When The Human Mind Explodes

Feeling hungry, this late evening, I dashed out of my house and ran to a nearest Indian take away restaurant. It is less than few hundreds yards from my dwellings. “Chicken jalfrezi,” I announced to the waitress. Two minutes later, I heard a very disturbing high pitched voice from outside. Anxiously, I looked around and found my eyes drawn to a young couple across the road, probably in their late teens. The young white lady was of slim body, she was wearing a black jean and a grey jumper but sited on the silver bus stop bench. On her far left was a lovely pink primer, covered with plastic on top. I truly believe that on the primer was the baby wrapped up and also disturbed with the commotion that was so close and from the people s/he knew well. Standing  few inches from the woman, was the young  white man, already wrapped up in complete black attire. Probably from what I have seen it could have presented a “black” day for the couple.

“You Fckin shit,” screamed the young woman. “Go away,” she added with a bitter voice. Then, I saw the young man’s head bowing down close to the woman’s right ear and uttered some words. I could tell his words were an insult to an injured tiger. In response, the woman shoved him hard with her paws. She scratches him everywhere. Their commotion had attracted a number of people. People had gathered everywhere, some standing on the pavement while others standing near the road but  they were  all looking at the scene with an inquisitive eye. I could describe them as a mere spectators or audience because none of them dared to intervene in this verbal battle. At times the man appeared as the one to give up. He showed some sign of restless but after a while he would come back into a rage but fortunately he was not prepared for a physical fight with the woman probably his girlfriend/ partner/ wife.

Each time she fought back, he tried to defend himself by pushing down the woman and using his almighty force. “It’s a film,” said the male waitress. “A free one,” I added and there was thunder of laughter in the restaurant. “Here is your food,” I heard the same waitress voice talking to me again. I turned around and picked up my well packed food. “Thank you,” I said as I left the restaurant.

Outside, the verbal war between the couple was still going on. I waited and a waited for a while hoping something better would come out of the two but alas nothing happens, but only a bus passes by. Reluctantly, I started to maneuver slowly towards my house but after a very few steps, I would turn around to check on their progress. I could tell that their grudge was eternity and no-one wants to listen to the other. No amicable solution. I concluded.

“Should I call the police,” I found myself struggling with my conscience. “What if they kill each other?” I thought but unfortunately I did not take any positive action. I realised that when the human mind explodes it is like a bomb shell. It destroys anything that comes across its way. It becomes a real catastrophe. It takes time to build something but it takes few seconds to destroy.

Frustrated With a Bus Driver on Afro Hair.

I had visited a friend in Daveyhulme whom I shall name her as Kay, on the 16th of April 2009.  I went in the evening and she wanted me to demonstrate to her children how to make small cakes.  It was a great opportunity for me; I always wanted to play with the children and doing some challenging activities.

When I arrived at her home I was welcomed with three Afro burbling girls ranging from 2 to eight years. They were all flashing their smiles to me that I felt home at once. My friend’s daughters are all brown in complexion and they have got dazzling African beauty hair. It’s pure natural hair with no chemicals on it.  That is why it is called Afro hair. I instantly fell in love with their hair that I wished I could cut down my own relaxed one and to let it grow naturally. Their mother noticed how I envied her daughters’ hair.  I looked at her and I saw her smiling. “Euna, I am actually proud of my daughters’ hair. When I went home in Botswana, I found most urban girls no longer interested in relaxing their hair but to maintain their natural Afro hair. It’s beautiful. I decided to let my children’s hair to grow naturally,” she said with profound tone. “I only use the hot comb to straighten it,” she continued with her conversation. I listened to every word she said and finally we all went to sleep.

The following day we rushed to the bus stop and we were all going to Manchester. She was with her eldest daughter whom she wanted to show her around Manchester town. The bus arrived and we go on to the bus. I flashed my own weekly bus pass.  I saw my friend paying her bus pass but not later, I overheard her conversation with the bus driver. She was a white female driver of a medium body size. Her age was between early forties to late forties.  “I can’t see her face,” I heard the bus driver shouting on top of her voice. Not knowing what was going between my friend and the female driver I turned around and smiled. I did not hear my friend’s respond because when it comes to speaking her voice is always low and she does not want to draw any attention, no matter how critical things are. Unlike me, I have big voice and I always want to speak facts as they are.

