The Neurocentic’s invaluable guide to life in the big smoke. The question is, can you live without it?
Eat food, that’s my advice. When you’ve done your monopoly board trail of London it’s time to get started on your snakes and ladders. The supermarket, that’s a great place to start, because there you discover ultimate invisibility. Do not, under any circumstances, assume politeness, patience, willingness to assist or satisfaction. Collect basket, ignore existence of all other life forms and be a selfish shit. Hurry, hurry, hurry. You know it’s a slippery slide; stop to let the mother with her daughter in a pushchair through the gap in front of you and the woman with the shopping trolley rams it up your backside. ‘Hurry up, get out of the way, I have to get to Kipling’s Cakes before they sell out of cherry bakewells.’
There’s a special device above the door in supermarkets that sucks out your brains as you pass under it. That’s why we’re all zombies focused on buy, buy, buy, and sod everyone else. I cast my dice, get out of there, two bags of shopping (one and a bit to you), take six steps, oh, there’s the ladder; let’s cook something real tonight, no more KFC. But wait, I get home and there’s a message on my carton of orange juice: ‘If Foil Seal is missing Return to Store.’ Well, I returned to the store, but what now? Didn’t I do my shopping an hour ago?
Eat anything, that’s my advice. Avoid shops at all costs. Make loads of friends and invite yourself around to eat their food. Make fourteen good ones and you won’t be back for two weeks. How could they catch on? Snakes and ladders, up the stairs to the highest flat, your prize is waiting for you. Snakes and ladders, down the road to the kebab shop underground, you hit a snake. Fifteen hours on the bog (have we been here before?), you should’ve stuck with KFC.
One more thing, you have another option; if you don’t mind food that isn’t real, you can get a Vesta curry when you enrol with the Union. Packet soup, just add water. Dehydrated caviar, just add water. Powdered water, just add… bother, that was going to make me millions. But, students, please remember: Pot Noodles are not the special variety found around the Pool Tables in SOAS Bar, but, apparently, the too gorgeous snack not to be missed if you really can’t be bothered to cook / eat out / eat with a friend / eat food. (Also note other complexities of the English language: A joint in the oven usually refers a leg of lamb. Coke in the fridge refers to your empty bottle in the door with only traces of the brown liquid at the bottom because I invited my friends around and we helped ourselves to your food.)
Cooking is not a problem, buying it is what stinks. So here’s your final plan: Ring your friends, tell them you’re having a dinner party, get each of them to bring something. An onion, a bottle of wine. A tomato, a bottle of wine. Half a zebra, a bottle of wine. That kind of thing. Then when they say, ‘Anything I can do to help?’ give them those little jobs: peeling onions, stirring the stew while you check your voicemail, measuring the rice. Sit back, relax and serve, with four bottles of wine. You were the snake, you climbed the ladder, now you’re home and dry.
When the thunder clattered and the rain lashed the ground, the power went off and SOAS library’s computer network ceased to function. There was no rain in Tanzania, the power went off, but it was more than the computers that suffered.
Michael Franti of Spearhead fame, the hiphopster on a mission of musical literation, would like this one. Africa Online and Food for the Masses. If this makes no sense, then here’s the summary: Franti’s latest album was the Chocolate Supa Highway and he questioned what the leaps of technology meant to the African continent. Was the internet relevant? His scepticism of our hi-tech, material, civilised world. And now the connection: E-Mail messages from Tanzania until they turned the power off in the middle of October.
Kiswahili conversations between a father and his daughter; the father somewhere in England, the daughter in Dodoma, Tanzania’s administrative capital city. On Thursday 9 October, his mailbox revealed that Dodoma was facing the beginning of a famine. The rains had not come and now there was a shortage of water. Food prices were rising and there was little information beyond their region to say that that was happening. At the time, according to the E-Mail, there were only eighteen inches of water in the dam above the turbines. Those were the turbines that were supposed to generate the majority of Tanzania’s electricity. And if there was no rain in November, the E-Mail said, the country would slowly begin to shut down.
