving on to a sandwich factory which, though paying well, was utter torture with its freezing internal temperature. The process of packing mass-produced sandwiches put me off the stuff for years after I returned home. I was not able to go to the part of town where I held a long-term job as a carer of autistic teenagers. I then made my way to my alma mater, which had not transformed much. Taking pictures, I proudly informed some students I was here 15 years ago. They looked at me aghast like I was an ancient relic come to life. My department has moved from where it was. I locate the new residence, but the only professor who taught me from back then is not in office. Surely, no one is going to remember me from all those years ago.
Victory Parade/Monday
Back when I supported Arsenal, I read a rollicking book titled Fever Pitch by a tormented fan of the same team, a certain Nick Hornby.
Today Leicester, the city, is at fever pitch. I can attest that Monday May 16, 2016 is a day never witnessed before in this neck of the woods. Not in its …history. By mid-morning the excitement was building up as fans gathered at various assembly points in their City finery. By lunchtime just before the start of the parade, the pubs on London Road to Victoria Park were packed and this on a Monday, I tell you. Children had been let off early from school and most people were on half-day, if at all they went to work.
Thousands followed the four strong open top bus parade on giant screens and in pubs as it snaked its way towards the epicentre of Victoria Park. I was strategically positioned by the gates of the park as the buses rolled past and the delirium reached its crescendo. Then the team was introduced, individually to the crowd, which by now was in overdrive and estimated at around 200,000. The biggest cheers were reserved for star striker, Jamie Vardy, dynamo mid-fielder, Ngolo Konte, captain, Wesley Morgan and coach, Claudio Ranieri. It was a carnival atmosphere all right with music, street food and drink enjoyed by all until just before midnight. What a day!
Back to London
Tuesday morning I take a long nostalgic look at the city of Leicester from my eighth floor room of the Premier Inn. I finally returned as I had long promised myself all those years ago, but it’s goodbye again.
Checking out the Stones
In my day at boarding school the most popular types of music were township disco, country and western, reggae and rock. Often we listened to all of it. But rock was not easy to come by and those who owned it enjoyed collector status. Our fare was progressive rock such as Boston, U2, Dire Straits and for the more hardcore fans, the heavy metal sounds of Iron Maiden and Judas Priest. But then at national service in Ncojane, my friend Fawcus Thabiso introduced to me a rock genre so edgy it blew me apart. This was rock, but interspersed with blues and soul influences.
This was the sound of The Rolling Stones, the greatest band ever. This Tuesday afternoon, immediately on arrival from Leicester I am in Sloane Square at the posh Saatchi Gallery to see Exhibitionism, the first international exhibition on the group. Compared to the Ali exhibition, the budget here is much bigger and the displays very elaborate and comprehensive ranging from stage attire to instruments, artefacts, song lyrics, actual recording studio and other exhibits in nine thematic galleries. No cameras or photography is allowed. By the time one completes the tour, they know more about The Rolling Stones than any amount of reading would give them. But the climax of the exhibition is the simulated concert venue. Here you are given 3D glasses and for those of us who have never been to a Stones concert, you are transported right into a fully-packed arena for a live performance of I Can’t Get No Satisfaction, a classic from the band’s monumental songbook. Stunning. The crystal sound hits you like a sledgehammer, and accompanied by incredible visuals, you begin to understand why a Stones live outing should be on the bucket list of every rock fan. Time is running out for Mick Jagger, Keith Richards, Charlie Watts and Ronnie Wood. Rocking hard since 1962, born and bred in London, I suspect the day anyone of the four dinosaurs keels over to join the big gig in the sky, the remaining Stones will stop rolling and call it a day. There is no way I see them playing on should they lose any of the original founders of the group.
Next Trip
I must see The Rolling Stones in concert before one of them kicks the bucket. The smart money is on the deliciously wild Keith Richards to go first. Without his lead guitar there will be no Stones.
Wednesday
I’m shocked. Are white people serious? How can it take less than a day to register a company in a city of 9,000,000 inhabitants? In our parts of the world, it takes forever. Thanks to Debbie Smith and Starr Ngwenya of The Hamptons Jazz Festival fame, plus their pal Clarence, my new company which dreams of exploring exciting things is now registered in the land of the Queen. Will it lead to my eating life with a big spoon? Dream on mate.
Thursday
My whistle stop tour is winding down. Time to return and news comes through that an EgyptAir flight 804 from Paris to Cairo has disappeared. All 66 people on board are presumed dead. With this news I am certain some will be cancelling flights, but I have to return to the Republic of Botswana. Anyway, how many aeroplanes can crash in one day and yet thousands of cars are involved in fatal accidents every day, but people still drive. I surmise that my odds are extremely high, I will reach home alive.
Back In Cattle Class
At Heathrow Airport, on cue British Airways calls business and first class to board. Then, we of cattle class are summoned and we gingerly tip-toe past the privileged in their luxury recliner seats, soft linen, big tv monitors, champagne and gourmet meals waiting to be laid out for their enjoyable flight. I might be mistaken, but I think the voiceover the tannoy is softer and swooning when it calls the privileged classes and a bit rougher when it summons us the plebians. It could be my ears playing tricks.
The Mighty Remain Fallen
Oh gosh. I cannot get used to the misery in cattle class. It is contagious. I pop two sleeping pills and knock myself out for the return journey. In my deep sleep I dream of eating life with a big spoon in London.