I went up stairs, followed by her daughter. We found our sits and relaxed on them.  It was not a while when my friend turned up.  Her face looked disappointed. I did not want to ask her, I waited for her to speak. It did not take long before she flooded into life. “Euna,” I’m actually disappointed that the bus driver did not believe me that my child is a girl. In her mind she thinks is a boy and that I, the mother of the child I’m lying. She even asked me to pay the bus for “him”.  Whenever I traveled with her, none of the drivers had ever asked me to pay for my daughter’s travel expenses except today,” she said.  I could easily understand her frustration.  “How much did you pay for her journey?” I asked her.  “80 pence,” she answered. “Is it for the whole day?” I asked her again. “No, the bus driver said she can’t have a bus day saver,” she replied.  “How could the bus driver, could not believe you that you are telling truth about the gender of your child. She thinks you could only lie to her so that you can not pay the 80 pence after all you are a fully qualified mid wife. What proof did she want to prove that you are telling the truth?” I found myself asking these questions but I was getting angry towards this arrogant driver.

“When, we get down, I am going to speak to her,” I told my friend. “No, no, Euna, please leave her alone,” she begged.  “How could you let things go like that, you have to speak your mind,” I said. “Euna, this is not the first time happening, whenever my husband travels with our girls, people always tell him how lovely are “his boys”. Even if they are wearing pink lovely attire, some white people always pin point them as boys and it also annoys my husband,” she said with a bitterness tone. “Probably they haven’t seen African people with their natural hair and they always think that if they are girls they should have their hair relaxed,” I added. When it was time to alight from the bus, I grabbed her daughter’s hand and went straight to the driver. “Driver, this child you are looking at is a pure girl not a boy as you think. You should have believed her own natural mother when she told you that her child is a girl,” I voiced. “I did not see her face,” argued the bus driver. “It is not on her face where you can truly identify the child’s gender,” I fired back.  I did not finish my conversation because we were already rushing for another bus. It was food for thought that a bus driver could not trust the mother of the child but use her own false judgment.  Was it because the mother was black and therefore everything of black is tarnished and full of lies. What kind of prejudice, in a world that moving from its past to a betterment world.

Interviewing the Community

I went out this morning to Higher Broughton where I met one of my mentors Kylie. She was already waiting for me at the McDonalds which is situated along Bury New Road. We set up our journey and planned whom we intended to give the first interview. After a while we agreed, we proceeded with our journey but unfortunately we had no clue where the place was. So we decided to visit the Higher Broughton Youth Centre. Fortunately, there was a lovely woman, Cee, who was willingly to help us. She did not spend a lot of time. She searched it and in a fraction of seconds she found the address. Immediately we jotted down the address s and made our way straight to the rendezvous. When we got there was no sign of life. “I think there is no-one here. Let’s go to the library where we can meet a lot people and ask if them they could have a mini interview with us,” said Kylie. “It is a good idea,” I replied her. With this in mind we left and drove towards Higher Brroughton Library. In few minutes we were there and parked our car behind the building. We picked our interviewing equipments and head straight into the library. Inside, two beautiful librarians flashed infectious smiles to us the moment we stepped in. It was a good welcome sign that we could not resist. We introduce ourselves and they welcomed our ideas of interviewing within the building out of individuals consent. One of the librarian ladies showed us where we can put our equipments and a corner place top interview people without drawing attentions to other people. Having satisfied with arrangement, we progressed and ask people as one to one individual consultation. Some were eager or willingly to be interviewed others were camera shy and while other people did not like at all to be involved.

Out of all people whom we have met and spoke to, there was one person who seems to be rude or disrespectful. We were asking one of the people in the library whether he was comfortable if we could interview him after he finishes his work on the computer. Our voices were very low as we were speaking but alas there was this man whom I shall call Zed. He decided to interact between our conversations. “I am doing my work here. Therefore stop talking and get out of this place,” he said with harsh and cruel tone. Instantly we stopped and starred at him but with a written message all over our face that there is no need to be rude or intimidating us. After that we just continued with our conversation and told the man whom we were currently speaking to that after he finishes his work he can meet us at our special corner. He agreed. Then after less than 5 minutes, we saw the grumbling man, Zed, leaving the library and he managed to say goodbye to the librians. It was a thought of the day.

Perekedza Mwana (Accompany the child)

This is a great music composed and sang by Oliver Mutukudzi, one of Zimbabweans greatest artist in the whole region. Personally this song reminds me the very day when one of my brother, D, passed away on 5th of March 2000. I got the message at night and I had to travel from Marondera town to Masomera area the same night to inform one of my brother, L, who was also seriously ill. On this journey I was accompanied with my cousins and as we drove to Masomera area, this song was played time and again. It was a time of  grieving.  I could literally imagining accompany him to his final rest though it’s a different concept meaning of the song.