Extravagant strangers, p.29
Extravagant Strangers, page 29
The New Confessions (1987) tells of a Scottish film-maker who, while a prisoner of war during the First World War, decides to adapt French philosopher Jean Jacques Rousseau’s Confessions to the silent screen. Brazzaville Beach (1990), which won the 1990 James Tait Black Memorial Prize and the McVitie Award, is a structurally complex novel narrated by a young English primatologist working in Africa in the early 1970s. In addition to several screenplays, adaptations, short stories and reviews, Boyd has recently published The Blue Afternoon (1993), a mystery and a love story that spans several decades and countries. It won the 1993 Sunday Express Book of the Year Award. His latest published work is The Destiny of Nathalie ‘X’ (1995), a collection of short stories. Boyd currently lives in London and France.
In this autobiographical essay, ‘Fly Away Home’ (1997), Boyd captures the ambivalence of a childhood characterized by arrival and departure. Recalling his experiences as a young boy travelling between England and Africa, he is moved to question his place in both worlds and to examine the true nature of ‘home’.
Fly Away Home
York, Hermes, Argonaut, Stratocruiser, Superconstellation, Britannia, Boeing 707, VC 10 … The story of my early encounters with England is a small history of aviation. I do not remember the York, a development of the Lancaster bomber, I believe, but in 1952 – the year I was born – my flying life began, in a Hermes. I was born in March in a military hospital in Accra, the capital of the Gold Coast. Four months later I was carried up the steps to the waiting Hermes to begin my first flight from my native land back to the place my parents came from. The Hermes followed the York on the first passenger services from Gold Coast to London, making a series of short hops across the great protruding bulge of western Africa – Accra, Lagos, Kano, Tripoli – before crossing the Mediterranean to Madrid, Rome or Frankfurt and then on to London. The whole journey took seventeen hours.
I do remember the Argonaut quite well, however, a British version of the DC6, a four-engined prop plane that did not owe anything to Second World War precursors and was the first to make the trans-Sahara overfly routine (if one discounts the truly terrifying turbulence), and was thus able to cut the time of the West Africa to London trip substantially. We would land in Kano in northern Nigeria to refuel before setting off on the long leg over the desert to Tripoli. Kano airport was so fly-infested that the airport buildings were proofed with mosquito wire. Vultures perched on the control tower. We always crossed the Sahara at night (perhaps at the level the planes flew in those days the turbulence made it impassable when the sun was up) and we would arrive at Tripoli as dawn broke. For this reason Tripoli airport always seemed dramatic and somewhat disturbing to me, as I recall: its hangars were colandered from Second World War shrapnel and in the pale light you could see cannibalised hulks of Italian bombers of the same era rusting mysteriously in the thin blond grass that fringed the runways. Beyond the perimeter fence camels grazed … There was still one more stop to be made in mainland Europe before we cruised over the English Channel to land at London airport – as Heathrow was always quaintly referred to in those days.
The Stratocruiser represented the ultimate in luxury. Twin-decked, with a glassy, round, bulbous nose, the plane tried to simulate the elegance of the Pullman cars in transcontinental express trains. Seats were arranged in fours, pairs facing each other. Above our heads was a reach-me-down bunk bed for children. On the lower deck was a small bar accessed by a tight spiral staircase, which I remember my parents descending for a cocktail before the meal was served – a side of roast beef on a silver trolley, the steward carving slices off it as if he were for all the world in the Savoy Grill and not 20,000 feet above the dark wadis and sand seas of the endless Sahara.
All these aeroplanes and their successors – the Britannia, the VC10 and so on – were in the livery of BOAC – the British Overseas Airways Corporation – crisp white and navy blue and badged with the famous speedbird logo (now long vanished). As I grew older and became conscious of our annual trips back to Britain on leave, the planes, and by extension the company, came to represent the country by proxy, as if a little segment of Britain had been sent out to the colonies to fetch us back to the motherland. It was a kind of idealized metaphor, I suppose – the smart modern planes and their smart modern crew luring us on board with their smiles and their trays of boiled sweets – showing us what we had left behind, reminding us of our good fortune in being able to return.
