Images brought with love from Northern Nigeria

15th Century Hausa building

Traditional Hausa Architecture

Market Scene

Argungu Fishing Festival

Street scene at sunset

Entrance gate to the Palace of the Emir of Kano

Entrance gate to the Palace of the Emir of Zaria

Reception room of Palace of the Emir of Kano

Garba 2

It was late. The remains of our supper had been cleared away by that woman. All three of us had stayed together in Garba's room watching videos and talking generally, me about life in Lagos and the South, and how what so far I'd seen of the North seemed so very different from the South that I was used to; them about how they perceived southerners, and how people from the South seemed to be so much more westernised than they were. Abdulrahman in particular, was keen to show me how westernised I was in the way that I chose to dress, and the hair product that I used. But all of this was good-natured and amiable, and there was a lot of laughter and quite a few jokes. Garba, I was told, was an architect. 

I learned that he had only just completed his own one year of national youth service and had a few weeks previously started in a job with a firm of architects established by some chap who, having been granted a scholarship by the state government, had trained in America and now returned. Garba was still living at home with his parents, but he reckoned that he would move to his own place within a few months. There was a lot of talk about how much there was yet to be done in Bauchi, talk about contributing to the development of the state and Bauchi town in particular, especially in relation to municipal and city planning. Garba seemed really enthusiastic about his profession and his job, and I listened attentively, although I couldn't help admiring his fine angular jawline and the way his lips moved when he spoke.

Soon came the moment when that problem of the sleeping arrangements was to be considered. Garba was our host, but Abdulrahman it was who had invited me here. It was obvious that both of them would have shared Garba's huge double bed had I not been here. In the room, there was also a chaise lounge upholstered in an expensive looking damask, and I did not think it was customary for Garba to have guests sleep on it. Anyhow, there was the problem of working out where each of us would sleep, but as is the custom in most of Africa, the guest is always in an honoured position. So I got first choice of the bed.

Abdulrahman kindly deferred to his cousin and chose to lay on the chaise lounge, over which Garba carefully draped a sheet. Which meant that Garba and I would share this huge bed. And as I climbed into it, I thought to myself that this day must be one of the most eventful I had yet seen.

In the morning, I woke up to find that I was alone in the room. Shortly afterwards Abdulrahman entered to say that his uncle had requested that he accompany the driver on an errand down Tafawa Balewa Road, which he explained was in the opposite direction from the house to where the NYSC office was. However, Garba had agreed to take me to the NYSC place on his way to work.

This sounded fine, but it was still early and I was sure the NYSC office would not be open for another couple of hours. I lingered in bed, wishing that I didn't have to go out at all this morning. But just then Garba came in. He sat on the bed and shook my shoulder, obviously thinking that I was still asleep. He said breakfast would soon arrive and that I should get dressed as he didn't want to be late for work. Quickly coming to my senses I made for the shower room and returned to find that Garba was waiting for me so we could have breakfast together. The breakfast was already laid out. 

He didn't leave the room this time as he had done the previous evening. But this didn't bother me either. Perhaps we two having slept all night in the same bed, there was no longer ice to be broken. It just seemed so natural putting on my clothes in his presence. I'd heard of the term 'sexual tension', and I wondered if that is what this was. There was a feeling, some chemical electrical inexplicable thing. It was similar to what had happened when I had first met Moses sometime ago, but with Moses the feeling was strong and uncontrollable. With Garba it was more subtle, but clearly there was the potential for this to be even more far-reaching, and I was in no doubt that this feeling was mutual. It was like two pieces of a jigsaw puzzle that were coming together without any effort, something magnetic.

Garba drove me in his brand new car to the NYSC place. He sat in the car waiting to see that I achieved some success with locating the exact room where my registration would take place. 

I found the desk of the person who would perform the registration, but was informed by the other person in the room that although Mrs. Giwa had not arrived, she was expected within the hour. I could sit and wait, or alternatively, I could go and come back. Go where? I wondered. 

