A good view

Photo: Callum Skelton

It was not a great view, sat opposite a raven-haired executive with sublimely manicured fingernails and a rather fetching Hobbs winter coat. She flicked her hair unremittingly throughout the train journey, debating with her equally well-groomed mother the ideal brand of gin for their party on Saturday. Five minutes into the journey, her phone buzzed. The executive barked at her silent caller to make sure that the order numbers were correct. Still forty minutes to go. The mother and daughter duo looked set to be alighting later rather than sooner. I was stuck.

There were a few more pages to go until the end of what had been a fascinating insight into the thoughts of a young, black traveller bumming through Europe. How much the crusty and scabrous history of bygone ages still touches the lives of millions of us, unwilling recipients of prejudice and bitterness compelled to fight our corner for crumbs of the capitalist pie. I was saddened to be reaching the book’s end but even sadder that I couldn’t reach its conclusion in a hushed carriage. Time for earphones.

I hadn’t listened to my playlist since Thierry. The up-tempo Afrobeat blended with its playful, sensuous lyrics made me ache for him, so I stopped listening. Since the breakup, I’d been restricting myself to wistful jazz; the exact same that had strangely inserted itself into the chaotic final six months of my London life. Life before Thierry. Jazz had been the soundtrack of my resignation, flat clearance, and the purchase of a one-way ticket out of the UK. Now the quiet but lively melodies are the background music of my grief. I had to drown out the conversation taking place next to me. Could brands of gin and the various, mostly negative, effects of intoxication really be that interesting to her mother? I began to feel a little sorry for this quiet, elegant, silver-haired lady. She grunted affirmation at regular intervals and grabbed her phone every time her daughter answered yet another call. This is the type of existence that you should long for.

This was the type of existence that my mother craved and bullied me to pursue: only for me to throw it back in her face, wilfully and wildly, for more debt, a broken heart, and a banging playlist. The only way to drown out the conversation was to call on Sho Madjozi and loop John Cena until it was time to part ways. It was hard to keep still, but the end justified the means: I was able to bid a fond farewell to my intrepid young traveller as he made his way back to the UK—older, skinnier, and wiser. I also had time to read an article on the efforts of elite universities to boost their intake of disadvantaged students. (And what happens to them once they complete their course?) There was also a review of the short stories of Anna Kavan, whose turbulent life and lack of recognition during her lifetime reminded me sadly of Jean Rhys. A quote from the book I’d just read spun around my mind. A philosopher, Alain de Botton, affirmed that the bohemian lifestyle was the best remedy to what he termed “status anxiety,” predicated “on the value systems operating in our immediate environment.” I felt doomed.

“I guess I’ve always searched for things—music, people, concepts— to take me out of myself”

The ladies finally arrived at their destination and disappeared into the evening. How closely we all live but how far apart our lives! I guess that there were others on this train who have spoken little more than a few words in their lives to people who look like me. Their loss, I suppose. Or mine, but there was a loss. I needed something more rousing than instrumental jazz to quicken my brisk walk home, so for the first time in four months, my Afrobeat playlist accompanied me. It was like welcoming back an old friend. It also made me realise that time was slowly healing my self-pity.

I arrived home and greeted my parents. Dad responded. Mum was in one of her moods. I was the second boomerang child, and it was proving hard to bear, especially since I’d returned home with no savings and another relationship in tatters. I’d managed to find a job after a few soul-destroying weeks, but the low pay meant that I barely had enough to keep my bank account above zero. I stayed out of my parent’s way as much as possible.

My earpods needed cleaning.

I took a tissue from the kitchen and sat down on my bed to remove the globs of earwax forming around the rim of the black and blue earpods. I sighed. This room was by far the coldest in the flat. The icy silence was perforated by Alicia Keys as my efforts to remove the wax prompted the Bluetooth to play random tracks. More Alicia Keys, then Burna Boy, Shatta Wale, Class of Deja, and then El Carretero. As the first strings of the guitar began to play, my hands froze. All of a sudden it was summertime 2013, London, the moment of my accidental discovery, whilst looking for work on job sites. The heady thrill of something African but not became my constant companion that year. I guess I’ve always searched for things—music, people, concepts— to take me out of myself, like my brief love affair with the kora player who strummed melodies in my parents’ local town centre. He serenaded the shoppers outside Boots Pharmacy throughout my summer holiday, before disappearing—to a bigger town, a better job or a holding centre? I never found out.

I found myself no longer in my childhood bedroom, wiping away earwax. I was in Havana, part of the audience in an unknown jazz club, arms in the air, swaying and singing in time to a chorus I knew well though I spoke no Spanish. Typical English. Here it was, this sound, this beat that encapsulated so much—our past, its repercussions, the joy, the bitterness, thoughts of those who benefitted and those who lost out, our eternal legacy—right here in my frosty room. No, not in my frosty room but in a hot and sweaty basement club: the air reeking of cigar smoke, sweat and rum; the small dancefloor filled with women dancing their hearts out as timid young men goad each other to ask the most beautiful woman in the club to dance. I dance and dance and dance.