My early experience of air travel instilled in me a love of flying, of airports and all the accoutrements of aviation which has not left me to this day. How could such an introduction to flight, at such an impressionable age, and with such magnificent ambassadors, not fail to entrance? As children our idea of a treat was to be driven from home to Accra airport to look at the BOAC plane. One runway, one uneven expanse of tarmac apron, a control tower, a few hangars, some low sheds doubling as immigration and customs, arrival and departure halls, Accra airport was modest and unassuming in the extreme. Across the road from the airport was the airport hotel, called The Lisbon for some forgotten reason, a single-storied wooden building with a wide veranda. On Saturday nights a highlife band would play and the more daring young expatriate couples would come there to dance. Like all airport hotels in Africa, it effortlessly maintained a louche and faintly racy ambience. We children would take our drinks – our Fanta and Cokes – and go and stand at the wood paling fence and stare at the silver giant, propellers stilled, parked on the tarmac. Fuel bowsers and generators hummed, linked trolleys bouncing with luggage trundled from the departure lounge, engineers and cleaners ran up and down the wheeled steps set against the doorways. Then came the crew, then came the long lines of passengers. Doors were closed, propellers turned, the plane was freed from its various appurtenances and it taxied to the end of the runway.
To see it lift off and climb into the dusty evening air was both exhilarating and melancholy, emotions perhaps not fully comprehended then but more easily analysed now. It has to be understood that in the 1950s, certainly from an African perspective, these tremendous aeroplanes, and the world they both encompassed and conjured up, were for us a vision of immense and modern glamour and at the same time, like all people being left behind, we felt a sense of flatness and disappointment lingering as we returned to the car and were driven home, counting the weeks and months until it would be our turn to cross that cracked, uneven piste towards the blue and white flying machine and be carried away by it also, cosseted and nourished, across the desert to Europe, to England, homeward.
As you mounted the steps towards the door, almost swooning with excitement, the first impression, aside from the stewardess (a figure of unearthly exoticism), was olfactory. The smell of the fly spray that was liberally pumped throughout the plane’s interior prior to takeoff was both sweet and oddly choking. It was a smell replicated nowhere else in my range of nasal memory – part marzipan, part cough medicine, part liqueur, part candy, part liniment … I could not place it: our fly sprays at home did not smell remotely the same. But whatever it was, whatever brand it was or compound of chemical meeting unnatural fabric in a confined space, the BOAC version was potent and palpable. It was always, for me at least, the first smell of England. It was a kind of Rubicon; as you stepped over the threshold and were directed down the aisle, your lungs were filled with this curious reek. You soon became used to it but it signalled that your journey home had truly begun.
