I never thought that my mum would die so soon after moving to Nigeria. My family in UK and Kenya worried over how I would take the news given that I was in a new country almost all alone. I say almost because even though I did arrive in Nigeria alone certainly by the time I was leaving for Kenya to attend the funeral I knew I had some solid friends in Nigeria. I had barely known them for a month but each one of them stood by me in ways that I could never have imagined. Likewise when I arrived in Kenya I was touched by the outpouring of empathy, compassion and love extended to my family by all our friends.

Right now I am blogging from Kenya. I was in two minds about making this trip because as much as I wanted to see my family I was unsure how we would deal with a Christmas without mum. I am thrilled I made the trip. It hasn’t been easy but just like the last time there have been friends on hand to see us into the New Year. In a strange way this has been one of the best holidays I have had and I believe my brother and sisters are of the same view.

So as I head back to Abuja and as we work our way through 2007 I want to thank each and everyone of you who has taken time to support my family. So many of you were friends before mum’s passing and now I count you as family. To those of you who were strangers you are now friends. I wish you all the very best for the year ahead. May you all have more of those instances of pure joy and in the event that life throws you an unexpected event I pray that I can be a good a friend to you as you have been to me.

The Lancashire sea-side resort of Blackpool is home to an Eiffel Tower inspired structure imaginatively named “The Blackpool Tower.” Standing at 518 ft 9 in tall (158 m) the Blackpool Tower is a great place to view the Lancashire coastline. In particular one of the lower platforms contains a glass floor which, while not advisable for those who suffer from a fear of heights, is a wonderful way to see the streets below. The people and cars really do look like ants! When the Dr and I visited Blackpool we told that we must attempt “the leap of faith” i.e. jumping onto the glass flooring. I am not ashamed to admit that I fell into the “O ye of little faith” category – I did not jump!

With hindsight I realise that it wasn’t faith I lacked; it was courage and the “leap of faith” title attributed to jumping onto the glass flooring was/is a misnomer. A leap of faith after all is defined as the act of believing in something without, or in spite of, available empirical evidence.

In the case of the glass floor at Blackpool Tower; there is empirical evidence to support the claim that jumping onto the glass floor will not cause you to drop to your death. It may not be readily available but certainly the engineers responsible for the structure could provide a series of calculations that prove the glass floor could withstand the “jumping weight” of a human being. The idea that jumping on the glass will lead to fall straight through is nothing more than an illusion.

It was only recently, November 13th 2006, to be exact, a month and a day after my mother died that I truly understood what it means to take a leap of faith. Since October 13th I have been told by many people that “things will get better,” “it will be ok, just give it time, or “it won’t hurt so bad after a little while.” From the time I left Kenya, a week after the funeral, to return to Abuja I sought proof to support these statements. Reluctant to go back to doing the things I enjoyed and talking with the people I love because all they did is remind me of a time when mum was alive. A time that I could say that though my mum was in coma she was still alive, we could still see her, touch her and speak to her. Happier times. A time that had gone forever and would never ever come back.

So here I am writing this blog post. I don’t want to write it because with mum’s death came this invisible line that marks everything in my life. Things, events, people, everything seems to neatly fit into one of two categories: those before mum’s death and those after. For a month I have tip-toed on that line. Not wanting to interact with those things that fall into former category for the reasons explained in the paragraph above and equally not wanting to cross over into the latter because I feel that, in spite of all the messages of “things will get better” I am convinced that they won’t. Yet I am writing this post because I know that the line is nothing more than illusion. Irrespective of how I feel the world did not come to standstill on October 12th 2006; it was for all intents and purposes just another day, as was October 11th I am writing this post because even though I have no proof that things will get better; I have to believe that they will.

So this post here; this is my leap of faith.

Hopefully tomorrow this same faith will empower me to respond to the lovely emails I received….and to write a thank you post…and to do all those things that I have been scared to do…

The subject of my last post was ‘Happy Birthday KBW!’

I am now 28 years old and the subject of this post is: Happy Birthday to me!!

Thank you to my two aunties;Mshairi and Uaridi who both blogged my birthday.

To Farmgal, and some random fool who keeps changing his URL; you all wished me happy birthday even before I had blogged it -so asante sana.

And…Happy Birthday to my blog twin. I hope this year works out better for you.

The Drama Queen and my other sister are both visiting, my brother the President, shall be arriving on Friday for the main event – Nyama Choma on Saturday.

Not sure what else we have planned for the day but what I will try and take some pictures of Lancaster for my photoblog – especially as the sun is shining.

