Beasts of no nation

Saying farewell to youth

I had cause recently to read up on 'night sweats'. I did this on the Internet, as you do, when you need to find out more about something that's been on your mind. Okay, I guess I have to admit at this point that I have in fact been suffering from night sweats, a condition that has meant that in recent times my night's sleep has been disrupted far too frequently. So I searched for more information on the web and narrowed my search down to "night sweats in men". All the sources I read, after having excluded various other medical conditions that may be indicated by night sweats, were pointing towards one thing: Andropause, or the Male Menopause, also sometimes described as Androgen Deficiency of the Ageing Male (ADAM). (The word Decline is sometimes substituted for Deficiency).

I would not be entirely honest if I said that I'd heard of the term andropause before now. And even from the literature that I've come across, it is clear that there is considerable controversy among the experts as to whether andropause, or the male menopause, is a valid concept at all. However, it seems undisputed that there are distinct biological changes that take place in men during mid-life, which are comparable in some ways to the female menopause, even though it is also undisputed that unlike women, men can continue to reproduce well into old age.

Menopause is a "complete cessation of reproductive ability caused by the shutting down of the female reproductive system.." Andropause on the other hand is "a decline in the male hormone testosterone. This drop in testosterone is considered to lead in some cases to loss of energy and concentration, depression and mood swings. And while andropause does not cause a man's reproductive system to stop working altogether, many suffer bouts of impotence.." (cough!)

I won't bother you too much with all the technical details, which I'm sure all of us are perfectly capable of scouring the Internet for. I do wish however to go a bit further by saying that apart from the night sweats, several of the other supposed symptoms of andropause that I discovered during my search, do in fact apply to me as well. So what are those symptoms and what is my response to each of them?

• Hot flashes ................. Not sure
• Excessive perspiration .... Most definitely
• Loss of libido ............... Maybe
• Impotence .................. No comment
• Anxiety ..................... Sometimes
• Depression ................. I think so
• Impaired memory ......... Can't remember
• Lack of concentration .... Maybe
• Fatigue ..................... Sometimes
• Insomnia .................... Yes definitely, but mostly because of the night sweats

So you see I do have cause to be concerned that andropause, the male menopause, is now a reality for me. I have seen suggestions for "treatment", such as hormone replacement therapy. But this holds no appeal for me, since I would rather that I allowed myself to age gracefully. Two days ago I sat in the barber's chair, watching as clumps of my cropped hair fell from my head into my lap. I was keen to take a closer look to see how many grey hairs I could find. Well, there weren't many, but there were definitely more greys than the last time I sat in that same chair.

And talking about this now is not out of place, because only this evening I was informed of my impending appointment as an Elder in the church. It doesn't seem that long ago that I was attending the Young Men's Group meetings. Well, I suppose the time comes when each of us must confront the reality of ageing. But have no doubt, I intend to wear all of my grey hair with pride..

Postscript

And recently I have noticed that people have been referring to me as "Sir" when they talk to me; strangers, some even of my mother's age.. Hmm, I know about the traditional English politeness, but this is nothing to do with that.. I'm not sure if I'll get used to being called Sir, or even whether I like being so called..

Lean tidings at Christmastime

The forecasts are for weak disposable income growth in this country for the coming year and possibly beyond. The true effects of fiscal tightening are expected to become more apparent going forward. But for me it's as if my disposable income has been in the grip of decline for several months already as I find that I'm just not able to do the sorts of things that I used to do before.

About a week before Christmas I caught myself carefully examining every single detail appearing on the receipt the checkout lady at the supermarket handed to me. This is something that under normal circumstances I would be the one to scowl under my breath when the person standing before me in the checkout queue was there wasting everybody's time by closely inspecting their receipt. After all these were items that they themselves had selected from the shelves. But on this day I saw that I had spent at least one-third more than I thought the shopping should cost, and I thought perhaps there might be some mistake or something. But no, there was no mistake at all. It seems that all that talk on the news about rising prices of food and other household products is true after all.

Ah yes, Christmas.. that time of year again. Alarming as this may seem to some, I have spent nearly every Christmas over the last two decades by myself. Well, it's not because I want to be alone, it's usually been because everyone I know always has somewhere else they want to be (or have to be) at Christmas. Sometimes, one or other of my siblings is feeling rich enough to make the long trip to spend Christmas in my city and this has been lovely when it has happened. For some odd reason though, on my part, I'm reluctant to impose myself on others at Christmastime, when I know what people really want to do is to be with their husband or wife and their children. Of course I've been invited several times to different people's homes, but having consistently been politely declined in the past, those invites have become less and less frequent.

So, for me, Christmas has evolved into ME time, a time when I can selfishly shamelessly and mindlessly indulge myself prodigiously in vices of all kinds, ranging from chocolate to pornography; a time when I can treat myself to an expensive item (or two); a time for toying with the idea of whether I should splash out on the TAG Heuer or the Longines and maybe fantasise about that Patek Philippe I've been ogling for months. And then of course the wardrobe is due for its yearly update and characteristically I would tease myself by flirting with the idea of purchasing a couple of bespoke suits from an insanely expensive gentleman's outfitters, knowing full well that this is way beyond my means. Eventually I would settle for some middle of the road off-the-rack suit or two from a reasonably respectable gentlemen's clothing store.

This was just to give an idea of how Christmas and the prelude to it have been in the past, at least until the Christmas of 2009. Christmas 2010 however, has been decidedly different. Which brings us back at where this post started, the hike in the cost of living. This year has shot past and I've found myself so busy with seeing to the day-to-day that by the middle of December I was wishing it was possible to have the Christmas postponed for another couple of weeks. I simply was not in the position that I'm accustomed to being when this time of year comes around. 

Christmas has now come and gone and like most people I have celebrated it in the best way that I could. No, I did not acquire any luxury items for myself (for obvious reasons), but I did receive a few gifts from others, notably, a gaudy ornamental mug and a fruit bowl. In keeping with the low key I too handed out numerous greeting cards, a couple of cosmetics gift packs and some handkerchiefs. Somewhat embarrassing really, but nothing compared to what is portended for the lean times ahead. Today I took the car out for a good shine and polish since for the time being and indeed for the foreseeable future, a car upgrade is completely ruled out.

African Roar 2011 selections..

I have reproduced this posting which first appeared on Ivor W. Hartman. Ivor had already notified me privately that I am one of the authors whose stories have been selected for the 2011 edition of African Roar, an eclectic anthology of short fiction by African writers. See here too.

"African Roar 2011 Selections

It gives us (Emmanuel Sigauke and Ivor W. Hartman) great pleasure to announce the selections for the next annual StoryTime anthology African Roar 2011. Congratulations to all who made it through the selection process, and thank you to everyone who entered!

Chanting Shadows by Mbonisi P. Ncube

The Times by Dango Mkandawire

Out of Memory by Emmanuel Iduma

Masvingo neCarpet Thamsanqa Ncube

Diner Ten by Ivor W. Hartmann

Missing a Thing of Beauty by Abigail George

Water Wahala by Isaac Neequaye

Longing for Home by Hajira Amla

Snakes Will Follow You by Emmanuel Sigauke

The Echo of Silence Delta Law Milayo Ndou

Snake of the Niger Delta by Chimdindu Mazi-Njoku

The Saxophonist by Anengiyefa

Letter to my Son by Joy Isi Bewaji

Waiting for April by Damilola Ajayi

A Writer's Lot by Zukiswa Wanner

Witch's Brew by Stanely Ruzvidzo Mupfudza

To the Woods with a Girl by Masimba Musodza

Silent Night, Bloody Night by Ayodele Morocco-Clarke

Lose Myself by Uche Peter Umez

Uncle Jeffrey by Murenga Joseph Chikowero

Because of my Wife by Kenechukwu Obi

The Orange Barn by Sarudzai Mubvakure

PS: The various parts of my story are posted on this blog. The easiest way to find them is by using the search tool on this page.

