A barrel of angst

1. London at last

Four years back.

London was the dream, it was my greatest ambition. To walk down her streets, to see the Thames, and to maybe even catch a glimpse of the queen at Buckingham Palace too. A very tall dream, that last one, but a girl could dream, couldn’t she?London was the hope for a better tomorrow. Oh her shoulders rested the hopes of my mother, my three brothers and I, for it was where I'd make something out of my life, and by extension my family back home.London was my fantasy, it was the place I went to in my head on those rare occasions when my mother had not saddled me with one chore or another. I would imagine how the snow would feel on my bare skin. I had read in a magazine once that there were days when the sun did not set for as long as 10 pm. I could scarcely imagine such a thing. Back home, the sun rose by five in the morning, and set before seven in the evening.London was an achievement. It was a great honour to be related to one who had gone overseas, it was an even greater honour if she was your daughter, as in the case of my mother. In the weeks that led to my departure, she made sure the whole neighborhood knew that her daughter was going to the white man’s land. “Lóndoon,” she called it, stressing the first vowel and dragging the last. On the day of my departure, more than half the neighborhood had come to bid me fare well. Needless to say that my mother had cried her eyes out, emotions warring on her face, sadness and pride. I too cried, I was surely going to miss my mother, my brothers too, but to a lesser extent.London was the culmination of the day dreams and harebrained plans of a young naïve girl. I was reaching for the stars, in hopes of falling on the moon at the very least, for I dreamed of posh cars and grand palaces, of high fashion and high society, and all roads led to London.Since the very young age of twelve, I had clung to this sole ambition. Everything I did, no matter how mundane was geared towards the actualization of this dream. Circumstances had demanded that I come here through the roundabout route, through the hot desert and across the Mediterranean, in the company of similarly ambitious young men and women, some even younger and more ambitious than I was. Going through the Sahara had been scary enough, but it did in no way compare to the out rightly terrifying experience that crossing the sea was. Our transport had been a dingy overloaded speed boat headed for Italy, from where we would be transported by land to our final destinations. There were no life jackets on the boat and I could not swim, and every time the boat hit even a low wave, my heart would lurch, I would look left and then right, back and then front, and all there was to be seen was the endless blue sea, which could in a capricious moment swallow our small vessel. The endless blue sea did end, and my feet at last touched earth again, but the feel of firm earth beneath my feet did not mark the end our woes, for even after crossing into Europe there were several brushes with immigration and criminals. We bribed where we could, and hid where we could not. The traffickers were the worst, their cargo did not exclude young unwilling naive African girls.But here I was finally, a twenty three year old me, reminiscing on the horrors of the seemingly endless, and also sometimes seemingly ill-fated journey across desert, sea and land. Finally standing here in the streets of London, in person and not in the confines of my mind and imagination, and looking up at big Ben, there were no regrets, the unseen horrors of the desert and the long nights at sea, all of it was worth it. I was at the same time euphoric, elated and ecstatic, and corny too apparently. ***** I looked down at the piece of paper in my hand, apartment 7b, this was the place alright. It shouldn’t be, but yet it was. To begin with, this was a rundown apartment building, it looked like it didn’t have a manager. The paint was peeling of the walls, the elevators didn’t work, and trash littered the place. Hesitantly I knocked on the door and waited, I could hear muffled voices coming from within, an altercation it sounded like. After sometime I knocked again, still there was no answer. Just as I lifted my hand to knock yet again, a scrawny, barely legal, mocha skinned boy with a cigarette hanging between his dark lips opened the door, a look of irritation on his face."Yeah?" he inquired, rudely too.“Good afternoon,” I said, slowly lowering hand. The boy just kept on staring at me. Not in a non-comprehending way, but in a ‘state your business and leave’ kind of way. It was clear that my greeting would go unanswered, so I proceeded to ask what really mattered."Uhmm I was wondering if Madame Konica lived here?" I said, in a tone that sounded more like a statement than the question it was."Who wants to know?" He asked."I'm her niece, tell her it's Deola.""Tell her? You're assuming she lives here then?""She doesn't?" I answered his question with another. Slightly panicky, the madam was the only person I knew in London. She had to live here, else…."Urgh! Just wait here," he said exasperatedly as he retreated into the apartment. He soon returned with a stack of papers in hand."Name?" he asked."Deola. D E O L A,” I spelled out for him, just in case. In response, he favoured me with a cold stare.After a short while of flicking through the papers, he finally pulled one out of the stack, looked up at me, then back at the paper. It seemed it had a photograph of me, and he had deemed me a close enough match to the photo, since he ushered me into the room.Inside the room was dark, there was just one window and it was closed, with dark curtains hanging over it. The result was a stuffy room with a smell I could not identify, but suffice it to say that it was not a pleasant smell. The only source of light was a small television set, which was at the moment showing very lewd images, images I’d rather not describe or dwell on, and so I turned away from the screen, instead taking in the rest of the room. The walls were painted in an off white hue, and bore several colourful portraits. They were beautiful, but unmistakably amateur. I suspect they were the handiwork of the boy. Surprising, considering his disposition did not match the vivid and vibrant interplay of colours so evident in the pictures. There was another person in the room, a lady, dressed provocatively as she sat with