I appreciate that calling someone ‘prophet of doom’ is a rather harsh accusation. I also know that casting aspersions on one’s character especially on my blog is irresponsible, likely to get me sued and downright stupid so I have taken time to provide three reasons in support of my claim:

1. On 9th April 2005 he promised us that we would win big if we bet our houses and life savings on any or all of these three horses: Strong Resolve, Clan Royal and Forest Gunner. I believe our friend placed a bet on Clan Royal, in any event none of those horses were in the top three.
2. He returned a year later, denouncing the favourite and claiming that Garvivonnian was a sure bet. On the day of the race I was the one who picked up the phone and informed him that his horse didn’t even make it to the finish line.
3. Today he claims to have advice for the Gooners and pleads that this advice is heeded because he’s got “two quid riding on this!“

Twice in a row he has placed a bet and lost! Today he announces that he placed money on my team!! I can’t even begin to think of the consequences of his actions.

I am not sure what one has to do to break his curse but I reminded of this story:

Uri Geller, famous for bending spoons with the ‘power of his mind’, asked everyone watching to place their hand on a picture of David Beckham’s foot on the TV screen.
He then asked them to concentrate on mending the England star’s foot, in the hope that all the positive mental energy will speed up his recovery. (the rest of it here)

For ages I have wanted to post a picture of Thiery Henry on my blog because has Va Va Voom and this gives me a perfect opportunity. It even allows me to repeatedly touch and stare at my screen…and if anyone asks….I’m breaking a curse!

——————————-
* Photo from ITV.Com
* I just want to say that the whole Prophet of Doom title – it was Mshairi who came up with it. I am not shifting the blame….just crediting my sources.

When my friend arrived I handed him something that one of my aunties had made; a bespoke Uaridi Knitwear scarf. My friend received this gift as a Gooner would receive news of Arsenal’s imminent victory in Paris. Apart from the thirty minutes he spent frying plantain he wore the scarf for the duration of his visit. During the winter months room temperature at Chez Mama JunkYard’s tends to be in the region of 26 °C, so it is fair to say that in the middle of May, this man did not need to wear a shirt let alone a scarf.

Knowing how talented my aunty is and being aware of the hundreds of Uaridi Knitwear items that she creates for members of our extensively extended family I think I have become indifferent to what these items symbolise. It doesn’t take Uaridi long to knit something; I think this scarf took her about 5 hours. It is easy to forget that when Uaridi embarks on a knitting project she spends a lot of time thinking about the recipient. Including the important height and size considerations, Uaridi takes into account your likes, interests, style and so much more. The end result being an item of clothing that reflects your personality.

Taken on its own especially when the seasons change and millions of people in the UK don their coats and gloves, this scarf will be viewed by many as just another winter accessory. It is, on the surface, a small thing.

The joy on my friend’s face as he exclaimed for the hundredth time, “this scarf! It is deadly!� reminded me what it meant to receive a Uaridi Knitwear garment. When you are handed a Uaridi Knitwear item, you are being given something made by someone who has (a) taken the time to know, understand and love the person that you are and (b) utilised their creative genius to transform what she knows of you into a beautiful, stylish and functional item of clothing. In simple terms, my friend reminded me: those small things people do for us often have an impact far bigger and longer lasting than the act itself.

As an aside: After months of persuasion I have finally initiated my scarf wearing cousin-friend into the world of Pimms and Deal or No Deal.

The Drama Queen, aka my youngest sister turns fourteen (14) today. This is a picture I took of her last year. I was deliberating whether or not to add a photo of DQ4Lyf (Drama Queen For Life, as she sometimes calls herself) but I remembered that this is the same girl who has appeared on the front cover of the East African Standard and in various segments of the Daily Nation, so I may as well extend her 15 minutes of fame.

She is a very beautiful girl. I would go so far as to say the most beautiful girl in the family but these sort of statements are known to cause wars. I am blessed to have her as a sister. She may only be 14, but she possesses incredible strength and wisdom.

I remember when she was about three or four years old. My cousins had just lost their mother and my mum and dad, on account of her age, decided not to discuss the subject in the presence of the Drama Queen. On our way to visit my cousins, the drama queen called me to one side and whispered,

Do you know Cousin X’s mum is dead? But you shouldn’t say anything to them about this because it will make them sad.

Actually, all the above was said in Kiswahili, because despite having been born and raised in England, the Drama Queen did not speak English until she started school. I wasn’t surprised that the Drama Queen knew there was a death in the family; our family are not the best keepers of secrets. What amazed me though was her understanding of death.

Like all intelligent people, the Drama Queen has a whacky side.

As a self titled singer-songwriter-guitar player, the Drama Queen, who cites Phoebe (the Friend’s character) as her musical inspiration, does a decent rendition of Smelly Cat. Her true talent however can only be appreciated by witnessing a live performance of her very own composition; Donkey in Horses Clothing; a song she wrote at the age of ten.