Yetunde's blog

A couple of weeks ago, my neighbour who attends the same church as I do gave me some food to take home. In the food container that she handed to me was ayemashe (or ayamashe), a particularly spicy but extremely delicious traditional stew of the Ijebu people, among Nigeria's Yoruba population. Its not unusual for me to receive gifts of food from ladies at church, since perhaps they think that not having a wife must mean that I am under-nourished. They seem to have a desire to ensure that I receive proper nourishment and get all the vitamins that I need. Well, I don't know anyone who turns down perfectly good home-cooked food when its so freely offered. And I do not wish to be the first person I know who does. So of course such gifts are gladly (and gratefully) accepted, even if the ultimate benefit to me is that I'm spared having to shop for and cook food until all that free food has run out. This last time it was ayemashe.

Ayemashe is unique. For me while growing up was a mystery. Nothing that we ate at home, at our friends' or relatives' houses, at parties, or anywhere, even came close to tasting like ayemashe, that greenish-brownish stew with little pieces of meat in it, usually served with white rice. For many years it was offered mainly at small informal eating places known as buka, (or bukateria, a play on the word cafeteria), and was available with rice for a small amount. As far as I knew ayemashe was a delicacy that was consumed only once in a while. It seemed to me that only a relatively small number of people knew how to prepare it, and that they kept their secret close to their chests.

I have recently observed, however, that ayemashe has become more readily available, and is served at many Nigerian restaurants at home and abroad, sometimes appearing on the menu as "designer stew". What this means of course is that more and more people have learned how to cook it. So after joyfully consuming all of the ayemashe that Bisola (my neighbour) gave me, the next time we were in the car together on the way home from church I asked her for the recipe, which when it was revealed to me turned out to be surprisingly simple. And from that moment on I was determined to cook ayemashe for myself, but I thought I should search online to see if anyone else had done something similar and posted it. In doing so I happened upon Yetunde's blog, which I must admit I'm now totally hooked on.

The photo at the top of this post is ayemashe on rice, but its not mine. It's borrowed from Avartsy Cooking, Yetunde's blog. I haven't summoned the courage to cook mine yet, but going through her blog has opened my eyes to all kinds of possibilities and the kitchen beckons now more strongly than ever before. I should be keeping you posted..

Zimbabwe's blood diamonds

Zimbabwe is supposedly enjoying political stability under the coalition government formed in 2008. However, according to the UK's Channel 4's Unreported World programme, which Channel 4 describes as a "critically acclaimed foreign affairs series offering an insight into the lives of people in some of the most neglected parts of the planet", the reports from Zimbabwe are of a country still "gripped by terror and violence."

Reporter Ramita Navai and Alex Nott filmed undercover to investigate claims that gems from one of the world's biggest diamond fields are being used by Robert Mugabe's ZANU PF party to entrench their hold on power by buying the military's loyalty. (Navai is the same reporter whose story on the escalating violence in South Sudan I wrote about on this blog in November of last year). The current reports from Zimbabwe are against the backdrop of human rights abuses, which victims say are being perpetrated by the military and the police.

Filming covertly and secretly, (footage that was broadcast during the programme Friday evening), the team discovered a climate of fear reminiscent of the pre-coalition Mugabe years. Almost everyone Navai and Nott met was too terrified to talk about the diamond fields, including several members of the MDC party, which forms part of the coalition government. We see some people speak out, albeit at great personal risk. They detail stories of beatings, killings and rape connected to the diamond area. There were suggestions that powerful individuals within the government oversee and control these activities.

A military insider told the Unreported World team about how different Zimbabwean Army units are allowed to rotate through the fields to make profits from the diamonds in exchange for loyalty to president Mugabe. The serving officer claimed that syndicates of civilians are used by soldiers to mine illegally and they then sell the gems to middlemen. (In June last year, Human Rights Watch reporting on the same issue wrote about forced labour, torture and military massacres in the Marange district in Eastern Zimbabwe where the diamond fields are located. Click here for the HRW report).

The team followed the diamond trail, showing how smugglers move precious stones from the Marange fields across the border to the boom-town of Manica in neighbouring Mozambique. Filming secretly, they showed how the stones are purchased no questions asked, by Arabic speaking buyers who claim to be Lebanese. We are then informed that Manica, once a sleepy rural Mozambique village, is now buzzing with diamond buyers from around the world chasing after the flush of Marange diamonds from across the border. Its impossible to track the diamonds once they have been purchased from the smugglers, usually for meagre sums. From Manica the diamonds are absorbed into the international market and sold in upmarket and high street stores across the world.

The Kimberley Process Certification Scheme (KPCS) a UN-backed industry watchdog has been tasked with ending the sale of conflict diamonds. Its function is to ensure that diamonds are not used by rebel movements to finance wars against legitimate governments. It is thought however that this definition is narrow and doubts have been expressed as to the effectiveness of the KPCS, as in this BBC report of June this year. For sure, the KPCS has not prevented the reported widespread looting and human rights abuses connected to Marange and there is the suggestion that it has failed to deal with the unfolding crisis.

Next month in Tel Aviv, Israel, the members of the KPCS meet for their annual summit to decide what to do next. The State of Israel is the current Chair. The Unreported World reporters indicated that at the time of filming, there were fears that the situation in Zimbabwe could precipitate the end of the Kimberley Process itself, as internal politics and in-fighting about how the watchdog should proceed may tear it apart. (This caught my attention and is something I will be investigating further).

vast natural resources found in the Marange district of Zimbabwe could potentially change the fortunes of a country whose economy has hit hard times. These reports however, despite the coalition government, confirm that Zimbabwe is a country still plagued by corruption and violence, a serious warning of what is to come ahead of the 2011 elections.

For those in the UK, Unreported World series 10 episode 15 'Zimbabwe's Blood Diamonds' is available on the Channel 4 website for the next 29 days. Click here to watch.

Westerners no longer swallow my story, says Kagame

In this video posted on YouTube by Olivier Nyirubugara a Rwandan journalist and PhD student in The Netherlands, we hear Rwanda's President Paul Kagame commenting on the increasing divergence of views between his administration and its Western partners, formerly known to be "unconditional supporters".

On this and on that

Some weeks ago I walked away from my job. I had endured the job for long enough and the time came when I'd had enough, and I acted almost on impulse. Walking out felt good, as if it was the right thing to do. It was exhilarating knowing that I would no more have to put up with what had caused me to be unhappy with the job in the first place. And although I knew not what I would be doing thereafter, I left anyway, trusting my instinct.

Since then a lot has happened. I have now reverted to my former employment status, self-employed. My professional regulatory body will not allow me to practise on my own, since I'm facing some disciplinary action brought on by the actions of my erstwhile partner at my former firm, which is now defunct. However, I've been able to work out a fee-sharing arrangement with a different firm that allows me to do my own work, (through the firm of course). Giving up half of one's fee cannot be easy for anyone, as you probably can imagine. But it is necessary that one should pull one's own weight within a firm in order to have some clout. Also when one considers the firm's overheads, contributing my bit can only be a good thing.

