9. AFRICA
Before going to see my brother on his deathbed I head down to Brixton to score. I feel pretty guilty about it and I beat the living shit out of myself on the bus. But after a while I get tired of all the tiresome self-loathing and my mind goes blank. I just sit on the bus as a passenger, another being getting shunted about the metropolis; our beautiful minds blunted by the cheerless mundanity of absolute convenience. I get out at the stop by Brixton tube and look over the busy main road. For a moment I can’t see him. It’s all cars and noise. But wait. There he is, doing what he’s always doing, selling cards to throng. As I scurry across the road I shout his name out over the traffic.
“NUNU!”
His bearded face blossoms into a rotten toothed beam.
“Hey Jimmy my man! I been thinking of you!”
As usual I get a little applause. Then his demeanour changes. His grin is gone and he’s suddenly secretive.
“So. Jimmy. You wanna score?”
For some reason I glance about to see if anyone is watching or listening in. Even though we’re surrounded by people no one pays us attention. We’re just two men; some fucked up bearded junky chatting to an ashen faced freak in a shabby suit.
“Yah.”
I don’t know if I do want to score. I do and I don’t and I don’t and I do and that is the dilemma of all the junkies who have ever lived; this perpetual see-saw of desire to do and desire to don’t. But it’s too late to back out now. We’re on. Nunu claps once. CLAP! An expectant sheen shivers over his worn out eyes.
“Okay. We go Africa man!”
Nunu slides the little stub of travel cards into the pocket of his filthy puffa jacket and we head off. As we walk, Nunu talks and I listen. He tells me the same old shit I’ve heard a hundred and one times before.
“I tell you Jimmy. It’s fucked my friend! Them fucking Oyster Card things!”
There’s real vitriol in his voice.
“Hardly no one fucking uses travel card these days.”
I force my face into a look of concern.
“Apart from fucking tourists. And tourists never come to fucking Brixton!”
Imagine a life so small, so sad and so trivial that the introduction of a different type of train ticket has ruined it. But that’s the market for you.
“Back in the day I sell maybe five, six, seven travel card an hour. I’m clearing ten pound. Good money.”
It giveth and taketh away.
“Now I’m lucky if I sell one. Shit Jimmy. The man is really fucking me!”
Nunu even throws in a little hip movement to illustrate just how hard he is getting fucked.
“Yah?”
I have to say something so I throw in a ‘yah?’ but to be quite frank with you Nunu I couldn’t really give a fuck about the travel card market or any other market for that matter. You see Nunu my dear brother has cancer, he’s about to die, he’s got a wife and two children and I’m meant to be going to see him for what I suspect will be the last time in my life and I’m with you. Yes, I’m with you Nunu! On my way to score some crack and heroin the day before the last time I ever see my brother alive.
“Them Oyster Cards man. Fuck!”
Maybe I am a junky.
“They track you with them Jimmy.”
I look at Nunu. He’s smaller than me, about five foot seven to my six foot of toff but because he stoops he seems even smaller. There’s something rather rodent about him. Like maybe he is part rat. But part rat seems a little unfair. He’s more gentle than that. More mouse. Yes. Nunu is a mouse. Eek!
“They know where you go man. You know why Jimmy? Cos when you get your Oyster Card you have to give your name and address. Yeah! You have to show your fucking I.D man. They get you on their system and they track you. They know where you go.”
Nunu takes a glance about like they may be watching us right now. For some reason I do too but all I can see is traffic and a shitty old newsagent on the other side of the road.
“This way. We go Africa. We be safe there.”
We scurry down this alleyway and for a fleeting moment I’m in some dystopian novel by Orwell or Huxley but I don’t think either of those prophetic literary titans could envisage an apocalypse so whimpering and so insignificant. We come out into this sprawling housing estate under a hideously miserable thump of ash grey sky and I’m back in the real world again. There are hardly any cars on the streets and there’s no one in sight. The only evidence of life is the odd sound of music coming from some of the flats and random smells of home cooking. Ackee, Saltfish, Chicken, Dumplings. That kind of thing.