I went back to the car to let Garba know what the position was, then he suggested that he would drive to his office and then return in about an hour. My things were still in his room, and we would at some point later today have to make arrangements to move them to whichever accommodation I was allocated by the NYSC after my registration.

I waited in Mrs. Giwa's office for about half an hour, when she finally turned up, heavily pregnant. I started off the conversation with her in as polite a manner as I was capable of. But for some reason, or maybe she was just having a bad day, this woman was very irascible. I told her who I was, then she requested to see my NYSC call-up letter, the letter I had received informing me of my posting. I explained that because the letter itself had not stated that I was required to present it when reporting for registration, I hadn't brought it with me. I said I had seen the list on the notice board in the corridor of this building, and that my name was on it. 

She became even more irritated and uncooperative. She insisted that without the call-up letter there was nothing she could do for me, and that if I didn't have the letter with me I should leave her office immediately because she had other things to do. I was despondent. I mean I had travelled nearly 1000 kilometres only to be told  by this woman to leave her office. Tears of desperation came to my eyes, and I didn't know what to do. 

I walked out of the building, dazed, confused, when I heard a familiar voice shout my name. It was Garba. He was sitting in his car parked across the road. I rushed to meet him and got into the car slamming the front passenger door shut. I was distraught, agitated. Garba was puzzled. 

Holding back the tears of frustration I tried to explain to him what had happened and that this meant that I would have to go all the way back to Lagos to look for that letter, wherever it was. He put his hand on my shoulder trying to calm me down. He said he had told his boss that there was a small family matter he needed to attend to, and his boss had allowed him the day off. He asked me to look at the bright side, this meant that I wouldn't have to go and stay in some anonymous room somewhere in town by myself. I was with him and Abdulrahman and everything would be alright. Even if I had to return to Lagos for a short while, my things would be safe with him in his room. 

I looked at this man whom I met only last night and wondered if it was right for him to be offering me so much. "I really like this guy," I thought to myself. 

Garba drove off. He didn't tell me where we were going, until I asked.

"Somewhere nice," he replied, then I turned and looked at him. He was looking straight ahead at the road in front of us, but there was a twinkle in his eye.

Bauchi Harmattan Sunrise

It's really the sun up there. This photo was taken on a particularly dusty morning somewhere east of Yankari Game Reserve in Bauchi State, Northern Nigeria.

The Harmattan is a dry and dusty West African trade wind. It blows south from the Sahara Desert into the Gulf of Guinea between the end of November and the middle of March. On its passage over the desert it picks up fine dust particles (between 0.5 and 10 micrometres). When the Harmattan blows hard, it can push dust and sand all the way across the Atlantic Ocean to the Caribbean and South America.

Garba 1

The female voice on the loudspeakers finally announced that the flight to Jos was ready for boarding. This flight had been delayed for four hours already, and it was to the relief of us the would be passengers that we were directed towards the Nigeria Airways aeroplane that was to take us on this journey from Lagos Murtala Mohammed Airport. 

I was excited, the moment had finally come when I was leaving home, going to that far-off place that I had always dreamt of. I was going to Northern Nigeria where I had never been, for my one year of compulsory national youth service. It is the requirement for every new graduate of higher institutions in Nigeria to join the National Youth Service Corps (NYSC) for one year of service to the nation. 

It is the practice for 'youth corpers' to be posted to parts of the country different from where they originate, or where they had gone to school, college or university, the idea being to introduce young people to other parts of the country to which they had never been, and which they would otherwise have no occasion to visit. I was posted to Bauchi State, a place I'd only read about in geography books and heard about on the news. I had recently turned 21, and I was leaving home. And I was bubbling with excitement. The nearest airport to Bauchi town was the one at Jos, about 120km away. The plan was that I would fly to Jos and then complete the journey by bush taxi.