While all this was happening, I came down with the worst flu I've ever had, with a chest infection and sinusitis to boot, causing the worst one-sided headaches I've ever suffered. In fact on one occasion, I was forced to pull up on the busy motorway for about half an hour, not trusting myself to be able to summon the concentration necessary to navigate safely home through the traffic. I had a fever, and the severe headache refused to go away despite having overdosed on Cocodamol. But since I desperately craved my bed, I eventually had to brave it and forge ahead until I clambered up the stairs of my building and staggered through my front door.

You're probably wondering what I was doing driving around when I was so sick. Well, I am no longer an employee, so it is impossible to call in sick to the office. Also, I still had to attend for all of my client appointments, attend court, attend meetings and so on, even while coughing, sneezing and wheezing..and of course spreading the germs around. The good news though is that at the time of this writing, I feel a lot better, even if I can't help thinking that the effects of the illness would have been considerably less had I the luxury of being able to afford to take a week off work.

Then the Commonwealth Games in Delhi came along and provided us with some comfort in the evenings. Thank goodness for the BBC Red Button. I was particularly interested in the athletics. Now, bad publicity is something that we Nigerians are perfectly familiar with, (not that being accustomed to it makes it any less unpleasant). So it didn't come as a surprise the hullabaloo over the winner of the 100m women, Nigeria's Oludamola Osayomi being disqualified and losing her gold medal, having tested positive for Methylhexanamine a nasal decongestant, which only made it into the list of banned substances for athletes in the summer of this year.

That Osayomi was awarded the gold medal in somewhat controversial circumstances anyway, meant that its loss was not as painful as it might have been otherwise. My main concern was to see that Nigeria won more medals than Kenya at the Games. So I was terribly glad to see that despite the loss of Osayomi's gold, Nigeria was placed 6th versus Kenya's 7th place on the Medals Table, although I must admit that I always looked forward to seeing Kenya's Ezekiel Kemboi and Vincent Koskei on the track... PS. Well, the Commonwealth Games medals table has changed. Kenya is now placed 6th with 12 gold medals and Nigeria is at 9th place with 11.

And then there is the story of the Chilean miners, a story that has been making it onto the news for months now, usually as a side story about what for most of us, would have seemed like a mishap that befell some unfortunate people in a far off place. Last night I got out of bed in the middle of the night. Sleep failed to find me for some reason, although my guess is that the culprit was my persistent worrying about the financial side of things, (now that I do not receive a regular wage). Anyway, there I was at 2.35am perched on the sofa, turning on the TV, mug of lemon tea cupped in my hands. The pictures on the screen were of a paramedic (I later learned he's in fact a mine rescue expert) being strapped into the Fenix capsule before it began its first manned journey down into the bowels of the Earth at the San Jose copper and gold mine in the Chilean Atacama. I noted that all the major news channels were showing the same pictures, so I selected one, sat back and watched.

It would have been quite unnatural not to have become transfixed on the screen as I was for the next four hours, as watching miner after miner being pulled out. The Chileans, I think, have done a marvellous job in organising this feat, albeit with technical assistance from abroad. What strikes me most is how media-savvy the Chile government has demonstrated that it is, streaming live pictures from the cavern inside the Earth where these miners have been entombed for all of 69 days, the country's mining minister Laurence Golborne tweeting constantly about the rescue operation as it progressed (click here for his Twitter page). I think it is ingenious for the Chile authorities to have arranged for the orchestrated reunions of the rescued miners with their families to take place in the full glare of klieg lights and TV cameras.

As I type this, 15 miners have already been rescued, and with much of the rest of the world I am greatly impressed with the way this rescue operation has progressed. It was only a few days ago that in casual conversation with some friends, I was saying that if those miners had died when the mine collapsed in early August, none of us would be talking about them now. Instead, they are now expected to become celebrities, recipients of substantial pay-outs in compensation.

And then of course I've recently received an invitation from Rolex to participate in a two-day event to honour the first five winners of their Young Laureates Programme taking place at one of Europe's leading institutions Ecole Polytechnique de Lausanne (EPFL) in Switzerland on 9-11 November 2010, where I am informed some of the world's foremost scientists, explorers, environmentalists, doctors and educators will be gathered. Interestingly, two of the young laureates are Africans, one a Nigerian. And I am still scratching my head, wondering if I really should accept the invitation and go over to Lausanne, Switzerland, unsure if I am deserving of this honour.

Zimbabwean parents disown son

The devastated parents of a 20-year old Bulawayo man have said that they had no choice but to forcibly evict their son from their Tshabalala Extension home after he confessed he was gay. Sources close to the openly gay Irvine Mahachi Junior said that a rumour about the estranged man's sexual preferences had been circulating for over two years and were only confirmed to be of substance when he decided to come out of the closet.

In an interview, the visibly shocked father, Mr Irvine Mahachi, who was still failing to come to grips with his son's bizarre sexuality, said that he had disowned his first child and does not want to hear from him again. "As far as I am concerned I do not have a son any more. The only child I have left is my lovely daughter. What Irvine has done is taboo and shameful. It is unheard of in our African culture", said the emotionally aggrieved father.

Mr Mahachi declared in no uncertain terms that he was never going to forgive the black sheep of the Mahachi clan and would not entertain pleas from relatives.

"Anyone who tells me to forgive Irvine risks a fierce quarrel with me. I did not raise my son to be gay. I raised him to be a man. I expected him to chase after skirts like other boys, but he never did that. I should have noticed then that there was something weird about him, maybe I could have strengthened him into a man", said Mr Mahachi with tears in his eyes.

The self-employed, shattered father-of-two revealed that his wife fainted, while he was shocked and speechless when his son announced to them that he preferred men to women.

"The manner in which he asked for an audience with me and my wife made me realise that something was wrong. He was nervous and not his usual self. I was so angry and shocked that I hit him with my fists, something that I have never done in my life. My wife suffers from high blood pressure and the shocking news almost killed her. Even today she is not herself", he said.

Attempts to interview the Mrs Caroline Mahachi failed as she refused to talk to Sunday News because her son's disgrace was a "family matter". In a telephone interview, Irvine Junior refused to reveal where he was staying but confirmed that he was gay and a member of the Gays and Lesbians Association of Zimbabwe (GALZ).

"Its a pity and a shame I was born into a society full of hatred and intolerance. Had I been born in South Africa nothing like this could have happened to me. This country need to move with the times, it needs to change. All this discrimination is unnecessary because at the end of the day who I sleep with is my business. I know that your newspaper is anti-gay and speaking to you is tantamount to suicide. But please be objective and publish my side of the story with fairness", he said.

Irvine said he was saddened by the fact that his parents had chucked him out of their house, but hoped that one day they would accept him as he is.

"All my life I have been the victim of homophobia attacks but I never expected that from my own flesh and blood. I feel betrayed, but such is life. I have been called names, but now I am numb to it.

"All that matters is that I finally told my parents the truth about myself. I am happy with myself and that's all that matters," he said.

Homosexuality in Zimbabwe is illegal and frowned upon and those who practise the bizarre and unholy act are regarded as outcasts. The three principals in the inclusive government declared that gays have no place in Zimbabwe, with president Mugabe being on record as describing them as "worse than pigs and dogs".

Source

When sparks fly

From the moment your gaze settled on that face in the front pew, you knew. You were captured by those eyes in the lock of mutual attraction; that faint curling up of the corners of the mouth, the knowing deepening of the intensity in those eyes...those eyes, again and again. There was no mistaking it. Then the smile; smile met by smile..