By Saturday, the electricity was off. The father received an early morning telephone call from his daughter in Dodoma. Time winding handles, hoping for a connection, Vodaphone may be whispering from Sri Lanka, but not here; the electricity is dead. Saturday 11 October, the electricity had now been turned off because there was not enough water in the hydroelectric dam. The effects would be felt all over the country and in the major towns, including that far coastal city of Dar Es Salaam. Now the fading voice on the telephone said there will be delays in the distribution of food and relief. No electricity, no power to the mills that ground the maize. Tanzania off-line, need food for the masses.
Tim. This is Mimi. Um. I came across a quote today that I think, I think you should hear. And the quote is, “In a world of comparisons and conformity, make your own statements, honour your own truths, have the courage to be yourself, risk speaking your own thoughts and claiming your own emotions. Share your vulnerabilities, fears, doubts and insecurities, let the others experience the real you and have the courage to be yourself.” Tim, I was reading a couple of your poems, um, and I really like them. I really, really, really did. And I’d really like to sit down and sit down and get to know the real you, the one that you are inside. And, I guess this quote just made me think of you, because it was just so appropriate. So, call me when you get this message and we’ll talk. Bye.
What, then, do I do?
“Just be yourself.”
I am myself. There is nothing more to me.
“So say so.”
She wants to dig deep inside.
And if there’s nothing more, she’ll see.
And then she’ll throw me away.
“Get drunk Tim, forget about it.”
I feel so empty. What if I am nothing?
“Lie. Tell her you’re an astronaut and you collect butterflies.”
Do you think that’ll work?
“Sure. She’ll love to see your butterfly collection.”
The real me?
“Yeah, just be yourself.”
So, where can I get these butterflies from?
“I’ll lend you mine.”
Put on weight. Hairstyle. Muscles, laughter, clothes. Conversation, wit, style. Be a musician. Genius. Rich. Generous. Never cry. Be shallow. Be vain. Never tell your secrets to anyone. Smile. Drink beer. Be rude with the lads. Disrespect the ones your friends are disrespecting. Be a leader. No sheep here. Be carefree. Demand. Don’t try to understand. Be artificial. Be popular. Sit in the pub with your fourteen other friends. Laugh at the guy who won’t fight back. Impress the girls. Know your music inside out. Never get mad. Never, ever get sad. Try to be bad. Now see where you stand. Don’t that just feel so fine?
There were lines in the palms of my hands. I have to be careful from now on; in what I do, I mean. People want to find out what’s inside my head, but I never find out what’s in theirs. I’ve made mistakes telling people things that are too private, too personal. Things I shouldn’t tell anyone. Just yet. There is daylight and there is pain. There is sorrow and not much laughter. Let me in, I hear them cry, but I don’t want to let them in because it won’t last. When I let them in, I let them in and I never throw them out. My biggest failing is patience. I will hold on. And hold on. Maybe one day they’ll remember me. I’m always here. Is that my failing? There were lines in the palms of my hands.
If you’re with your other friends,
Will you deny my existence?
If the time is right,
Will you laugh at me?
If the pressure is on,
Will you reject me?
If the sky is blue,
Is the sea blue too?
If you want power,
Will you reach out to me?
If you’re feeling vulnerable,
Will you ignore me?
If I get too close,
Will you push me away?
If it gets to much,
Will you lock yourself away?
Can I ask you a question?
Can I listen to your voice?
Can I lend you a shoulder,
When you need someone to lean on?
Can pigs fly?
Do you cry?
Are elephants real,
Or just made up?
Are you happy?
Are you sad?
Are you angry?
Are you mad?
If I tell you a secret,
Will you spread it around?
If I pretend I am nothing,
Will you believe I am nothing?
What’s your favourite colour?
Food?
Pop star?
Language?
Will you be here tomorrow?
Were you there yesterday?
Overall, how do you rate your life?
How do you rate mine?
When words get too much
Do you buy a gun?
And do you shoot the world down
Or do you change yourself?
Do you have an identity?
Do you really need one?
When will I see you again?