The Jos Plateau is a very scenic part of the country. The landscape was all quite new to me, as I had never been in a highland area. I know now that the weather was pleasantly cool, sub tropical. But at that time I thought Jos was cold, having lived all my life until then in the coastal equatorial steamy heat of Lagos and Port Harcourt. So it was with a sense of wonder that I sat in the city taxi travelling from Jos Airport across the city to Naraguta from where I would catch the bush taxi to Bauchi Town. By this time it was about sunset, the flight from Lagos had lasted for only slightly more than an hour, but because it had departed late from Lagos, we had arrived in Jos much later than had been expected. 

The journey to Bauchi from Jos would last another hour, when I eventually got on the bush taxi that is. No matter, I thought, surely the NYSC must have an office open all night in the event that corpers travelling from other parts of the country arrived at an odd hour. It was the responsibility of the NYSC office to register corpers on arrival, accommodate them, and manage their posting to whatever job they were assigned. 

I knew nobody in Bauchi, indeed in the entire north of Nigeria, so I was counting on the NYSC office in Bauchi being open this evening when I eventually arrived. At the moment, I was too filled with wonder and excitement to think too much about what would happen. Or maybe I was too scared to even consider the possibility that the office might not be open when I arrived later this evening.

Soon I was dropped off at the Bauchi Road motor park (motor park - a bus station cum taxi rank in Nigeria) from where I was to catch my bush taxi. There was a row of several taxis, all going to Bauchi, but I could see that they were in sort of a queue, taking turns to depart. None could leave until the first one in the queue had departed having first filled up with passengers. When I arrived at the motor park, the driver of the taxi at the front of the queue had taken my bags and placed them in the boot together with the luggage of the other passengers who were already sitting inside the taxi. There was only one other empty seat remaining after mine, so I realised that I had a few minutes to spare before the taxi would leave while we waited for the last passenger to turn up. 

I was excited. This was a whole new atmosphere where Hausa was the main language being spoken, of which I knew not a word. I went a few metres to a little shop and bought a Coke to quench my thirst, and as I walked back to the taxi I heard someone behind me say "Excuse me..". 

It was nice to hear someone speak a language I understood, so I turned around and saw this tall young man dressed in traditional Hausa attire, a sky blue embroidered caftan with matching trousers, and that cap on his head that is so typical of northern Nigerians. This fellow introduced himself as Abdulrahman. He was a student at the Ahmadu Bello University in Zaria and was heading to Bauchi to visit with relatives. However, he had not done his sums properly and now found that he was a few Naira short and needed some assistance to pay the fare. I agreed to assist him, not that I had a lot myself, but it was easy, because I could see straight away that he was genuinely in need of help. He was decent, polite and I thought that this could easily have been me in his position seeking the help of a stranger. Together we paid Abdulrahman's fare to the driver and got into the taxi, both of us sitting side by side. So it was that for this journey into the unknown, I had earned the company of a young man of about my age who was native to this place. I was alone no longer.

As expected the journey to Bauchi took just over an hour. By the time we arrived it was already dark. Bauchi is not a large city, it is an old traditional Hausa settlement with an ancient city wall that surrounds the old city. However, with modern development the city had expanded outside the city wall. This was now a state capital and the road leading into the city was broad and brightly lit. Also it didn't feel cold as in Jos. 

Abdulrahman had explained that shortly after we left Jos we had descended from the Jos Plateau and that we were now on the vast Savannah that covers almost the whole of northern Nigeria. On the way from Jos I had told Abdulrahman who I was, and explained why I was travelling to Bauchi. He said he knew where the NYSC office is located and that the taxi would drive past in front of it. He suggested that it might be a good idea if I let the driver know, so that he would stop there and I could get off. I agreed and then he said a few words in Hausa to the driver, who nodded. 

When we arrived in front of the NYSC office in Bauchi, it was already about 9pm. The street was brightly lit, as every major road seemed to be in this town. But the building. There was not a single light in sight. Not even an open window. Abdulrahman had pointed out the bulding to me and as he did so, he must have noticed the shock on my face, because he immediately decided to alight from the taxi with me. 