And in the aftermath of the benediction, in the milling of the crowd of the holy and the sacrosanct, you are drawn together, almost like pawns in the hand of that mysterious invisible magnetic force of Mother Nature, which of her own accord brings two people together. The greeting, the smiles, the handshake, lingering, reluctant to let go; the thumb gently caressing the back of your hand, that intensity in those eyes again..

Handshake morphs into handclasp, unrelenting, unwilling to be released, eyes still locked in mutual embrace; soft words exchanged, a stirring in the loins..? How awfully you want him to stay and share in the refreshments, the jollof-rice, cake and fruit on offer this anniversary Sunday; how gladly you would rush around the buffet counter to produce a platter of food for you both to enjoy. But he must leave. "Other commitments elsewhere", he whispers, smiling. "There will be another time.."

And of course this you must accept, for he is after all a man of God who is visiting you from another congregation, with untold responsibility to his flock. He must leave now and you must endure the parting, the hands reluctantly letting go. You stare at him from behind as he walks away, slowly, him being careful not to draw attention; you knowing that he is thinking the same thing as you. When will that next time be..?

Rudisha smashes the world record

Today in Berlin.. Another clean sweep for Kenya..

More here..

After the race, David Lekuta Rudisha (a more up-to-date profile here) is quoted as saying:

"Last year I had a bad time in Berlin. The weather was not very good, and I did not make it into the final.

"So I did not want to talk too much about the world record before the race. But today I knew it is my day. I trained very hard, the weather was good. I told the pacemaker to run the first lap under 49 seconds. He did a great job.

"The last 200 metres I had to push very hard. But I saw the clock. 1:41,09 at the end, fantastic. I am very happy to be the fastest 800 metres runner in the world. The crowd was fantastic."

Out of Africa...The incredible fashion show inspired by Mother Nature

An amazing fashion show inspired by Mother Nature. I came across this 2008 posting on the Daily Mail online website. The models are said to be of the Surma and Mursi people of the Omo Valley in East Africa, (see here too). The story in the Mail reads:

"With colourful make-up of bright yellows, startling whites and rich earth-reds, flamboyant accessories and extraordinarily elaborate decorations, you'd be forgiven for thinking that these images originated in the fevered mind of some leading fashionista. Yet far from the catwalks of New York, London or Paris, these looks are the sole creation of the Surma and Mursi tribes of East Africa's Omo Valley.

Inspired by the wild trees, exotic flowers and lush vegetation of the area bordering Ethiopia, Kenya and Sudan, these tribal people have created looks that put the most outlandish creations of Western catwalk couturiers to shame."

Read more

"...a leaf or root is transformed into an accessory..

Instead of a scarf, a necklace of banana leaves is draped around a neck.

In place of a hat a tuft of grass is jauntily positioned.

A garland of flowers, a veil of seed-pods, buffalo horn, a crown of melons, feathers, stems and stalks-

Mother Nature has provided a fully stocked wardrobe.

Like a dressing-up chest brimming over with costumes and make-up (paint created with pigments from powdered stone), the natural environment is the source of this glorious jungle pantomime.."

"Although the origins of this astonishing tradition have been lost over the years - the Surma and Mursi spend much of their time engaged in tribal and guerilla warfare - their homeland is a hotbed of the arms and ivory trades. Fifteen tribes have lived in this region since time immemorial, and many use zebra skins for leggings, snail shells for necklaces and clay to stick their wonderful designs to their heads. As they paint each other's bodies and make bold decisions about their outfits (all without the aid of mirrors) it seems that the only thing that motivates them is the sheer fun of creating their looks and showing them off to other members of the tribe. As a celebration of themselves and of their stunning environment, this is truly an African fashion parade like no other." Marcus Dunk

Pictures by Hans Silvester (Rapho/Camera Press) from the book Natural Fashion: Tribal Decoration from Africa by Hans Silvester, published by Thames and Hudson, £19.95

Poetic and rather evocative, but I do not like the word "tribe" and never use it, since I think of it as a word devised by Europe to describe peoples they thought were less 'civilised' than they were. The word carries with is a connotation of primitiveness and applies only in relation to the 'native' peoples of Australia and the Polynesia islands, parts of south Asia, Africa, parts of South and Central America and the indigenous populations of North America.

It angers me to see that many of us in modern times have embraced the word and refer to our various ethnic groups, indigenous societies, indigenous nations, kingdoms and fiefdoms as tribes, without thinking about the implications of the use of the word. The word appears in the Mail's description of the fashion event and I needed to express my view. Please pardon me for digressing. See here too.

Interesting discussion on pre-colonial Africa

There is an ongoing discussion that was engendered by one of my older blog posts, posted on this blog in March 2009. The post is the first of a five-part series, The Truth about (Part 1). Go to the comments on that post to see the discussion so far.

The discussion has been between me and (im)perfect_black ☥☥☥ (GI), who blogs at Thoughts of a Ghetto Intellectual and whose Facebook page is here. We have been considering whether there is the potential for obtaining from our elders currently living, (or from any other sources), historical information about same-sex relations in traditional African societies. What is desired is information that is authentically African and devoid of all European or Western input or influence, since it seems that all of the literature and the majority of the material that is currently available to us on the subject are of Western origin.

And this would include those reports about the same-sex practices and traditions that the early Western anthropologists observed among our communities. These are available to us today but are of questionable value, since what we find in the literature are the Western anthropologist/missionary/colonial officer's views on what they thought they had observed, rather than a factually accurate and true account of what they did in fact observe.

The reason for writing this post this is to call for ideas and suggestions.

Having a good moan

Some time ago I wrote on this blog about my elation at being appointed leader of the choir at my church. Since then I have found myself more and more involved in other church affairs that have nothing at all to do with the choir or the music department.

A short while after my appointment as leader I started to receive the odd message from the church authority commending me on my efforts in conducting the affairs of the choir. Then gradually, and even before I realised it, I found that I was spending more and more of my time engaged with church matters. So that unlike previously when I could afford to spend a lazy Saturday afternoon lounging around at home, nowadays the weekend zips past before I even know it.

I suppose it was natural for the church authority to see me as the right person to name as leader of the "young men's group". When I think of it, it's not as if I can correctly be said to be a "young man," or that there are none of the youngish married guys who are capable of taking on the responsibility of leader. In fact, quite a few of those married men are younger than I am. But maybe the reasoning was that since I wasn't married, I had more in common with the majority among the young men, who like me are unmarried. But that's just me guessing. 

Anyway, as if running the choir and heading the young men's group isn't enough, I have been appointed to every committee conceivable, (except for the church executive committee, which is reserved exclusively for the clergy and the elders). And as if just being on these committees still isn't enough, the pastor has seen to it that I lead the committees as well, whereas none of these appointments was made with my consent. How does one say NO to one's pastor?

What has irked me now is my recent appointment as leader of the... wait for it...summer picnic organising committee. Now tell me, what would I know about organising a picnic for 50 odd people, many of whom are children? Fortunately, the other members of the committee are women, so surely they would not be expecting me to be the one to work out how many loaves of bread are required to make the sandwiches. However, I still do have the responsibility of choosing a suitable site for the picnic in two weeks' time, which will of course entail driving around extensively, time which I would otherwise utilise more profitably sitting behind my desk.