Like all her music, this song is accompanied by her signature “strum like a nutter” guitar playing. In the absence of a recording of this masterpiece, I offer the lyrics to the first few lines:

You are donkey in horses clothing,
You need a brain for that small small head
Thought I would fall for your tricks
But I’d rather have you loving me dead

At this juncture, the guitar doubles up as a drum and each note is punctuated by a sharp slap of the guitar. I am not sure what genre of music the song fits into but if I were to place it anywhere it would be in the teen rock category (Busted, Avril Lavigne) with a touch of Phoebe.

Even this whole birthday thing is not without its own Drama Queen madness.

A few days after the New Year, the Drama Queen sent an email to the entire family marked VERY Important! in which she informed us that;

I have decided to “adopt” a birthday…I have decided to have not one but TWO birthdays. The first will be (of course) April 17th and the second? I have no idea. (Any suggestions?)
Please note the new change in procedure and do not forget PRESENTS (money?).
AUNTIES YOU KNOW THE DRILL.

This was followed by a later email;

So after thought and consideration I have finally chosen a birthday…it has to be August, and because 3 is my favourite number… my adopted birthday will be the 3rd of August.
So don’t forget people. Birthday 1=April 17th, Birthday 2=August 3rd.

Well, the Queen of England does have two birthdays, as does my dad (a long story!) so who are we to deny the Drama Queen the right to celebrate her birth twice eh?

The tales of her whackyness are endless and I could be here a long time but I shall only share one more.

This is from a while back, she was probably five years old and we were repainting the house. Being asthmatic, the Drama Queen was not allowed to be in the house while we painted so my mum sent her to spend the weekend with my aunty, Mama Crumbs (that is not her real name). When she returned on the Sunday night, we still had one more room to do and the Drama Queen was eager to help out. Of course mum would not let her and after fifteen minutes of futile pleading, begging and battering, in true Drama Queen style, she stomped off to her room, slamming the door behind her.

For another half hour or so we heard nothing from her. We had, by this time, finished the painting and were sat in the living room. Shortly after the living room door was flung open and in marched the Drama Queen. Occupying centre stage, with defiance in her eyes and resolution in her voice, she announced;

I know why you won’t let me paint. It is because I am black!

Not waiting for a response, she marched back out.

So, until August 3rd 2006, I wish my baby sister a happy birthday. Drama Queen, I love you and I miss not being able to spend your birthday with you. Continue to be the beautiful, intelligent, wise, whacky and loving sister that you are.

I am spending Easter with Mich’s family at their home in Wakefield, a city near Leeds. My intention had been to walk around with my camera, taking photographs of every bit of nature. This did not work out. This weekend has seen some superb weather and true to the saying, mad dogs and English(wo)men were out in the noontime sun. I don’t worry too much about mad men or women…it’s their dogs that scare me.

The top left picture is of the botanical gardens in Thorne’s Park. It’s no Kew Gardens but it is very beautiful. Almost immediately after I had taken the photo, I spotted three dogs, all without leashes. I fled the park and opted for the safety of moving traffic.

Unable to capture Wakefield in the spring, I opted for pictures that summed up the holiday. Sunday lunch at the Mackay’s is a big deal. Mich’s mum is an excellent cook and she goes to great lengths to make sure that everyone’s plate is full.

No photograph can really do justice to her cooking but hopefully the second photograh gives some indication of how good the food is. I should also add that all that food there, that was just the main course!

Lastly, is a picture of Mr Mackay. We got him this Tusker t-shirt when Mich first visited Kenya in 1998. It made me happy to see him wearing it.

That’s it, my Wakefield experience, good food, good booze, good weather and good company!

As an aside, Mich’s mother’s maiden name is Easter. Had we spent it with her side of the family this post would have been called “Easter at the Easters”

This post is inspired by and dedicated to Mshairi and Mich; between the two of them they have continued to educate me on and fuel my love for colloquialisms.

Having spent most of my life in three different continents, living in numerous towns and attending a countless number of schools my feelings towards my own national identity and to some extent ethnic identity are best summed up by relying on a well known phrase (albeit slightly out of context); jack of all trades, master of none.

The feeling of not belonging is perhaps most apparent when it comes to language especially the English language. English has always been my first language; I studied English both at GCSE and A-Level so I am certified as having an above average understanding of the English language. Sadly when this knowledge is converted into conversation, especially amongst friends or in an informal setting, it becomes almost redundant. Most people, when speaking informally, rarely speak the Queen’s English, (neither does she, apparently) instead they rely on slang and colloquialisms which ‘may be more difficult for non-native speakers to understand’. In my experience I have found it even more difficult to repeat the expressions as they rely on specific accents and pronunciations. My blog is the only place I can safely use these colloquialisms so here are some of my favourite ones:

Nowt to say: A very Northern (North of England) expression meaning nothing to say. I love this saying because it seems to have such an air of finality. To me when someone uses it I get the impression that they not only intend to end a sentence; they intend to conclude the entire discussion. Forever.