I feel momentarily self-conscious strolling through such a place in my Anderson and Sheppard but the suit is so tatty and Nunu is so fucked up its obvious to anyone why we’re walking together. We’re a couple of junkies on our way to score so people will leave us alone or they may just get an infected needle jammed in their fucking face. The only people we’ll attract are other junkies. They’ll know we’re about to score and they’ll want to be brought in on the deal. They’ll latch on to us like pesky stray dogs and start digging in their filthy pockets for the spare change they’ve scratched off the street and blagged from the kinder brand of Ronsealer, all of them desperate to see if they can raise the ten pounds needed to be brought in on the deal. Bring me in mate, bring me in! Scum like us. We’re spray paint in the breeze.
Either that or we may attract the police; but the police seem non-existent around here. I must have bought crack and heroin off the streets of Brixton about two hundred times and not once have I been stopped or even felt like I was going to be stopped. The police don’t give a fuck about us bottom feeders. There are too many of us now and it isn’t knowledge that’s power, it’s numbers. The junky battalion is a million deep and twice as wide. We’re too powerful, too large and we’ll never be stopped. We’re everywhere, on every street in every town in every land. If you keep your eyes open you’ll spot us. The man blowing into his hands on a cold day. The woman in a suit wiping mucus from her nose on her way to work. The youths at the bus stop all spitting and sullen. Ash faces. Black faces. Brown too. One nation under a groove.
The only way to combat us is through decriminalisation followed by legalisation. The police would be freed up to catch the real bad guys; the rapists, the perverts and the violent as an illicit thirty six trillion dollar a year global industry would suddenly be taxed, regulated, controlled and ordered. The flagging capitalist markets of today would be awash with new money from new income streams and once more humanity would profit from the river of its own inventiveness. Big business would swiftly move in and before we could blink we’d have Coca Cola Cocaine, Heroin by Armani and strips of pure Extacy in punch out pill packets by Proctor and Gamble. Upmarket boutiques selling titanium crack pipes studded in diamonds and sold silver dope scales would open on Jermyn Street, purveyors of the finest China White Heroin carefully cultivated on the low hills of Burma would appear on Bond Street and pick your own Ganja farms would sprout up all over the home counties.
We’d have LSD retreats in the Cotswolds for people who want to explore the fascinating inner cosmos of the self. Obscure hallucinogens like DMT, Ayahuasca and Bufotenin would become de rigeur at posh dinner parties. Psilocybin, Mescaline and Brugmansia would be taken at schools to aid pupil harmony and promote spiritual interaction amongst our once disillusioned but now thoroughly illuminated youth. Life would be viewed in high definition rather than its current black and white. Social structures would undergo a paradigm shift and we would enter a narcotic nirvana where we, one nation and one people, would finally realise our vast spiritual potential. This ugly society of today; so demented, deformed and divided by fighting, famine and fame would dissolve and fade into the near past and we would enter a new era of luminescence, creativity, empathy and enlightenment! One world, one race, one people. One love!
“So Rui Costa puts in the centre and I hit it, a volley.”
Nunu’s voice breaks into my whimsy and I realise he’s been talking to me the whole time.
“Oh Jimmy, you should have seen it! Keeper had no chance. Top left.”
I almost smile. While I’ve been dreaming Nunu has been waffling on about his own dreams. In particular the time he used to play football for Sporting Lisbon and Portugal Under 16. I humour him by acting interested. Everyone needs a dream and I’m not going to begrudge the little mouse of his refuge. This is his piece of cheese to nibble on when he’s feeling famished by the brutal reality of his hardcore drug addiction. He needs this.
“Awesome.”
That’ll do. Awesome.
“Yeah Jimmy. Don’t sweat the technique!”
Nunu twinkles at me. He’s delighted by my awesome comment. Then he shows me his ‘technique’ by bending his knee and kicking softy at an invisible ball. His bearded face snaps into a beam so bright that, despite everything, I can’t help smiling too. Nunu. You tragic dreamer!