This evening Pastor rang me to check on the progress of our plans and preparations for the picnic. I had no answers to his questions because I've been so preoccupied with some difficult issues at work, that I simply have not had the time to spare. Yesterday was taken up with choir stuff, in preparation for a service last night, and the Sunday service today. I've spent this evening drafting documents for work that must be ready for first thing Monday morning.

What I find interesting is that working hard at my choir leader job has been to my disadvantage, because it has made me seem like a reliable pair of hands to whom more responsibility can then be entrusted. I wish I was more like some of the others who seem to be not interested in taking on any responsibility at all.

Trip to Nigeria 1951

From a handwritten diary. Click here for a photo of a page of the handwritten manuscript. I attempted to obtain copyright permission, but my email bounced back. I hope I don't get into trouble for using it, but this is a historical treasure-trove, too precious to be hidden away. Reading it gave me tremendous enjoyment. I hope you enjoy it as much as I did..

Trip to Nigeria 1951

A Diary by A. Margaret Jefferies (1912-1992)

The Journey. 1951 Saturday July 21^st.

Arrived at Airways Terminal Victoria at mid-day, checked in and had lunch on premises:-

Chilled Melon

Roast chicken, new potatoes and peas.

Neapolitan ice.

2:00 Boarded coach for Heath Row airport. Passed through customs and were on board B.O.A.C. Hermes “Hours” by 3:00.

Just as we were comfortably settled we were told there was a slight mechanical defect which must be seen to before taking off, so we disembarked and a coach took us back to “Departures” where cups of tea were served.

Passengers who went to greet friends in Spectators' Enclosure saw the Duke of Edinburgh arrive, met by Prince Charles.

Re-embarked, but found two passengers missing and had to wait while they were rounded up. They had been watching the unloading of Prince Philip's luggage which filled 2 vans so evidently he exceeded the regulation 66 lbs.

Took off about 1.5 hours behind schedule. Fastened seat belts for take-off and stewardess distributed barley sugar and later, when we were airborne, iced lemon squash.

Passed over Epsom and crossed coast just east of Brighton which we identified by its two piers.

Reached French Coast near Dieppe. Very good visibility all the way over France. Picked out rivers Seine and Rhone looking rather like wide satin hair ribbon. Saw Marseilles to east as we crossed the Mediterranean coast.

Flew over a corner of Sardinia, but clouds obscured it. On to N. Africa as sun was setting in spectacular shades of electric blue, green, and flame.

Flight very smooth indeed. Less sick-making than a motor coach. Seats well sprung, upholstered in blue, mine immediately behind wings, travelling backwards and facing passengers seated behind us, across a fixed table. Other seats faced back of seats in front and had folding tables. Powder room at tail of aircraft had cleansing lotion, make-up base, colognes, hand lotion etc. provided for our use, Elizabeth Arden.

Afternoon tea was served and cigarettes distributed by stewards at intervals.

Dinner, preceded by sherry, was served after dark.

Cold soup

Egg mayonnaise

Chop with new potatoes and peas

Strawberries and cream

Cheese and biscuits

Fruit dessert

Coffee

Wine was served with the meal.

Landed at Castel Benito Airport, Tripoli, about 10:30.

Italian and Arab waiters served tea, biscuits, and wine.

Took off after an hour's stop for refuelling for hop over desert to Kano. Take-offs and landings much smoother thanI had imagined; we felt no discomfort from change in altitude, though some passengers yawned widely or swallowed violently to relieve ear pressures.

Lights were extinguished in aircraft for night flight but most people slept little owing to sitting-up posture and vibration.

Morning tea dispensed at 4:45. Landed at Kano Northern Nigeria for breakfast at 5:30. Black stewards waited on us with more zeal than efficiency. Had not realised that black men's hands have pink palms and finger tips and that the soles of their feet are pink.

After breakfast, sun had risen. Bright morning with cool breeze. Rest House had some attractive flower beds with zinnias and petunias as well as native plants and shrubs. One shrub had vivid flame red flowers and looked rather like a Christmas tree with bright red luggage labels tied all over it.

Took off at 7:20. Visibility good at first. Saw Niger and its confluence with Kaduna river then clouds thickened. Clear over Lagos Airport and we landed with no delay, ¾ hour ahead of schedule. We had flown at about 12,000 to 13,000 feet, but pressure inside aircraft was no more than 3,500 feet.

1951, Sunday July 22. Arrival.

T. had set out in good time to meet me and arrived just as the aircraft taxied in. He filled in an immigration form for me to save time so that I got well to the front of the queue through the Customs. The African Customs man looked suspiciously at my travelling case and made me open it for inspection. He showed great interest in the contents of my bottles and jars and seemed to suspect that the Cosmedia lotion might be whiskey. I was tempted to offer him a taste.

The steward boy, Ronson, and the new car (Vanguard Estate) were awaiting me.

It was a 16 mile drive from the Airport right through the town of Lagos.

Arriving at 22 Cameron Road, Ikoyi, we found a reception committee lined up to welcome us. It consisted of Godwin, a steward boy at the Rest House, his wife and three picaninnies. They live in part of our boys' quarters as the Rest House does not provide quarters for the boys there.

Ronson made us coffee and beamingly produced a bunch of bananas as his dash (i.e. free gift) for me. He was resplendent in the new uniform he had ordered for my arrival – white drill with brass buttons. He is well under 5 feet and not unlike a chimp to look at.

The staff off duty. Ronson, Sammy.

The Drive through Lagos.

African pedestrians expect to receive audible warning of the approach of a car, so we proceeded, hooting loud and long. They hop and skip nimbly out of the way without dislodging the loads on their heads, and with an alacrity which is refreshing after the stolid indifference of English jay-walkers.

It seemed to be a feast day and the citizens of Lagos were out in their best bibs and tuckers, highly coloured and of infinite variety.

The men wear loose cotton robes called RIGAS. Some of these are in most beautiful colouring and patterns. They may have matching cotton trousers, or white ones dazzling enough to serve as a Persil advertisement. With these garments the appropriate headgear seemed to be either a red or black fez, or a sort of Victorian smoking cap embroidered in gold or silver thread. One or two had large coloured umbrellas, a really important man has a servant to hold his umbrella over him.

The women are fond of blue. The local indigo dyes give a very pleasant shade. They wear loose shapeless blouses, and a length of material wrapped round a la sarong. Whole families will dress alike. Bright head scarves are made into intricately draped head-dresses. Yoruba women wear high crowned straw hats that can be adapted to carry their personal effects when necessary.

Their skill at carrying loads on their heads is incredible to a European. We passed women balancing bottles, oil drums, folded umbrellas, palm fruit, bowls, baskets, and bags. One African belle was dressed in a fashionable European frock, navy wedge-heeled shoes and a perfectly matching handbag, which she carried on her head with the handles drooping artistically over one ear.

The roads were narrow and busy. Besides the pedestrians, there were droves of shiny bicycles, very solid, upright, and respectable like English policemen ride. A three speed gear and a chain case are essential for snob appeal rather than practical use, T. says.

We passed lorries loaded with Africans bearing inscriptions such as “Help us, O God”. These are known locally as “mammy wagons” and seem to be the equivalent of Green Line buses. The passengers are said to be adept at getting in and out in a hurry if the pious mottoes prove ineffective and they just get ditched, so the injury rate per accident is negligible. T. says the worst drivers in Lagos, however, are the Europeans.

We stopped at Government House to sign the Governor's book, which is the practice of all new arrivals from the U.K. . A magnificent sentry saluted us as we entered.