And yet my real home was in West Africa, in the Gold Coast – which in 1957 became Ghana. Until my tenth year I spent only summers in Britain, almost always in Scotland. But my parental home was in Ghana, and so were my bedroom, my things, my school, my friends. Scotland was where my relatives lived, where we rented a house and my parents caught up with their families. We were always in transit, welcomed but always ‘just visiting’. The real business of my life lay at the end of another plane journey in the reverse direction. And the comparative brevity of the annual leave never allowed us fully to integrate, to take things for granted, to become au fait with the latest fads and fashions. Little details remind me now of that sense of apartness. I felt ill at ease walking past school playgrounds, always stared at. Why wasn’t this boy (me) at school? (One could sense the unspoken question.) How were my sullenly curious coevals to know that African school holidays did not coincide with the British? If I had not detoured, I crossed the street, head down. I never felt comfortable with children of my age group en masse. I remember my father too, a man of status and real importance on the university campus, where he ran a hospital and health clinics responsible for 20,000 people, fumbling like a new immigrant with his unfamiliar change as he tried to buy a newspaper in Edinburgh. You could sense the newsagent’s impatience building as my father picked and prodded hesitantly at a palmful of coins. I possessed also a vague embarrassment about my clothes. The shorts and sandals and shirts made from local tie-dyed cloth – which were wholly unexceptional in Ghana – seemed eccentric, not to say bizarre, in breezy St Andrews or the High Street in Peebles. I had no long trousers at all, and how I coveted my first pair of jeans – finally bought at the age of nine with an aunt in a department store in Birmingham – at last, knees covered, I might not stand out from the crowd. Needless to say, I never felt like this in Africa, where I roamed about the countryside, cycled through the streets and boulevards of the enormous, sprawling campus, possessing the place so thoroughly, so intimately, that such unreflecting familiarity has never been reproduced, no matter where I have subsequently lived. I knew paths through the bush, short cuts through servants’ quarters. I knew where the biggest mangoes grew, the best spot to catch pythons, what pie dogs to avoid, how to eat fufu, who would sell you a single stick of chewing gum, what were the rules and penalties of a complicated game involving the spinning of hollow snail shells … My life in Africa up until the age of ten was a modest but genuine idyll and its basic elements will be familiar to anyone who has grown up in the tropics – the child, the white child, still possessed a form of tolerant laissez-passer denied the adult. We were unnoticed, or barely noticed, everywhere – which, when freedom to come and go is all you ask, is the best and most sincere form of welcome.
And then June came round and the rainy season threatened and it was time to go on leave. BOAC would send one of its planes to fetch us and the strange and exciting process that led to our landfall in England would begin. Sunset in Kano, the lurching roller-coaster of the night flight across the Sahara, dawn in Tripoli, morning in Madrid or Rome – finally peering through clearing clouds at the green patchwork of English fields and the occasional wink of sunburst from a car’s windscreen. London airport. More low wooden buildings. Lino and Formica. Tall blue policemen. Pale pasty faces. Strange accents … And somewhere, deep inside me, the private hollow of fear and insecurity that all aliens (however legal) carry within them. My passport was British, so why was I uneasy?
It all changed when I was sent to boarding school (in Scotland), something that happened to all expatriate children, as inevitable as puberty. However, my routine was turned on its head, everything was reversed: now I flew to Africa in the holidays. My family, my home, my room, my things, my friends were all as they had always been but now I saw them for only two months of the year. But back in Britain I was beginning to understand the place; I was beginning to be assimilated; I had started to fit in.
I was barely four months old when I made that first flight in the Hermes from Africa to England in 1952. My parents took me up to Scotland to present me to my grandmothers and the rest of the family. For some reason my father went back early and my mother and I joined him some weeks later at the end of our leave. By curious chance, as we were waiting in London airport for our plane to be called, there was a photographer from the Evening Standard patrolling the departure lounge looking for a light-hearted filler, I suppose, a bit of human interest for a corner of a page, snapping babes in arms about to go on a long plane journey, still a rarish event in those days, no doubt. My mother has kept the cutting. In the picture one glum and tearful toddler sits morosely on her mother’s knee. Opposite, is me, aged six months, fizzing with energy, bald and beefy as a Buddha, beaming hugely, my mother’s arm clamped around my middle trying to stop the thrashing and the squirming. ‘Why is master William Andrew Murray Boyd so happy?’ the caption asks. I could not answer then, but I can now – I was flying home.
Linton Kwesi Johnson
[1952-]
Linton Kwesi Johnson was born in Chapelton, a small rural town in Jamaica. In 1963 he left Jamaica to join his mother in London, where she lived in the largely West Indian-inhabited Brixton. Johnson was educated in Brixton and later received a BA in sociology from Goldsmiths’ College, London. When he was about seventeen years old, he began to write. He later described his work as ‘a result of the tension between Jamaican Creole and Jamaican English and between those and English English’.