“So later in the game, Jimmy, I get this through ball. From Figo. I time my run to perfection. Oh! You should have seen it! I break past the defenders, just me and the keeper. Keeper comes out so I drop my shoulder, keeper goes with it but I go other way. I pass ball into net! We win Jimmy. We win!”
If only this were true Nunu!
“Figo! He was my good friend. We always room together! One time we tour Holland, when Figo is asleep for joke I put his hand in warm cup of water. They say warm water make you piss your bed Jimmy! But I fuck it up. Figo wakes up and he spill water all over his bed. He says ‘Nunu, what the fuck?!’ and I say ‘Hey Figo, you just piss your bed!’”
Nunu howls with laughter and claps for the sheer joy of clapping.
“I tell you Jimmy. I was always playing jokes on Figo. You ask him. You go ask Figo about old Nunu. He’ll tell you about The Gazelle, Jimmy. Oh yes. Figo will tell you!
Oh Nunu! Do you really expect me to buy all this football shit? For fucks sake! You little mouse. It’s so obviously bollocks. But I can’t say that. I can never say that. It would be so unkind. Then we get to a flat. There’s an old car parked in a little bay outside with one of its windows smashed in. Studs of glass are all over the front seats and I notice the radio has been torn out. All that’s left is a fork tongue of wires. Nunu bangs on a red front door with a big brass twenty three on it and we wait for a moment. He shoots me a grin while rubbing his hands together. He’s still feeling happy about memories of things that never happened and at the same time he’s getting excited about the thing that’s about to happen. We’re about to score some hard drugs and get the fuck out of this bastard called real life. Take a little down time, take a little of our own time. Yeah. That’s what getting high is all about. Taking back some time and making it your own. Bliss! People may hate heroin but that’s just ignorance. Anyone who has ever tried it will say the same thing. This shit is kind of alright! A voice on the other side of the door.
“Who is it?”
The voice is weak, fuzzy, mutated.
“Hey. Africa! It’s me, Nunu!”
Bolts unlock on the other side. Whatever is in there is moving slowly and for some reason I start to feel nervous. I scope about but all I see is an empty road with a patch of grass on the other side. A fat woman in a pink tracksuit waits for a massive black and white dog to take a shit by a suffocating excuse for a tree. The thing is practically dead and it’s got a white plastic bag flapping from a branch like its waving surrender to this relentless onslaught of concrete, cars and noise. The fat woman holds a plastic bag too. But hers isnt’t the white flag of surrender. It’s light blue and cheap and most likely held a four pack of strong lager. Now it’s poised waiting to snatch up her black and white dog’s excrement. Other than that there’s no one about. The door opens.
“Heeeeeeeey!”
Nunu bends down and gives a man in a wheelchair a hug. I can’t quite see him because Nunu is in the way. Then Nunu stands and I get a good look at him. Jesus Christ. I’ve never seen anything like it. Fuck! He’s got one leg, no teeth and his crinkled black skin is mottled in vivid pock marks that range from deep red to chalk white. There’s a puss weeping scab just above his collar bone which must be the site of the only vein left he can jack up in and his wet eyes are the colour of jaundice. His skin is thin, like it’s been stretched over his bones, like he’s been mummified but he’s somehow still living, and his dented skull is covered in a musty jungle of tight grey curls. He’s whole being has been ravaged by the passing of time as a poor black man in a cold white world. He’s been fucking plundered, raped and pillaged. He’s absolutely the most fucked up human being I have ever seen.
“Jimmy. This is Africa.”
Africa.
“Hi.”
I nod a hello in the form of a hi and try to act like I’ve seen all this before even though I haven’t. You don’t see people like this out on the street because they never go out. I’m shocked and fascinated. In front of me is a man who has not just destroyed his life through drug abuse but his entire being. His whole essence has been decimated by his existence. Every aspect of him, from his deformed knotty hands to his involuntarily nodding head and his weeping nose is the result of drug abuse on the most spectacular level. It’s almost impressive. He takes a look at me; long, slow and ruthlessly fucking hard.