The House, 22 Cameron Road, Ikoyi.

Stands in about an acre of compound, which consists mostly of grass, trees, and bushes. The soil is almost pure sand. We have an avocado pear tree, mangoes, breadfruit, flame of the forest, magnolias and hibiscus.

The front door opens into a hall with red tiled floor, leading to dining room, butler's pantry and two store rooms. There is a fridge in the passage leading to the pantry. A covered corridor leads from the pantry to the cook-house, which has an old cast-iron wood-burning range. Ronson sometimes uses it for his own cooking, but we would not relish a meal cooked there until it had had a very thorough spring-clean.

Hardwood stairs – polished and un-carpeted (there are practically no stair-carpets in Nigeria) lead to lounge with windows on three sides, wide open all day on to balcony. A large electric fan hangs from the ceiling. The floor is polished hardwood.

22 Cameron Road

There is one large bedroom and a very small dressing room. The bedroom has openings in the verandah on two sides – slotted doors – and a large built-in wardrobe in which electric lights burn all the time to keep the clothes dry and prevent mould. The mosquito net is furled up over the beds in daytime and the boy lets it down each evening before dark.

Large bathroom with electric geyser, and further on an earth closet emptied every morning. The usual offices have concrete floors like the verandah.

The government provides furniture. Mahogany dining table and chairs and sideboard, writing table, some chests of drawers, two beds, dressing table. Hardwood armchairs with drab covered cushions, a bookcase and several occasional tables.

Like most government buildings in Lagos, the house could do with a good coat of paint, but is pleasant and spacious to live in.

Cameron Road

Weather

This is the rainy season and it is cooler than England when I left. Temperatures from 75 to 80F with overcast skies, and little drop in temperature at night. There are occasional heavy showers but no continuous rain. Atmosphere is humid, and leather goods, books and papers very soon go mouldy. Characteristic smell is a combination of dampness, mould, insecticide and palm oil. It is not as unpleasant as it sounds. Mosquitos not very plentiful here at present.

Sammy.

Sammy keeps the garden swept and tidied, and cleans the car. He is about 18 and speaks no English except Yessir and Yessum. He seems quite a good worker and sings as he works. Sometimes his song is a rhythmic chant accompanying his raking, sometimes he sings in a choirboy falsetto and sometimes renders his own variations on “God Save the King”. His favourite working dress seems to be a ragged shirt which only hangs together by a miracle.

He cuts the grass by swishing light-heartedly at it with a home made machete, consisting of a piece of hoop-iron worn thin and sharp with some rag bound on the end to form a handle.

Music while you work.

African workmen are said to work much better to music and often chant a rhythmic accompaniment to their labours. Gangs of convicts employed to cut grass on road verges are accompanied by a man beating out a rhythm on a triangle. It has been found profitable to pay a man specially to provide music for a gang of labourers at work, as they work much more quickly.

A visit to the cinema.

Lagos cinemas are all open to the sky. In the two-and-sixes you sit up on a balcony on wicker chairs, with an awning overhead. The groundlings in the ninepennies sit on hard forms and have no shelter from the rain. Their reactions were the same as their white counterparts in England. They warned the hero of impending peril and applauded when right triumphed over wrong.

If you get bored with the show you can gaze up at the night sky overhead and try to pick out the constellations. I was told that sometimes lizards run across the screen with ludicrous effect at tense moments, but saw none at this performance. Perhaps they prefer love scenes to comedies.

Funerals.

On the way home we passed a Methodist funeral procession in which the clergy and choir wore cassocks and surplices. The mourners were dressed in white. Funerals here often end up like an Irish Wake in dancing and drinking. Apparently if an old person dies it is considered proper to rejoice as a thanksgiving for longevity, but if a child or very young person dies it is an occasion for mourning.

A funeral here must take place the day after death and often posters are put up announcing “A Funeral will take place tomorrow” and giving particulars to let all friends know in time.

Some coffins are elaborate but are used only for conveying the body to the grave, and then returned empty for future use.

Village fish ponds.

The staple diet of the Nigerians is gari, a kind of paste made from grated and processed roots of cassava. This contains a little protein but is mainly starchy and lacks vitamins. The people as a whole are not well-nourished. They are undersized and lots of children are rickety, and so an attempt is being made to get more animal protein into their diet. One of the ways of doing this is to help the villagers to establish their own fishponds in suitable places. With the co-operation of the District Headman two new ponds have been made under Europeans' direction at Paiye and Ballah. The object of the trip was to inspect these and survey two possible sites for new ones in other villages.

We drove out to Paiye where the District Chief, Dauda Paiye, a tall fine-looking man, received us ceremoniously. Where a European politely removes his hat, and African removes his shoes. We noticed Paiye was wearing embroidered heelless slippers. His servant removed these and he squatted down in front of us and touched the ground with his knuckles. After a few polite remarks had been exchanged he rose up, his servant put on his shoes, and he and his retinue conducted us to see the pond.

When we got back to the cars Paiye looked covetously at our Vanguards and wanted to know how much they cost. His present means of transport is a black horse with elegant trappings which was waiting for him under a tree near the Court House.

Taking ceremonious leave of Paiye we went on to Ballah village, but were disappointed to find that Dauda Ballah could not be there to receive us personally as he had gone to Ilorin to see his brother, the Emir. We left for him two enlarged photographs of himself taken on a previous trip.

We had a picnic lunch at Ballah Rest House, a very pleasant one. It was luxuriously furnished for a Bush Rest House, having an Egyptian chemille tablecloth. blue with white kittens on it, and a sofa covered with an Indian embroidered spread. The views from the verandah were pleasant and suggestive of England. The compound was very well kept with flower beds and decorative trees. Nearby was the village school, also surrounded by flower beds, and Dauda Ballah's own house, which is a little apart from the village.

Head Men.

Dauda in Hausa (Dawido in Yoruba) is our name David and means literally “King”. It is the title given to a district chief. The District Head in the Western Provinces is second only to the Emir. It is not entirely a hereditary office. The Dauda is appointed, and is approved by the British Authorities, but is a man of high birth. he receives a salary, but is personally reponsible for the welfare of his district, and the care of the poor and infirm. T. knows one chief who is an ex-tailor.

Dauda Paiye on his horse.

Dinner Party.

The day ended with dinner at the house of Mr Calder, the local fisheries officer, a retired D.O. who is Scotch and has lived in the tropics most of his life. He regaled us with his national beverage and records of Scottish dance music repeated over and over again. “This”, he said, “my friends here call real savage music.”

The dinner table was magnificent. Black stewards love an excuse to put on a good show and display their skill at folding table napkins and arranging flowers. There was a big bowl of zinnias and other red flowers in the centre, a pattern of scarlet petals all over the table among the shiny cut glass and silver, and it seemed sheer vandalism to unfold the intricate table napkin mountains and remove the scarlet blooms that crowned each one.

A white-uniformed steward waited on us wearing a magnificent sash in Ogilvie hunting tartan. He had evidently been trained never to have a guest with an empty glass.

We had a huge turkey, who we were told had died happy, as half a bottle of gin was poured down his throat before he met his end. He was accompanied by sauces and stuffings and various sorts of vegetables, and followed by jelly and strawberries (tinned of course) and cream, coffee, and liqueurs - Crème de Menthe which our host insisted we must lace with brandy. I found this improved it making it much less cloying and sickly.