When will you see me again?
Do you have memories of the future
And remember seeing them in the past?
Do you have any bold memories?
Do you have anything to add?
You have the right to remain silent.
You have the right to remain silent.
What do you really think of me?
What if I wanted my life to be private? Would you let me be silent? Would you let me hide away and stay away? On days when I do not want the world to see me, I wear a black hat to hide my head and my long coat. I know that it does not really make any difference to the world, but, in my mind, I feel at last anonymous. I feel at last in that private world.
Sometimes my silent world is what I want. Sometimes I can be a loner, in the midst of crowds, and sometimes that is how I want it. With no smile in sight, and my eyes reading the pavement, perhaps I am in that private place. Hiding my life; a desire for anonymity. When you do not question my ways. Sometimes I hide my face. I hide my thoughts. Sometimes I cover my head beneath a black hat and it is my sign of privacy. Sometimes.
When I stand up straight and look around. When my head is raised and I look at you. You will know that I have emerged from that secluded world. You can say hello to me.
I wanted to hide away
And be anonymous.
I wanted to hide away:
Delete my face.
I wanted to be hidden,
I wanted a private world,
I wanted to be in my world.
I wanted to hide away.
I wore a black hat,
Though the sun was hot,
For it covered my head
And I felt anonymous.
I chose a silent world,
Though the world was fine,
For, in my silence,
I felt anonymous.
But as I tried to hide away,
As I slowly, slipped away,
My thoughts became intense
And the pain was immense.
I had a real reason
To hide myself away.
I concentrated my hurt
And I focused my mind.
Three weeks of aimless wandering,
Venting irritation on my friends,
There came the time
When I was ready
And found out what was wrong.
I intensified my feelings;
I poured each tiny one out,
And struck an arrow
Through my victim’s soul.
Standing now,
I was hidden away,
Anonymous and hidden from view.
My face, beyond recognition;
Deleted face.
At last I was free:
Hidden away.
I wanted to be hidden.
I wanted my private world.
I wanted to be in my own world,
So I made myself burn away.
At last, I am nothing.
I don’t see them smiling at me,
When I know the truth,
That they have no trust for me.
At last, I am anonymous.
I don’t hear a dishonest “Hello.”
At last, I am truly free,
I don’t see what they think of me.
I wanted to become nothing;
To become invisible.
I wanted to hide away;
To be, silently, free.
And now that I’m invisible
And hidden from their eyes,
I feel a kind of freedom;
An unknown, quiet peace.
Now that I am invisible
I can leap and fly away.
I have no place in that world;
I will spread my wings and fly.
Two years ago, I sat in a concert hall in Grenay, northern France, while the mayor of the town used our performance as a backdrop for his political speech. According to him, our orchestra was ‘a fine example of how the youth of today were the people who would break down barriers and share their qualities regardless of nationality’. (A lie, he would have seen, had he witnessed the xenophobia of a number of our group, walking through the streets that morning.) The slogans dominating one end of the market place, displayed that the Communiste Municipal Party were playing for the votes in that town.
I read the graffiti on the wall. In big, bold letters, scrawled a foot high, it said “APNI MARZI KARDHI!” I didn’t understand. Next to it, written in white correction fluid, the words, “THE POOR CAN TAKE NO MORE: RESIGN”. My conscience was jolted and I took a pen from my pocket and wrote, “The cure is an elixir in a small glass bottle, but only god knows where it is”. There were other words on the wall. “Hold me tight. Don’t let go.” “You don’t own me. I have rights too.” “Fahari wawili wanapo pigana nyasi ndizo ziumiazo.” “If you treat me like shit, you’ll have to live with the stench.” “I love…” and “Sal was ere B4 U”.
The words expressed people’s thoughts. I left and returned a week later, but now the words were gone, lost beneath another layer of cream emulsion. There was a single, new message.
“PRIVATE PROPERTY”
It is when you feel down that you really realise that the friends you have are worth more than anyone else in the world. It should be obvious that the friends you have are worth more than the ones you don’t. I was so, so down one evening; I had hurt someone in a desperate attempt to become anonymous and to be someone that I’m not. Someone who was arrogant and carefree. Someone who could blame someone else for his own mistakes.