“Me know you from somewhere, lickle white bwoy.”
I can’t even speak.
“Me seen you some place. Uh huh.”
His voice is so deep.
“Where yuh from bwoy?”
I don’t know what to say. I can’t know this guy and he can’t know me. We may be living within the same area and even in the same era but we’re travelling at different speeds in different worlds at different times. He’s a whole different continent.
“Tulse Hill.”
“Yuh sure?”
“Yah.”
Maybe he thinks I’m a policeman and he’s testing the water. I don’t know what else to say. After a pause he makes his mind up.
“Come.”
Africa awkwardly manoeuvres himself out the way and we go in. Nunu shuts the front door and it’s horribly silent. We’re in a dim corridor with white walls and a grey plastic floor. All the door handles are low and the corridor is wider than normal. I realise the flat has been designed for someone who is handicapped which Africa most certainly is. But I still wonder if the flat shouldn’t have been given to someone born handicapped or has been handicapped through some terrible accident rather than someone who has handicapped themselves, not by birth nor accident but by purpose of chronic drug abuse. It seems a little fucked up. But who am I to judge? I’m here to score.
Nunu gently pushes Africa down the corridor and I follow them into the main room that consists of two battered armchairs, a rancid beige sofa and an old dome screened TV balanced precariously on a red plastic chair with grey metal legs. Patio doors lead out into a tiny concrete garden that looks like it hasn’t ever been used. It’s just a slab of concrete and a wood fence beneath a thud of grey sky. Not a living thing in sight. On a wall hangs a large framed photo. It’s a candid black and white snap of a handsome young black man all twinkling and sparkling in natty dredlocks and a Puma tracksuit. He’s standing by some record decks which are on the back of a float or perhaps an open top truck. He holds a seven inch record aloft and he’s toasting the crowd beneath him which is this sea of grinning black faces with the odd white boy in there too. He’s celebrating them and they’re celebrating him. On the edge of the truck is a wall of huge speakers. The terraced houses in the background look like typical Central London Georgian architecture and I realise it’s Notting Hill Gate and the photo must be some old shot of the carnival way back when the carnival was all about roots and culture and not about hordes of white devils drinking too much Red Stripe and pissing all over the place. It is one hell of a photo, a brilliant snapshot full of urgency and vibrant life. It’s an album cover photo. It must be.
The only other bit of decoration is a painting with no frame which sits on a shelf over by the far wall. One corner of the painting is covered in a mucus of wet dirty damp. But the image is still clear. It’s a print of The Madonna and Child and for once my ridiculously lavish education pays off. I know it immediately. It’s by Benozzo Gozzoli, a relatively obscure early renaissance painter from Florence. The child holds two fingers up like he’s blessing the room while the Madonna looks serene and kind with her head framed in a large golden halo that has the inscription Ave Maria Gratia Plena on it. Hail Mary Full Of Grace.
“Sit.”
Nunu gestures at the sofa so I sit. As I do I take a subtle look for random needles. The sofa seems dirty but clean. Nunu gets to the point.
“So, what you want?”
“Six and six.”
So do I.
“And I get one for myself, yes?”
I guess so.
“Yah.”
“Okay!”
Clap!
“Gimme phone, I ring Babyface.”
“Fuck Babyface. Go to Sinclair!”
Africa suddenly pipes up before I can hand my phone to Nunu so Nunu turns on him.
“Sinclair no good!”
Nunu throws his arm in the direction of Africa as a way of dismissing him. Then he’s back on me.
“Gimme phone. I ring Babyface.”
“Sinclair got de best white! Go to Sinclair.”
Africa butts in again so Nunu turns on him again.
“No we go to Babyface! His stuff is best.”
The little mouse is angry.
“Babyface is shit! Go to Sinclair.”