her legs crossed. She too nursed a cigarette between her lips and her eyes were focused on the small television screen with the lewd images. The images on the screen were either very engaging, or she must have deemed me unimportant, for she did not spare me even a cursory glance.I continued to look around the room with my eyes alone, it did not seem like a good idea to move around, nor did it look safe to sit in the only other chair left, and so I remained upstanding, turning my neck when moving my eyes alone was not enough. It was confusing really. I couldn't understand how my successful aunt, who would come back from London and flaunt wads of foreign currency could live in such a run-down place. I hadn’t really known what to expect, but never in a thousand years would I have expected this.She was not truly my aunty, she was only called that out of respect. Back home if a person was as old as your mother or even her youngest sister, then she automatically became an aunty. It was even more so if she had money, and madam Konica had a lot of money, or so we had been led to believe. My thoughts were interrupted when the boy emerged from a door to the side, with the Madam following closely behind. I had not seen him leave, nor had I noticed the door through which they came. I suppose there had to be another room attached to this… dump. The Madam was a big woman, both tall and broad, she towered over most men and women alike, and I was no exception. She looked more rotund than I remembered though. I was told there was a time when she had been beautiful. Truly, her face did bear vestiges of such a time, but I’m more inclined to have called her handsome, rather than beautiful, as her facial features were broad, rather than delicate.I quickly shoved that thought aside, and plastered a smile on my face. “Good afternoon ma’am,” I said curtseying."Deola,” she answered, "you’re here at last".“Yes aunty, I am.” “I was beginning to think you had changed your mind,” she said.“No aunty, I haven’t”“Yes. I can see that,” said the madam, rather slowly as she gave me a critical look from head to toe, as if judging me.“Well,” she said, her voice having reverted to normal. “You’re welcome,” she added with a small smile, and gestured to the boy with the cigarette. “This here is Vance, he’ll show you to where you can put your things,” she said, her eyes moving to the small bundle clutched to my bosom. It had in it the little money I had left, it wasn’t much, but it was still something. Also in it were the very best clothes I had, the ‘bottom box’ as it was called back home. The rationale behind the colloquialism was that a box, or a bag as the case may be, had levels, and clothes were arranged in it in descending order of value. The very best at the bottom, as they were the relatively more beautiful and expensive, and were reserved for only the very, truly and really special of occasions. An occasion which demanded the use of a ‘bottom box’ was an occasion whose specialness could not be overemphasized. I could not think of a more special occasion than coming to London, so all that was in this small bundle were my bottom boxes.I did as I was asked, meekly following Vance, as the madam had called him. I followed through the same door from which the madam had emerged, it led to a narrow hallway and Vance led me to a room, smaller and with less light than the one I had just left. I stood still for a minute, letting my eyes adjust to the darkness. No sooner had my pupils dilated, than the light came on, causing a mild discomfort. The room was small, I had got that right. It was in the shape of a rectangle, but it was however not the ramshackle I was just now realizing I had expected it to be. The walls were bare, with places where the paint had peeled off, there were two small sized beds placed along the longer walls of the room, with a small wooden cupboard in between them and propped against the shorter wall and above the cupboard was a window, overlooking a busy street. All in all, it was minimal, it was clean, and it was more than enough.“You can have your pick of the beds, you’re the only girl around for now.”“Thank you,” I said, turning to look at him.He ignored me, and instead took a long drag from his cigarette, and all but blew the smoke in my face. Further fouling the already stale air, and eliciting a cough from me.“Just outside this door is the bathroom, you’ll benefit a great deal from using it,” he said, with his nose scrunched up. I bent my head a bit, taking a whiff, and I could not blame him for scrunching up his nose. The bathroom was where he said it was, I got in and locked the door behind me, then stepped under the shower head. The water thankfully was hot, and it felt divine on my skin. The journey had lasted close to three months. Baths were few, and far apart and did not last long enough for one to actually get clean, the water was never hot, and at best it was lukewarm. I picked up the soap and lathered my body, and with the abrasive sponge I had brought with me, began to scrub. The water quickly turned a murky brown which I found repulsive; not the colour of the water, No. it was the idea that I had been carrying around with me enough dirt for a small flower pot.Only when the water ran clear did I stop scrubbing and turned off the water, drying myself with the small towel I had come along with. It felt good to be clean, I never knew cleanliness could feel so good. When my body was dry enough I donned the clothes I had brought, and walked back to the room.Quite some time had passed, and I could see from the lone window that the sun was beginning to set. It was a normal sunset, like I was used to. I walked to the window, it was the sliding kind, opened it a crack, letting in the cool evening breeze and the sounds from the street below. The breeze felt good on my face and the sights and sounds beckoned to me. Soon I had opened the window all the way, and had my head poking out. “Good morning my neighbours,” I shouted, admittedly not quite as loud as Akeem had done. I was not a prince, I was not even a princess and more importantly it was not morning.I smiled to myself, thinking how wonderful it would be if someone down there were to shout ‘f**k you’ back at me, just like in the movie. Oh that would be nice, the icing on the top of this already splendid day.The smile still on may face, I took a very long, very soothing breath. “This is it Deola. London at last.”