I had become anonymous, for the other person ignored me, but she despised me too. And no matter how I had denied my guilt at the time, now I felt as guilty as sin. I spent hours cursing myself, wishing that I could slip away and become truly invisible. Wishing that they would forget me and lose their recognition; truly invisible.
In the end, I found the courage to phone a friend, just needing someone to talk to. And that friend listened, advised, told me to pull myself together and that I had no right to waste the talents I held, by running off. Fifteen minutes on the phone transformed my misery into understanding. Fifteen minutes later, after I tapped the four digits into the phone, I realised what good friends I have. As for the mistake I made, I just have to accept I make these. A friend told me that.
I don’t deserve you, but I want you.
I’ve done nothing for you, but I want you.
I’ve done nothing for the world,
But I want the world.
I’ve taken all my life and I’ve never given back.
I don’t deserve you, but I want you.
I’ve had everything I wanted
And I threw most of it away
I wasted many years
I threw it all away.
I don’t deserve my friends, but I love them.
They give and give to me.
What do I give to them?
Stories about my sorry life?
My sorry life?
I was given everything I wanted
But I threw most of it away.
Look at me and listen.
Listen what I say.
I want to change everything.
I hate what I see.
Me.
I hate what I see. I want to change me.
I want to hold you. Not for me.
For you.
I never give. Now I want to give.
Hold me.
I wanted to hate her because she made me feel like nothing. I wanted to make her feel small because she made me feel small. I wanted to hurt her because she hurt me. I thought of a hundred ways to hate.
Now I am reduced to a mad, psychotic idiot, crying, lying down in a cold police cell. Now I am reduced to nothing, but a man capable of only hating. I am small and weak today, but I felt powerful and strong yesterday, when I held that gun in my hands. I shot the world down. Because the world shot me down. Or did I just imagine that? Was I really alone? Was there really no one there? Now there is no one there. I could think of one hundred ways to love, but it’s too late now.
The war was over, but the scars remained. Pushed together, the people lived in compounds scattered across the vast landscape. It was better like this; not much better, but better than the urban squalor that faced the returning refugees. The compounds were a sanctory from the ever threatening outside world: The minefield hell holes. The pitted landscape filled with cluster bombs. The poisoned lakes. And the dead land. The dead land that was good for nothing any more. Poisoned for a million years; a graveyard of a once fertile land. The compounds offered saftey.
I offend my friends in what I say
I offend my friends in what I write
But they never tell me,
But I know.
I offend them because I write too much
I offend them because I pour my anger out
I write everything down
Like the Blues
Only it’s more like purple,
Because my anger is red.
I offend them,
But they don’t say.
Too personal, they think
I shouldn’t read it out, they think.
It offends them, but they never say.
I am not one of you because I cannot find my feet.
I want to stand proud, but I’m too quick to admit defeat.
I want to be just like you; you’re so self-assured,
Thinking about my own life, I can tell you, I just get bored.
I hate my selfish, self-centred ways.
I hate them, but I cannot change them.
That is what I am.
Love is the most important thing in my life,
But I haven’t got a clue.
I’m lost and crying.
Dying.
Now I’m lying.
I want love and I want to give away love,
And they say love isn’t love til you give it away.
But what I want is more than that. How do you say?
I guess it doesn’t matter how you say it.
I’m bored of being alone.
I hate my empty heart.
I can hate myself more than the world can,
But it’s the world that makes me hate myself.
They ignore me; I hate myself. I wish I’d never spoken.
They laugh at me; I hate myself. That stupid, stupid book.
I find myself on my own; I hate myself.
I brought this on myself.
You are so, so confident. I feel like death.
You have so much to say. I feel like a brick.
I am not one of you because I feel so empty.
I’m sitting in the dark. I feel like nothing.
Rejection hurts me. It makes me hate myself.
I am not one of you, because I cannot find my feet.