At the end of the evening the cook came in to make his bow to us. He was dressed in a toga of lurid jungle print in orange and brown and black. His broad grin showed his teeth filed to sharp points and he looked as if he would be quite at home presiding over the cauldron at a feast of “long pig”. All the boys were Hausas and their master talked to them in their own language. They seemed to be trying to stem the flow of spirits. “They are always bullying me” said our host. “If I let them have their own way I should be a teetotaller”.

Mr Calder showed us a magnificent leopard skin which he had had mounted on to brown felt to make a rug. This was a parting gift to him from the Pagans of the Plateau district when he retired from being their D.O. In this last term of office before his retirement only 2 or 3 years ago, he said he had had three men hanged for cannibalism.

Jock Calder; fisheries officer, Ilorin

Besides its use by Europeans in soap manufacture, palm oil has a myriad uses for the African. It has definitely antiseptic properties. the more bush and rancid it is the better apparently, and it is used in the treatment of injuries, besides being a lubricant and a food ingredient.

We walked through the village accompanied by the usual throng of children. one of them. a cheerful little urchin of about 8 or 9 was instructed by his elders to act as guide to lead us to the fish pond. He flitted on ahead of us, the loose sleeves of his indecently short robe flapping like wings, so that he looked like a little black hobgoblin or Puck.

Piccins.

As well as the large pan of rice on her head nearly every woman coming to the mill carried a piccin strapped on her back. These little black babies with their woolly topknots are lovely, though to European eyes their beauty is marred by the barbarous habit of slashing their faces soon after birth in patterns according to the markings of their tribe. The little girl piccins, however tiny, wear jewellery, invariably ear rings, often necklaces and bracelets. This is the quickest way to tell girls from boys at first glance. I was told that their trinkets are often of solid gold or silver. On the arm of one small mite I noticed a man's wristwatch on a wide chromium strap. It was not only going, but told the correct time. Unlike their bigger brothers and sisters the babies seemed scared of us. I suppose it is quite natural for a white person to look like a bogey, to a black baby.

Diversions on a Journey.

Driving mile after mile through unvarying scenery can grow monotonous and we found two ways of relieving the tedium of a long journey..(1) waving to the populace who usually responded with appreciation and (2) collecting mottoes on African transport vehicles.

This page (section, ed) is reserved for our collection, English and Latin only, though no doubt the Hausa and Yoruba would be even more amusing if we knew what they meant.

Help us O God

Wait and see

The Lord is my Shepherd

Deo Gratias

Goodwill and Speed

Trust in God and do the right

Dum Spiro Spero

God is Good

In God's Care

Charity begins at home

and on Taxis

God First

Take Life Easy

and on Bicycles

Let George do it

Watch and Pray

Hope on hope ever

Ever jolly

Praise be to Allah

1951, Wednesday August 22^nd. Genuine bargain.

Yesterday the Hausaman who had sold me the crocodile bag and other things at various times offered me a bag made of black and cream deerskin. Having already got the crocodile bag I was not interested, but he was nothing if not persevering.

“Madame my good customer. Yesterday I lose £7 for races. I need customer. Madame give me price.”

“No, I have plenty bags”

“Not bag like this. This good good bag. I sell cheap price”

“What do you call cheap? 15/- ?”

That put him off as I thought it would. he laughed scornfully and departed.

Today he waylaid me with the same bag as I came out of the Rest House.

“What madame's last price?”

“No. yesterday you say 15/-. Today you go up”

“Still 15/-”

“Madame, good business lady, but 15/- small small for good bag. What your last price?”

By this time we were getting into the car. He appealed to Ted.

“Sir, you give me better price”.

“15/1” said T., jokingly.

“Take it”. The bag was thrust in through the car window and T. dashed him an extra 1d for luck, making 15/2 in all.

It is beautifully made and is a much better one than the crocodile bag for which I paid £2. I have Monday's winners to thank for this bargain.

Beginning Young. Small peanut vendor giving change on Victoria Beach.

1951, Friday Aug 24^th. “What is life without a wife?”

When Ronson brought my morning coffee he was obviously bursting to say something. Presently it came out.

“Please madame, in my country wife take plenty money”

“In England, too, wife take plenty money, Ronson”

But he was dead serious.

“Madame is kind. Madame speak for Master. My bride's father ask for £27. That plenty money. I only pay small small money for one time. NowI pay £18. Madame speak for Master to lend me £10, then my wife come to this Lagos. Madame come back for Master after leave and she see my wife.”

I had already gathered that he hoped to go home during Ted's next leave and return with his bride, and that before the marriage was finally achieved he had other financial obligations as well as the price agreed with the father. The bride's mother and family would expect a dash, the bride would expect at least £4 for her trousseau, and he would have to stand drinks, smokes etc. to the whole village.

I pointed out that as his bride-to-be was so very young they should not be in a hurry to get married and it would be better to save up out of his own income and start off free from debt. At this he looked very downcast but was not defeated. If he couldn't have a wife he would have a consolation prize. He changed the subject.

“I think madame go home for October. In England be plenty good shoes. Please madame send me for Christmas shoes size 6 with rubber soles like master's sandals, but shoes for tie up. I show madame.”

Fashion Note.

He trotted off to his quarters and returned and returned with a pair of brown leather walking shoes. “Like these, madame, but with rubber soles. Leather not good” As he never wears shoes except for ornament when he is all dressed up, he probably finds leather too hard and too slippery.

In off-duty hours when really dressed to kill he wears a pair of shorts in flame red moyjashel, a white shirt with the inscription “EVER JOLLY” written in blobby marking ink on the breast pocket and tennis shoes. The shoes are freshly whitened, the shorts pressed and the shirt laundered for every time of wearing.

In spite of his lack of height he walks with dignity and is able to assert himself. He has Sammy trained to spring to attention and say “Yessir” when he addresses him.

I have never seen him wearing native dress.

GARI.

Gari is the “staff of life” for the W. African, like bread to the European. It is made by grating cassava (sometimes with yam). The grated cassava is left to ferment for two or three days, the moisture is pured off and the dry granules rubbed through a sieve. The sieved fu-fu is then put in a pot with a little palm oil and heated. it is eaten either as a thin gruel with water or as a thick paste made with boiling water.

Standing a little apart from the others was a house which bore a poster telling the world in Arabic. English, and Yoruba that here lived a Cairo-trained astrologer of extreme wisdom. Among others he earnestly urged “moneymen, sickmen, journeymen, men in old age, bachelors, women without issue” to consult him.

Saturday Sept 8^th. Football match.

The African is just as keen a football fan as the Englishman. We saw a match today between the railway and the Public Works teams. They play in bare feet, are very quick and have wonderful control over the ball with their flexible toes. The referee was a European, Father Slattery, a Catholic missionary. The spectators are said to get very excited sometimes surging right onto the field and having to be chased by the police, but today they were no more obstreperous than an English crowd. We sat in the two-and-sixpennies and our neighbours were, of course, the well-to-do types but their shouts seemed most refined, even pedantic, compared with the remarks you would expect from an English crowd. “Well done”. “Oh, please use your head”. “Do not give him a chance now” and not one swearword, perhaps they didn't know any in English.

1951, Sunday Sept 9^th. African cemetary.