I was in Bauchi with all my worldly possessions, late in the evening, in front of a locked office building, with nowhere to go, and no idea what to do next. I was thankful that Abdulrahman had decided to leave the taxi and stay with me, because the task of rescuing me from this predicament now fell upon him.

Abdulrahman told me that his uncle whom he had come to visit in Bauchi lived not very far away. He suggested that we should go to his uncle's house and stay there until the next morning, when I could return to this office and get myself registered. It was not as if I had a choice, so of course I welcomed the suggestion and so off we went, him helping me with my heavy bags. 

We got into a local taxi that took us to his uncle's house, a very nice house in a part of town that I assumed was where all the important people lived. On the way he told me that his uncle was the state commissioner for something or the other, sort of like a state government minister. The house was very nice indeed, set in a beautiful arid garden. 

The northern part of Nigeria is a semi arid zone that lends itself to arid gardening. I marvelled at the immense good taste in which this front garden had been created, and how lovely it looked in the floodlighting set strategically among the various cacti and succulents. Walking past the garden and the main house, Abdulrahman and I went straight to the back house, commonly referred to as the 'boys quarters'. This is usually accommodation provided for the domestic staff who worked in the main house, but in this case Abdulrahman's cousin, his uncle's son, had laid claim to one of its rooms. 

It was into this room that we entered after Abdulrahman had unlocked the door. Although it was not a large room, my first thought was that it contained too many items of furniture. It was apparent that its owner had gone to great lengths to assert to anyone who entered that he was not a domestic staff in this place.

Abdulrahman showed me around, the conveniences and such like, and then left to enter the main house to inform his relatives that he had arrived. I think he must have at the same time also told them that he had come with a visitor, because shortly afterwards he came back to the room accompanied by two teenage boys of about 13 and 14, who seemed eager to see who this person was who had accompanied their cousin to their home. They were friendly and I felt very welcome. Abdulrahman said supper was on the way and that in the meantime I could freshen up if I wished. 

Of course it had been a long eventful day, so I welcomed the opportunity to take a shower and change my clothes. Abdulrahman went back inside his uncle's house with two young cousins.

Returning to the room after my shower with only a towel draped around my waist I saw that the door was ajar, it was obvious that there was someone inside. I was a stranger in this place and didn't want to upset anyone, so I carefully knocked on the door and peeped inside to see who it was. There was indeed someone in the room, but not someone I had met before. He had his back turned to the door but turned around just as he heard me enter. He seemed surprised to see me, well, obviously he didn't know who I was, or what I was doing there. 

"Hello", I said. "I arrived a short while ago with Abdulrahman". 

"Oh..?", was his reply. He stared at me briefly then smiled and for the first time I got a clear view of his face. 

I was naked under this towel draped around my waist and was somewhat embarrassed that he was seeing me for the first time like this, but I extended my hand. He seemed to understand how I felt because after shaking hands, still smiling at me he left the room so that I could get dressed. Not very long after that there was a knock on the door and Abdulrahman returned with the same man who had been here when I entered after my shower. Abdulrahman introduced him to me as his cousin, his uncle's son and his name was Garba. Garba and I shook hands again, and I mentioned  to Abdulrahman that we had already met. 

Garba was not tall, not as tall as Abdulrahman. He wasn't even as tall as me. But he exuded masculinity, and he was very well groomed, with a neatly trimmed moustache and perfectly manicured fingernails. I couldn't held noticing.

A loud knock on the door and a woman entered carrying a tray on which was set a huge meal of rice and peanut stew with beef. The aroma was heavenly. The tray was set down on a mat on the floor, and the woman, obviously one of the uncle's domestic staff, left as quickly as she had arrived without saying a word. She returned a few moments later with a pot of piping hot tea, which I was told is called chai, and some mugs, and then left again. No cutlery was provided, and as is the tradition among the people of the north, all three of us sat around this tray of rice and beef and ate with our hands directly from the tray. The food was delicious, and Garba was very pleasant. And he kept smiling at me.