While he was still at school, Johnson became involved with the political activist group the Black Panthers, and later he became a founder member of the Brixton-based Race Today collective. It was in the journal Race Today that Johnson’s poems were first printed, and it was under the collective’s guidance that he published his first volume of poetry, Voices of the Living and the Dead (1974). His second collection, Dread Beat An’ Blood (1975), includes ‘Yout Scene’, the first poem that Johnson wrote in the Jamaican language. At the point that he began to write in dialect, Johnson says, music entered his poetry as well. The music is both figurative and literal, for in 1978 Johnson released Dread Beat An’ Blood on vinyl. It was the first LP recording of his ‘reggae poetry’ or, to use a term that Johnson coined himself, ‘dub poetry’. Subsequent albums include Forces of Victory (1979), Bass Culture (1980) and Making History (1984). In 1980, he started his own record label, LKJ. Johnson has continued to publish his poetry in book form, writing ‘Inglan is a Bitch’ in 1980, and publishing Tings and Times: Selected Poems (also released as an album) in 1991.
Nearly all of Johnson’s poems are political in nature. In a broad sense, they are responses to the state of the world, urgent illustrations of the violence of both the oppressors and the oppressed. Often written in the language of England’s black urban youth – a group ‘new in age / but not in rage’ – Johnson’s poems have an oral quality that lends them a sense of vitality and relevance.
In addition to his writing and political work, Johnson has worked as a library resources and education officer at Keskidee Arts Centre, in London. In 1977 he received a C. Day Lewis Fellowship and taught as writer-in-residence in the London Borough of Lambeth. He is an associate fellow of Warwick University and an honorary fellow of Wolverhampton Polytechnic, and in 1990 he received an award at the XIII Premo Internazionale Ultimo Novecento from the city of Pisa for his musical and poetic accomplishments. Johnson has performed his work throughout the world.
Johnson’s poetry articulates the fears and concerns of both the generation of West Indians who arrived in Britain in the 1950s to work in factories and the generation of non-white Britons who were born in Britain and have no memories of life in another place. There is little romance in either generation’s view of Britain. The following poem, ‘Inglan is a Bitch’, is an apt summary of the feelings of many in Britain, both young and old, both then and now.
INGLAN IS A BITCH
w’en mi jus’ come to Landan toun
mi use to work pan di andahgroun
but workin’ pan di andahgroun
y’u don’t get fi know your way aroun’
Inglan is a bitch
dere’s no escapin’ it
Inglan is a bitch
dere’s no runnin’ whey fram it
mi get a lickle jab in a big ’otell
an awftah a while, mi woz doin’ quite well
dem staat mi aaf as a dish-washah
but w’en mi tek a stack, mi noh tun clack – watchah!
Inglan is a bitch
dere’s no escapin’ it
Inglan is a bitch
noh baddah try fi hide fram it
w’en dem gi’ you di lickle wage packit
fus dem rab it wid dem big tax rackit
y’u haffi struggle fi mek en’s meet
an’ w’en y’u goh a y’u bed y’u jus’ cant sleep
Inglan is a bitch
dere’s no escapin’ it
Inglan is a bitch
a noh lie mi a tell, a true
mi use to work dig ditch w’en it cowl noh bitch
mi did strang like a mule, but, bwoy, mi did fool
den awftah a while mi jus’ stap dhu ovahtime
den awftah a while mi jus’ phu dung mi tool
Inglan is a bitch
dere’s no escapin’ it
Inglan is a bitch
y’u haffi know how fi suvvive in it
well mi dhu day wok an’ mi dhu nite wok
mi dhu clean wok an’ mi dhu dutty wok
dem seh dat black man is very lazy
but if y’u si how mi wok y’u woulda sey mi crazy
Inglan is a bitch
dere’s no escapin’ it
Inglan is a bitch
y’u bettah face up to it
dem have a lickle facktri up inna Brackly
inna disya facktri all dem dhu is pack crackry
fi di laas fifteen years dem get mi laybah