Let’s be ‘avin’ u: The first time I heard Mich say this it sounded like he was saying “Lesbian Avenue”. In actual fact what he was saying was “Let’s be having youâ€? which to me either sounds like a challenge to fight or a cheap pick-up line. I am told, by Mich, that it is a Yorkshire saying that means, “Let’s goâ€? ….Whatever!

Have-a-go-hero: This is a phrase used to describe those members of the public who risk life and limb to save another member of the public from some perilous situation. I am not quite sure whether it is intended as a compliment or an insult. If I were to use it it would be as an expression of derision simply because it reminds me of those fair-ground stalls where you are invited to have a go at shooting coconuts as they move along a conveyer belt with the promise of winning a giant teddy bear. Even as one parts with their £1 (for three shots) everyone in attendance, including the shooter, knows that they are destined to fail.

Piss up in a brewery: Used to refer to someone who is incompetent i.e“X couldn’t organise a piss up in a brewery”. When I first heard this, though I knew “getting pissedâ€? meant to get drunk , I did not know that a drinking session was often referred to as a piss up. I concluded (il)logically that “piss upâ€? meant urinating upwards and for a long time had rather disturbing visions of men lying on the backs on the stone cold floor of a brewery attempting to get their urine as high as possible. The organiser would be parading round, clipboard in hand, measuring how close to the ceiling each man’s urine was. Understandably I never understood how one was deemed to be a good piss-up organiser.

Legend in their own lunchtime: Mshairi first told me this when she was speaking about someone who thought very highly of themselves. It had me in stitches then and even as I write it I am still laughing.

Job’s a gud’un: Another one of Mich’s Yorkshire sayings, which in the Queen’s English would probably be said like this “the job is a good a one�. It is a congratulatory statement which Mshairi heard for the first time last year. She did attempt use it an email to me but got it slightly wrong and instead typed “goods a gooding�. Her version sounded like a verse from Twelve Days Of Christmas that failed to make the final draft.

Arse from elbow: Four years ago our local pub was under threat of closure. The Council, despite many petitions wanted to demolish it and turn into a car-park. While the negotiations continued the Landlord kept a chalk board at the bar. Written on it, as a sort of headline was the notice : Message to the Council and drawn beneath that was a picture of an elbow with the word ‘ELBOW’ written below it. To the right of the elbow was a picture of bare butt cheeks with the word ‘ARSE’ written beneath it. I asked the Landlord about the drawing and he said, “The council wouldn’t know their arse from their elbow so we’ve made it easier for themâ€?. He might as well have been speaking about me at the particular moment because until he broke it down further I had no idea the phrase meant clueless! Sadly the petition failed and a year later our pub was replaced by parking spaces.

Our Kid: In the South of England the word ‘our’ is pronounced ‘ah-wa’. In the North however it is pronounced as ‘ah’ and since “our kidâ€? is a Northern phrase I often thought people were either saying “R Kidâ€? and concluded it was someone famous or “ah, kidâ€? and figured it was just some random saying like “ah, blessâ€?. Eventually I found out that it was used to refer to a person’s (usually younger) sibling. I love to hear people use it though it gets quite confusing when the person using it has more than one sibling. Sometimes they will specify the sibling by replacing ‘kid’ with the person’s name e.g. “Our Jane just got marriedâ€?. More often than not you will hear someone tell you “ah kid’s just gone t’barbersâ€? and then an hour later the same person will announce “ah kid’s just given birth t’twinsâ€? .

Pearls before swine: Yet another Mshairi favourite. I always confuse this one with that other pig related saying “can’t make a silk’s purse from a sow’s ear�. The former is used to indicate that something sophisticated is lost on an uncultured audience. The latter means it is impossible to make something excellent from poor material. I was fairly comfortable using the silk purse from pig ear saying. I now refrain from using either. I am never too sure which of the pigs gets the purse and which one wears the pearl earrings.

I am almost done but the last one gets a special mention simply because I really do not get it.

Can’t teach grandma to suck eggs: I get the impression it is used in the same patronising way as that other saying “you can’t teach an old dog new tricks�. What I don’t get is what is sucking eggs, who the hell decided that it was a past time favoured by the young and why on earth would anyone feel it necessary to teach grandma? Answers on a postcard please.

Perhaps I should begin with the strange contraption mounted on the shelf. One would mistake it for a fan but I don’t think it is as there is already a fan in the room. This device appears to be a bit more sinister as it alters the air in the room. For those who thought my place was a cyber cafe….not wanting to raise suspicion BUT there is more than one computer in the room I am in. The same goes for VCRs.

I think I will leave it here though I was tempted to comment on the make-up.

Do pass by and let me know if there are any errors.

I shall be returning to blogging properly soon but I have at least one more blog to work on before the 1st of September

…oh…and on behalf of Dr. Mich thank you all for your lovely messages.