Anengiyefa at 10:09 am

That blue car

I've just taken delivery of that car I've always wanted, you know, that blue one with the leather trim interior and the wood effect dashboard. I didn't manage to sort out the insurance before the week's end and against the best advice of my friend Albert, I went spinning around in it this afternoon. And boy, it is something!

I haven't owned a car for the better part of 10 years, mainly because I convinced myself that I didn't need one. And there was a hint of the desire to do my own small bit for the environment. But driving around this afternoon listening to loud Aswad on the stereo, even though the traffic was heavy in parts of town where Premiership football was just disgorging its huge crowds of fans into the streets, I realised what I've been missing. Thoughts of standing all the way to my destination on a crowded London bus, or standing on a train station platform on a freezing cold wet morning flashed through my mind and I shuddered. It was nice and warm and comfortable in the car, and I've vowed never to go anywhere unless I'm driving there in this beauty. Within the last hour I must have looked out of my front window about 100 times already, just to make sure she's still sitting where I left her when I came in. I'm going out again shortly...

Technology and me

I haven't blogged for a few days and it was almost as if something was missing although I couldn't tell exactly what it was until I started typing this post. Nobody told me blogging is addictive, or that there are withdrawal symptoms. Anyway now that I know I'll try to keep up with the posts.

I was thinking about a news report I saw on television sometime ago, about how some weird people were queueing in front of a store somewhere in London where Apple's iPhone was to be launched the next day. I mean this live report was sometime in the late evening on a cold windy night, when every sane person ought to have been sitting snugly on a sofa in front of the TV, or at least making their way home in order to do so. And there was this throng of wild haired men and women proudly announcing to the TV reporter that they were happy to brave the foul weather all night, just to be sure that they obtained the iPhone the very minute it became available in the UK the next morning when the store's doors opened. Thinking about this I wondered what was so special about the iPhone that was to be sold on the first day. Was it perhaps different in some enhanced way to any other iPhones that would be sold the day after? What about those who would acquire the iPhone weeks or even months after its launch? Taking into account the pace of technology, perhaps its even sensible to wait a few weeks I thought to myself.

I am fascinated by technology and the advances that we have witnessed within just a few decades. It's nothing short of amazing. But having said that, I personally have struggled to keep up with innovations, although when I do finally catch up, I've often wondered why I was so slow in realising how truly awesome this thing is, whatever it was that I was just catching up with. Let's start with mobile phones, or cell phones as some people say. For a long while I was entirely convinced that I did not need a mobile phone. What for? I would question myself. I already had a phone at home and another at work. Surely I didn't need a third phone? Who would want to contact me anyway when I was out and about? But when I looked around and saw that even school children carried mobile telephonic devices around, texting and the like, I started to feel like a visitor from another planet, or from a place in time somewhere in the past. Not until then did I realise how ancient my thinking must have seemed to those to whom I fervently argued that a mobile telephone was a completely unnecessary frivolity. Anyway, as I have often had to do, I caved in and acquired one.

It was pretty much the same with the Internet. Even this blog was started five years after everyone I know had already started a blog. As a child sitting in the back seat of my parents' car, anytime the car stopped at a railway crossing, or whenever there was the possibility that we would be anywhere near a passing train, I clearly remember the panic that would take hold of me and how I would try to duck down under the driver's seat until the train passed. I feared engines and machines or anything mechanical. I seem to not have outgrown this anxiety about machines and technological innovations generally. I despise pocket calculators, but I have to use one regardless. Thankfully today's computers are user-friendly, but apart from the basic word-processing, emails, blogging (now), music and videos, there isn't very much else that I do with them. I like to draw with crayons and paint pictures with a brush. I love to read books that are made of paper and cardboard. I love writing with a pen and ink. Sitting in front of this computer screen is a necessary evil, the way I see it. I looked up the word "technophobia" in the dictionary and was surprised to find that it's a real word, defined as the "fear of or aversion to technology, especially computers and high technology". That finger is pointing directly at me. 