Africa is looking pretty angry too.
“We go to Babyface!”
“No we go to Sinclair!”
“Babyface!”
“SINCLAIR!”
“BABYFACE!”
“SINCLAIR!”
“FUCKING BABYFACE!”
“FUCKING SINCLAIR!!!!!!”
“FUCKING BABYFACE!!!!!!!”
Nunu screams it inches from Africa’s musty mutated head. Hearts are a pumping. Africa’s puss wet jaundice eyes sparkle with filth and heartbreak. An intense silence lingers in the dead room until Africa finally backs down with a turn of his twisted yellow eyes.
“Okay. Go to Babyface. Me don’t care.”
Africa makes out he doesn’t give a shit when he clearly does. Then he sits there and sucks his rotten teeth long and hard.
“Tfffffffffffffff.”
Nunu wipes sweat from his brow and blinks methodically. That was one hell of an argument and it’s still resonating round the empty room. Even the Madonna and Child are looking a little freaked out.
“Okay gimme phone.”
I give Nunu my phone. As Nunu takes it he sniffs so hard his nose crinkles and he shows me stubs of teeth. I can’t help but wince. The guy needs a dentist. Then he pulls out a pink pocket address book and he looks up Babyface’s number. There’s a cartoon rabbit on the front of the pink pocket address book that I instantly recognise. My sister was into the rabbit when she was young but I can’t remember the name of it. What was the name of that rabbit? It’s not bugs bunny. It’s more minimal than that. It could even be Japanese. Maybe Kenshi would know but I can’t ask him now. Wait. It’s not Japanese. It’s Scandinavian. It’s like The Moomins but it isn’t The Moomins. It’s something else. What’s it called? Nunu finds the number he’s looking for and he makes the call.
“Hey Babyface! Yeh, it’s me Nunu! You on brother?”
Nunu gets an answer and gives me the thumbs up. Then he puts the order in.
“Yeh Babyface. I want eight whites and eight Bs.”
Nunu slinks a glance at me and makes a face. I know why and so does he. I asked for six and six and the fact he is ordering eight and eight bugs me. I don’t mind paying for one extra but I’m not shelling out for four extra. That’s forty quid Nunu. Forty pounds! I’m getting ripped off somewhere down the line here and somewhere down the line I’m going to have to do something about it. I’m going to have to confront Nunu about why he always orders so much more than I’m paying for. Maybe the dealers operate on some bogof scheme. Buy One Get One Free or some shit. I’m being fucked here! I must be. But I don’t say anything. Today isn’t the day. Adrian. Oh Adrian.
“Okay. Yeh. Okay. I come now.”
Nunu ends the call and looks at me.
“Gimme money.”
I pull notes from the inner jacket pocket of my suit and there’s money in the room. We’ve all got a focus now. Africa is glancing over at me all hot and interested. I very deliberately count the money in front of Nunu. Even the Madonna and Child seem stiller than they already are. I count out the money.
“Twenty, forty, sixty, eighty, one hundred, one twenty and one for you. One thirty.”
I do this so Nunu knows that I know I’ve given him the right amount of money and he doesn’t try to fuck me over by claiming I only gave him a hundred and twenty quid when he gets back from where ever it is he has to go. I hold up the cash and tell him.
“A hundred and thirty pounds.”
I hand Nunu the money and like I counted it he counts it himself.
“Vinte, quarenta, sessenta, iota, cem, cem uns vinte e um para mim. Cem e trinta.”
He does this so that when he gets back I don’t say that I’ve realised I counted the money wrong and I gave him too much by mistake. Nunu holds up the notes as proof.
“A hundred and thirty pound.”
A hundred and thirty pounds on drugs.
“I take your phone yeah. In case I have to wait.”
I nod. Fine. This is normal. I hand Nunu my phone.
“Just don’t answer it if it rings.”
Imagine my mother ringing me only to get some gabbling Portuguese junky on the end of the line. It would almost be worth it just to hear the conversation between them.