My hunger disappeared. The tiredness. The longing for Thierry. All gone. I wanted to go to Cuba.

I’d actually considered planning a trip to Havana before I left London but for the cost, even for five nights! And now the difficulties of getting there due to crappy politics. Still, the album had captured a precise moment in time, all long since passed. I was certain that I wouldn’t find what I was looking for in Cuba. Which was? A sense of familiarity in the unfamiliar? A warm, fuzzy feeling fist-bumping Afro-Cubans? Or perhaps a deeper appreciation of a way of life untainted by vapid consumerism and cynical capitalists? I was a dreamer and cursed with a quixotic mindset. The money that I was now scraping together was under no circumstances to be used on a wild and chaotic trip that would bankrupt me (again) and drag me back to my childhood bedroom.

My younger brother and sister, though encountering bumps along the way, had eventually freed themselves from parental over-dependence. They were both in their own home (bought), with stable work (for now), savings, loving spouse and adorable children. And here I was, dancing crazily and very alone in my childhood room. They have the type of existence that you should long for. Would I not prefer to dance around the very spacious lounge of my country townhouse? I could just imagine myself throwing off my Louis Vuitton court shoes and Hobbs winter coat to sway to the rhythm of Chan Chan. Would Señor Ferrer have encouraged such a life, flapping about to Candela in my ornate oak kitchen? In the documentary, when this group of maestros found themselves performing in New York’s Carnegie Hall, Ferrer commented that, to the effect of, even with all the wealth and prosperity on show, such a life still could not have lured him away. I wish I could feel the same.

The song came to an end. I wiped my earpods and placed them in their charging pod. I changed out of my work clothes and went into the kitchen to find something to eat. There were leftover fish and some rice. No stew. I was suddenly very tired. I put the rice and the fish in a small bowl, along with some oil, salt, and pepper, and placed it in the microwave. Today is Thursday; tomorrow will be payday. I could buy some vegetables and cook a nice stew for everybody. There were small ways to ease the burden. I felt depressed. I wanted to cook stew in my own home and not face the inevitable criticism from mum: There’s no meat in this. There’s no taste; you didn’t add enough cubes. There’s no pepper; if I carry on eating this, I’m going to vomit. Takeaway should be better, and then I’d cook stew for myself at the weekend after Mum had cooked for herself and Dad. Dad was okay; he was sympathetic, but the disappointment of yet another failed relationship producing no wedding, no children, and even worse, a humiliating return home had left him subdued. After four months together, the flat was still soaked in disappointment.

I sat at the small dining table and ate in silence. The songs of the past hour reverberated around my mind. I let out an involuntary sob. I was no longer hungry. After washing my plate, I went to my room and surfed the internet looking for permanent jobs. I’d received three application rejections in the past week and had decided to remove my name from my CV in the hope that it would no longer deter an HR assistant from at least casting an eye at my career history. I had some interesting roles in the past, but most were irrelevant to the job market on this side of paradise. They desired technical staff, social media experts, qualified teachers or sales managers. A former children’s publishing assistant had nothing much to offer.

The opening strums of Chan Chan. Why couldn’t I have held out a little longer with Thierry and danced to Chan Chan in his arms? I regretted that I’d never played this album to him before his big reveal. A real shame. He had introduced me to Bieber’s What Do You Mean, a second unwelcome helping of Celine Dion’s backlist, and Coupé-Décalé. He had been good for some things, I suppose, but not my bank account or self-esteem. I wonder if he would have liked to dance to Batista-era jazz music?   

I’d listened to that album obsessively until, fed up, I forced myself to search for my own sunshine with real heat. It had taken some time, but eventually, I found it—thousands of miles away from my family and that previous version of myself. It had been great while it lasted, but all good things come to an end. And now I found myself back in the middle of a gloomy and fitful winter. It was good to stumble across a much-loved and nearly forgotten album. Dancing to El Carretero had woken an urge inside me once again. The need to reignite some heat albeit artificial, for the meantime. I had to find a new way, somehow; a new plan to shore up deficiencies and move forward. Perhaps it could be another adventure across the other side of the world (Havana! Tokyo! Oman! São Tomé and Príncipe!) or something less cost-crippling, like enrolling in an art course or learning how to photograph like Teju Cole. I may never dance to El Cuarto de Tula in my yellow and turquoise Art Deco lounge, but at least, I would be able to get singed with a little fire, another heady hit.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Efua Boadu is a British-Ghanaian writer and educator currently living in the UK