Yes I accept, I am officially a technophobe, because now Twitter is all the rage and I am breaking out in a cold sweat.

I know I've been rambling in this post, but I just needed to let that out somehow. It's even had a therapeutic effect in that I've been able to share with this blog something that has lurked somewhere at the back of my mind for a long time about which I'd not been able to speak to anyone. But of course, I still haven't acquired that Apple iPhone, although I might just do so someday.

PS: I set up my Twitter account shortly afterwards.

Easter

We are told that Easter Sunday is the day on which the resurrection of Jesus Christ is marked. If there is any other reason why this day is important in the Christian religion, then I suppose it is the fact that it marks the end of lent, the season of fasting and penitence that commenced 40 weekdays earlier on Ash Wednesday. In reality however, in modern times, just like Christmas the religious significance of this day is shunted aside and what Easter appears to have become for most of the Christian world is a holiday weekend, starting on the Friday before. Of course, there is the obligatory movie or two on television about the life of Christ, or some other similar biblical story, and then, at least in every country where I have happened to be when Easter came along, the compulsory live broadcast on Easter Sunday morning of that dreary Mass at the Basilica in Rome. While I cannot dispute that there are those who hold this day in reverence, what seems more apparent to me is that most people think of this weekend as a holiday. Bars, pubs and restaurants are packed full of people having a good time. On the Thursday before Good Friday, many people leave work early and because schools have broken up since the Friday before, airports, train stations and coach stations struggle to cope with the mad scurry out of town of those who wish to spend these precious few days of holiday someplace else. And of course since the railway companies have announced clearly that major engineering works are scheduled for the Easter weekend, you miss your train on Thursday at your peril. And then the roads. Early on Thursday morning, traffic reports on the radio warn that this day is traditionally the busiest day on the road network.

Why all this commotion, one wonders. Is it really because Jesus died? Did Jesus die and rise from the dead so we may gorge ourselves with food and ingest as much alcohol as we can? Where is the connection between Jesus resurrection and Easter eggs?

This G20 Summit

History teaches us that is it not very often where two or more countries agree on something, that each country will act upon what was agreed on in exactly the same way. In the G20, there are 19 countries and the European Union, which itself is a political union of 27 member states, only four of which are represented independently in the G20. The way I see it, this is a hodge-podge of diverging interests and it seems clear that no form of consensus can ever be achieved in actuality, although on paper the final communique to be produced at the end of this summit will undoubtedly purport that there has in fact been consensus. Recent political history is replete with examples of agreements made on paper, on which are conferred as many different interpretations as there are signatories to the agreements.

The very nature of the G20 itself is such that there can and should be no disagreement. Yet, even before the meeting began it was well known, with regard to regulatory reform, that there was a split between the Anglo Saxon capitalist model of the UK and the USA on the one hand, and the more interventionist European model of Germany and France. Indeed, France's Monsieur Sarkozy even threatened to walk out if no firm measures were taken to rein in the banks and hedge funds.

Gordon Brown's brainwave of a fiscal stimulus, a major new initiative to kick start the various economies has come up against a solid roadblock. Angela Merkel, and not her alone, has firmly indicated that she has no intention of letting the G20 write her national budget. Not to mention the recent cutting words of Brazil's Lula da Silva, blaming white blue-eyed males for the financial crisis. All in all, I expect little more than rhetoric from this summit, as opposed to solid and detailed figures. The rhetoric will lean towards highlighting the benefits of concerted international effort in dealing with the financial crisis, but few commitments will be obtained from governments, if at all.

