Theme: COME DINE

17.03.2021

My restlessness is subsiding.

A little.

I’m grounding.

There are things, way back in the UK and Amsterdam, which need sorting.

That’s what my mind tells me.

Pressing things.

Things which, if not addressed, could potentially escalate.

Things to do with money.

But my other mind can’t be bothered.

Refuses to be pressed.

It’s a new feeling.

In two minds.

Now I’m here, these things seem so far away.

My analytical mind tells me to prepare for war.

Being in the process of evicting my arsehole tenant who owes me more than 6 months rent from last year.

Bastard.

I should be sorting out funds in order to pay for a solicitor to take him to court at the end of the month because he threatens not to vacate.

Only threats.

But the potential for war.

War is the least on my other mind.

For her nothing is pressing.

I’m here at my sister’s house and there is nowhere to go.

I cannot move without her because from where we are we need to drive to places.

Where she goes, I go.

So I roll with it.

A good exercise in letting go.

I don’t need anything.

So I just am.

And I am invited to do so for as long as I like.

A unique opportunity so I should make the best of it.

Practise to be still and move on inspiration.

This can only be achieved when restricted of movement.

Because I have to learn to let things go.

To an extreme.

To feel how it feels.

Relinquish all responsibility.

And be still.

Because when I can move again, it will come from stillness.

Inspired.

Not from constant projection of scenarios which might not happen but ultimately will happen when focussed upon intensely.

No more running in my head.

Like a headless chicken.

But also not numbing.

Not procrastinating.

Yesterday I watched movies.

Since I’m on holiday.

African reality shows about hair and weddings and interior make overs which is fascinating.

All the same.

Same dramas.

Same issues.

Same people.

But colour setting adjusted.

Lol.

Nigerian Pop Idol.

South Africa Come Dine With Me.

We are all the same.

Or at least it’s formatted to look like that.

Making us want to be the same thing.

Universally appeal.

But I never used to watch that stuff back in Europe so I also shall not do so here.

Instead I ask my sister questions.

And I listen.

About the African way.

On how black folks love to be served upon.

On how they love to boss servants around.

On how historically former slaves came back to acquire their own slaves to torture.

Having learnt exactly what?

Curious.

Human sense of entitlement.

I am taking her word for it.

For now.

I haven’t experienced full sunshine here since I arrived 4 days ago.

The sky is always hazy.

And there is a breeze which makes it pleasant.

Apparently it’s the start of the rainy season so rain is anticipated any minute now.

Ha, I can’t escape Amsterdam in essence.

Should I have been more selective as when to travel?

Maybe.

But there was this crazy urge to jump NOW.

It felt like the absolute right thing to do.

Apparently, there is talk of a third Covid wave to be anticipated in Europe.

Out of control.

How?

With all the lockdown measures and curfews?

Few Covid cases in Ghana.

And there are so many people moving freely.

Crowded markets.

Few mouth masks.

People back working in offices for ages.

None of it makes sense.

Sorry.

There is a storm coming.

The gusts of wind and the clouds look fierce.

We just made it back in time from our errands.

Shopping in many small locals.

Navigating traffic in the Jeep.

Squeezing into parking spots again and again, making sure no free roaming goats are harmed in the process.

Or small children for that matter.

It tenses me but everyone just moves out of the way.

Gracefully.

Because my sister is with me, we get charged more than usual at the market.

Because I am light skinned.

If I was shopping by myself, it would be double or triple.

It’s the way.

I have to learn to navigate.

Bananas are soft and taste intense.

What’s that looking like unusually large crusty green limes?

Oh, oranges.

Cool.

Apples look out of place.

Imports.

I feel silly for craving them.

We pass by the livestock.

Healthy chickens in wooden cages milling about.

My sister starts negotiating.

Dear God, please let me keep my Western hypocrisy a little while longer.

The guy holds two animals up and they argue.

Apparently they are too small for the price.

I wholeheartedly agree.

Let’s leave it.

I see another guy plucking a dead one nearby, the head still intact.

I wonder how they are killed.

I don’t understand what is talked about.

We walk away.

Buy tomatoes and what feels like a ton of scotch bonnet chillies.

Tilapia.

Mangoes.

And a bag of dusty rocks from a tiny little girl.

She wears slippers like her trader mum.

And balances a plastic bottles with stones on her head.

Pretending they are eggs.

We play along.

On the way back to the car our guy hands us a black plastic parcel.

Our fresh organic chicken.

Flesh still warm.

I swear I can feel a heartbeat.

Or my own pulse.

There is a hint of exhilaration.

Just moments ago this creature was still alive.

That’s life.

Coconut flesh can have various degrees of softness.

We stand by the roadside and eat.

The guy with the torn trousers and the machete expertly savages the nut heads.

In close shave with his fingertips.

The water is poured into a small plastic sandwich bag and the meat scraped out.

Coconut takeaway.

The height of my day.

Besides the rocky eggs.

Oh, and we also bought a flatscreen TV for my room.

I protest but it was already decided.

African Hair Wars in the horizontal.

Can’t wait.

Tonight we have Jollof rice.

Cameroonian-Ghanaian special edition.

Now I truly can’t wait.

The storm passed.

No release.

The evening is thick and filled with cricket sounds.

And someone’s booming bass.

My sister and her friend giggling in French in the kitchen.

Fuck me.

The rain started.

Sounds like a high speed train.