“Yeah, no worries Jimmy. Ten minutes yeah?”
Nunu heads off to where ever it is Babyface sends his shotter too. The dealers are just names that you normally rarely meet. They use shotters who are these little rascal delivery boys, teenagers in the main, who pitch up looking scared with mouths full of drugs. It’s a two step ladder in the white and brown industry. Shotter then dealer and if you don’t get murdered, arrested or addicted you can earn more in three or four months than your parent(s) make in a year. The minority get out, go straight and start a legitimate business; a recording studio, a restaurant, a bar or maybe even a lickle bit of property dabbling. But the majority, the vast majority, get stuck in a cycle of paranoia, prison and violence. But it’s still better than going the straight route in life. Who wants to be a bank teller at TSB or a shoe seller at JD Sports when you can be a gun toting bad man with your own crew, your own groupies and your own cars? It’s a fucking no brainer that incredibly the ruling elite that governs us still can’t work out. Who wants the mundanity of a low income legal life when you can live the insanity of a fast money illegal life? We all want to live, we all want freedom and what is money but a measurement of freedom? The richer you are the freer you are and as long as freedom comes at such a high price then kids are going to deal drugs. Fuck the ladder! We all want our own ladder and the most attainable ladder out of the ghetto is narcotics and distribution. It isn’t even a ladder in these parts of town. It’s a rope. You either haul yourself up it the hard way with your hands burning as you go or you swing from the bastard with it wrapped round your neck until you’re blue faced and dead, a statistic instead. The police are fucked. They’ll never stop the drug trade so all they can do is make some pathetic attempt to control it. But they’ll never win. The pigs will never win. You can’t fuck with nature. People want freedom and money grants them freedom and people like getting high because getting high sets you free and the drugs business offers both. In spades. Freedom baby. Freedom. Rare!
I listen to the front door click shut and I’m left in the silence of Africa. There’s an awkward pause and we both know it. For some reason I think of Byng in his office in the sky. This is multiculturalism Byng. An old Etonian and a black cripple wait in a housing association flat for a Portugese junky to buy heroin from Afghanistan from a drug dealing child called Babyface. The Melting Pot. In it we all dissolve. And despite everything social custom still rules. Africa and I are both sitting here thinking of something to say. As usual I can’t think of a damn thing. I’m bad enough sitting next to a pretty girl in a polite dress at a posh wedding so what am I meant to say to Africa?
‘So. Africa. How did you get here?’
‘Bride or groom?’
‘Do you know so and so?’
‘You do! Well Africa, would you believe it but she’s my cousin.’
I’ve got to say something though. I look about for something to talk about. Anything. This empty room needs some noise. On the wall is the candid shot of the toasting DJ at the carnival and for a moment I wonder if the DJ isn’t Africa himself. I nearly ask but stop. The difference between the wasted wreck in front of me and the twinkling rastaman on the sound stage is so vast it would almost seem impolite to even ask. It can’t be the same person. Instead I focus on the painting on the shelf and speak for the sake of some noise.
“Nice painting.”
I nod in the direction of the icon. Africa takes a long hard look at it and the Maddona and Child take a long hard look back. Then Africa looks over at me and speaks in his wasted Jamaican burr.
“Benozzo Gozzoli.”
I’m astonished.
“From Florence. Pupil of Fra Angelico. Il Beato. Deh Blessed One. I like his work. Very much.”
Africa actually knows who the painting is by.
“Me found it in a skip. Nunu got it out for I.”
I just assumed he was some fucked up junky wallowing in a fog of chemical ignorance but maybe he isn’t.
“Dat’s why dere is de dark mold pon it. Cos it got dumped in a skip. Forgotten. Me cyan seem to stop the blodclot’ mold from spreadin.”
Maybe beneath this destruction of a man is a man; a human being full of desires and dreams now haunted by the dust of a past from which he can never escape. A ghost within his very own being for his being is done, it’s did and he’s none.