Methinks that one positive outcome of this summit will be the formalisation of the shift of the balance of power from the traditional economic powers like the US, Japan, Germany and the UK, to the newer players like China and India. And particularly in relation to the issue of voting rights in the IMF, taking into account the fact that an enlarged role for the IMF inevitably carries a substantial price tag, a burden that the traditional powers will not be terribly keen to shoulder in the present economic situation.

While trying not to get bogged down with all this economic stuff that we have been bombarded with recently, most Londoners are basking in the limelight of Obamamania. Many know that there are several heads of government in town, but everyone, including the almighty BBC are following Obama around. Its almost like an Obama state visit. And Michelle, she's grabbing all the headlines.

The Saxophonist 2

So I went back to the Shrine that Friday. And this time I made certain to go alone, as on the previous occasion I had accompanied a group of my friends from university. And of course I was sure to arrive early in order to enhance the likelihood of meeting Moses before the performance began (let's call him that for the purpose of this story). On arrival I made my way to the backstage area, feigning the innocuous wide-eyed curiosity of an excited and awe-struck Fela fan, primarily to bamboozle my way past the burly bodybuilder bodyguards who were the scourge of any foolish troublemaker at the Shrine. 

I successfully made it into this inner sanctum, not quite believing how daring I had been at the entrance. And as is to be expected there was a lot of activity going on, with Fela's female dancers darting about backstage, giggling, as women are wont to do, while preparing themselves for the night's performance. As everywhere else inside the Shrine, there was the ever present cloud of cannabis smoke hanging in the air, the lighting was low, so it was quite an effort moving around the backstage, from darkened room to darkened room trying to locate him. Thinking back now, I can only wonder how easy it might have been if this was happening today when everybody owns a mobile telephone. Back then, the thought of a personal mobile phone was still in the realm of science fiction.

Eventually out of the corner of my eye I spot him bending over something on the floor at the far end of a corridor. It was dark, you see, and I wasn't sure if that was him. Yet I was very sure that was him, Moses, that man because of whom I'd laid awake at night, every night, since last Tuesday when I first heard his voice and felt his touch. There could not be another person backstage at the Shrine who looked anything remotely like this man, whom I had been unable to keep out of my mind since I left this place three nights ago. 

So I moved closer, and had almost reached him before he sensed that he was being approached. When he looked up and recognised me, the expression on his face a combination of shock, surprise and delight. He beamed, flashing that dazzling white toothed smile at me. Oh Lord, I wished we were alone, I should have leaped into his arms. But no, I just smiled back, genuinely feeling a bit shy that I had taken the bold step of coming to find him backstage. He must have noticed too, so he made me comfortable by rising from what he was doing, walked up to meet me and said, "Hi baby", as he embraced me.

I felt as if I had died and gone to heaven. The hug had happened so naturally. I held on tightly to his body, feeling as if I had arrived at my destination after a long and tortuous journey, never wanting to let go of this man who made me feel so special. It was hard to think that I had met Moses only once before, because being with him now at this very moment was as if I had arrived at a place I had always wanted to be.

I felt so safe and secure. This man was strong, and he pulled me close, and I held on too, but we were both mindful that we were in a space that was accessible everyone who was backstage at the time, to all the members of the troupe of performers. Reluctantly, we let go of each other. 

I was shy (or pretended to be), so I turned my face downwards towards the floor, smiling. We didn't say much, we just let our facial expressions and our bodies do the talking for us. 

Moses crooked his finger under my chin and turned my face upwards towards him. I raised my head and looked up into his eyes. I knew he could tell that I had fallen desperately in love with him and he pulled me close again, this time being careful not to make contact with that part of our anatomy that is below the waist. I put my head against his chest and I could feel his heart pounding. We held on to each other again, tightly.

In my head I could hear myself saying

"My love, where have you been all my life? I'm so glad I've finally found you."

But that line of thought was abruptly disrupted when Moses suddenly jerked and let go of me. I looked up at him and followed his gaze down the corridor towards a female figure who was approaching us. She did not seem to have seen us, but Moses had seen her, and had reacted in the way that he did for a reason... (To be continued)