I visited the Lagos cemetary expecting to see some amusing inscriptions, but found they were more restrained and dignified than in many English country churchyards. Some were in Latin, most were texts from the Bible or lines from hymns, with one or two quotations from English poets. Some of the tombs were very elaborate and had statues of the deceased. There was a life-sized nurse, seated; the head of a judge with black face and white wig; and a lifelike reproduction of John St Matthew Daniel “an industrious financier and philanthropist and devout Catholic worshipper”. He stood on a square plinth flanked on one side by a kneeling angel and on the other by his patron saint in white marble. He wore a Palm Beach suit, black shoes and a black trilby hat and carried a walking stick. His expression was benevolent and he looked a very charming old gentleman. His plinth was simply covered in lettering. The front gave his name and details of his life; one side pious quotations; the other the list of his twelve children who survived him, and on the back was the following verse:-

“Live in the present, for the One who lends

Has taken back the past he lent

With all its tears and laughter, therefore friends

Live in the present.

The present is a loan that each man spends

And a new loan receives when that is spent.

Nor can we tell when this strange present ends

And when begins, wherein the future's blest

And with the past made one: for us fate sends

No choice, but all men, well or ill content,

Live in the present.

Another man was described as “a zealous patron of the Baptist Church and sole agent for Singer Sewing Machines”. One tombstone was crowned with two blue and white roses in, I think, Italian pottery of pleasant design, and another with a charming statue of a little dog. Unfortunately the inscription on this was completely obliterated, but the owner was evidently following the old crusaders' tradition in leaving his favourite dog on his tomb.

Piccins with ram off Lagos marina waterfront.

Nigerian Politics.

Godwin has borrowed a gramophone and records and we have a free concert from the boys' quarters. One particular favourite, played over and over, was an African number with spectacular drumming and a tune even a European could recognise. I asked what it was and it turned out to be a song in praise of ZIK, Dr Azikiwi, the political leader, head of NCNC (National Council of Nigeria and Cameroons). He is an Ibo, like “the boys”, and a fierce nationalist. He wants a united Nigeria, combining all tribes, and is anti-European. The main opposition to his party comes from the ACTION GROUP of strong Yoruba influence, which is less anti-British and seems to advocate regional autonomy for Hausas, Yorubas, Ibos, and other main tribes.

1951, Tuesday Sept 18^th.

Today we forgot to take a key when we went to our evening meal and had to send for Ronson to let us in. He was wearing a blue toga with red spider webs all over it, so evidently he does wear native dress when off-duty.

Our fellow men in Lagos.

The Europeans are for the most part friendly, though I am told it is possible to feel very lonely in Lagos as in all big towns. In the smaller stations the white people are only too glad to get together and make friends, according to all accounts. We find lots of the people we meet have travelled all over the place. A good many of them used to live in India. One great advantage of Rest House meals is that you meet all kinds of people and it is easy to find some with whom you have things in common. We often had people in to play bridge or just drink and talk. Lots of them liked to come in for a cup of tea last thing at night. Contrary to popular belief, the Englishman in the tropics does not live exclusively on spirits and malaria prophylactics.

As a general rule white people are either fascinated by Africa or simply loathe it. There are not many neutrals.

There is of course a certain amount of colour prejudice and the white population of Ikoyi tends to keep itself to itself and not mix with the black. I found this a pity as I should have like to have met more educated Africans. The few I did meet seemed altogether pleasant and reasonable. Collectively the European women seem rather suburban in outlook. Social climbing and keeping up with the Jones can be all-important, but individually I liked most that I met, very well.

Tropical Africa is a region for Mary, not for Martha.

I can't help thinking that it is better for themselves and for Africa, if all people with a strong unshakeable colour prejudice were to keep out. Gratuitous rudeness on the part of white people, gives the rabid nationalist a legitimate grievance and may make otherwise reasonable types into rabid nationalists themselves, thus driving yet another nail into the coffin of the poor old British Empire.

An assistant in a bookshop who had been to England, one day asked me “why is it I find that in your country English people can be so polite and charming, and in my country just the opposite?”

1951, Thursday Sept 26^th. (sic, actually Sept 27^th, ed) The Mountain fish.

This morning Ronson came and said “Madame, I have news. A beeg beeg fish, a mountain fish, be washed up for beach. I follow Master and madame go for see it.”

After lunch we set out for Victoria beach and found Ronson and Sammy waiting to get in the car. The Five Cowrie Creek Bridge had a quarter mile traffic jam, Africans in cars, taxis, on bicycles and on foot had turned out to see the wonderful sight from all over the town.

However, when we got there, there was almost nothing to be seen. A 50 ft whale had been washed up, but now what was left of it was drifting out to sea practically submerged. A few bold swimmers were going out with knives and cutting off bits of blubber. It made an excuse for an outing and Sammy obviously enjoyed his car ride.

1951, Saturday Sept 29^th. Cup Final.

This was a great event attended by the Governor's Deputy – the G being on leave – and the local Oba, in state.

Immediately behind us sat the famous ZIK with wife, a girl friend, to whom he explained at length the finer points of the game all through the match.

It was an exciting game. When the whistle went for time the score was even, 2 all. There was a twenty minute extension during which Railway scored the winning goal. Their victory was a well-deserved triumph of brains over brawn. The Plateau team were taller and heavier and looked quite a different type, possibly Pagans. Their supporters among whom we found ourselves, looked a real tough crowd, including mining types. The audience was orderly and good-humoured, though policemen with truncheons were there in force.

Programme for Nigeria Football Association 1951 Governor's cup final

The cup final teams on the programme, large file

The Police band gave a good show at half-time. They looked very smart in Navy uniform with red zouave jackets and Jarbouches. They gave a display of marching and piping.

1951, Sunday Sept 30^th

Visited fishing village off Victoria Beach in morning. The houses are made of palm frond ribs and thatched with palm. The sea is encroaching and the village is retreating. Some huts have been washed away in the short time I have been here.

Main street of fishing village.

Lagos, RC cathedral. Lagos has a Protestant and a Catholic cathedral. This is not the oneI went to.

Lagos Cathedral.

Went to evensong at Lagos C. of E. Cathedral. The congregation was mostly black. The choir and organist were black, and the service was conducted by an African clergyman, headmaster of the C.M.S. school. A white parson read the lessons and another black parson preached.

The cathedral is a traditional European building. The interior is light, with decorations in blue, gold, and pale green. Behind the altar is a modern carved oak figure of Christ, above which is a carved crown illuminated from the inside. There is a matching carved oak screen and a carved font.

The service was straightforward C. of E. and all in English.

1951, Friday Oct 5^th.

Jose Doherty took me to meet BEN ENWONWU an African artist who lives at the other end of Cameron Road. He is a native of Onitsha and has a beard. He is planning on a one-man show for Paris, London, and the USA next year and has promised to invite me to his London show. I wished I could have afforded a picture. There were portraits of Hausas, Yorubas, and many different African types, dancers, full of movement, and scenes mostly in Benin Province. An unfinished portrait of the Oba of Benin in full regalia showed the Oba looking most shirty. Ben said he didn't approve of artists and didn't want to sit. We could well believe it from his expression.

(ed's note, see e.g. www.ijele.com/vol1.2/enwonwu3.html))

The Battens took us to the R.E.M.E. sergeants mess at Yaba for the evening where we talked and played snooker and darts. The R.E.M.E. were excellent hosts and made us very welcome. They are pleased to have visitors. A Cockney sergeant-major made us feel at home and a Scotch sergeant-major bewailed their lack of feminine society and gave us a dissertation on spiritualism. He said it was a demoralising life for a very young man there. They seem to have fewer social contacts than the civilian expatriates.

Anengiyefa's note: I have done quite a bit of editing. To read the full diary please click here.