“One day de mold will take over deh whole paintin’.”
The Melting Pot.
“Den dey’ll be nothing left.”
The fucking cauldron.
“Nothing but darkness.”
In it we all dissolve.
“The ras cannot be stopped.”
His puss wet eyes are stained in pain. His head nods softly and involuntarily and I don’t really know what to say or do. I’m stunned, humbled and fascinated by this crippled drug addict I see before me. This gaunt mess is all pain and suffering. I’ve never seen anything like him. He practically examines me so I just sit there like a frightfully well to do lemon, a lemone, and I don’t have a clue what to bloody well say. Then he starts talking again.
“We are de flowering tree covered in beautiful petals surrounded by de lake of water. De water ripple in all directions so de petals, when dey fall from de tree dey float away, lonesome, in all dem different directions.”
I’m silent.
“For I and I know dat earth time move as de straight arrow sprung from de bow of de Lord but celestial time move in all dem directions at all of de same time. Dat is de way of the multiverse, for I and I are de petals from de tree floating ‘pon de ripple of a ripple of a ripple. But what, you know what happen to dat ripple of a ripple of a ripple Jimmie?”
I’m still silent. What the fuck is he on about?
“De water eventually reach de edge of the multiverse for all tings have limitations, even de great vastness of space has an end point for what has a beginning point must also have an end, and as de ripples hit de limits of de multiverse de ripple come back on de ripples demself. And in dis time all de people of de past, every living ting dat has ever breathed de pure air of dis here beautiful planet earth, dis here gift from de good Lord, Jah Rastafari, dey come back on de ripples of de ripples of de ripples ‘til every man, woman and child, every ting who ever live and die, dey all exist at deh very same time, de living and de dead, for de dead is we and alive we are one.”
Africa shifts in his wheel chair slightly, he leans toward me and raises a wizened finger to really make his point.
“De petals gather and protect de tree from the water of the multiverse, for the multiverse is eternity and forever. Dis universe just one of de infinite; an ejaculation of thought from de beautiful mind of de Lord. And de petals come together and form a wall of love and dat love is for God, blessed Jah, him is de tree dere at the centre of de lake and it is we who are de petals that fell from the tree and come back to deh tree. For dat is de rhythm of the multiverse. What go away must come back. We are de flowers of Jah, i-tection. Selassie, I continually!”
Africa goes quiet and I don’t what to say. I can’t work out if what he’s just said is the deepest thing I’ve ever heard or just some fucked up mumbo jumbo crap he’s come up with while out of his head on drugs. Perhaps it’s both. Brilliance and bullshit all mumbled into one. There’s a horrible silence. How do I answer that? I can’t. I’ve got nothing to say. Finally he speaks again.
“Yuh wan’ watch TV?”
Sermon over. We’re back in the real world. Africa doesn’t wait for an answer. He slowly pushes himself over to the television, old fingers with knobbly knuckles pushing spokes on a wheel, and he switches it on. We watch some show where four women sit at a table and chat about the stuff that women supposedly chat about. Clothes, hair, weight, celebrities. Men! I’m not sure who any of the women are but I think one of them has a column in one of the tabloids. Another could have been in a girl band. One of them is totally unknown to me and the last one is a little older than the rest and has a strange crow like voice. She seems slightly embarrassed to be on such a low brow show so her take on every topic is arch, ironic or subversive.
“If she wants to get paid to be on this shit then why doesn’t she just play along with it?”
Africa takes my comment as a complaint even though it wasn’t.
“Me change channel.”
Africa pushes himself back over to the TV, gnarly hands gripping spokes, and he changes the channel. This time we watch this bald bloke talk to three other stiffs. They talk stocks, shares, growth rate, property price and the ever imminent economic downshift. It’s seriously boring. No wonder the world is fucked with these numeric stiffs running the show. They’re the problem not the solution. A horde of yes men in thrall to the edicts of the guess men. The whole world getting fucked over by the few. Nihil mutat. The women were so much more fun.