A Postcard from London - Work & Happiness?

Esi Dearest

Things seem to be getting slightly better here after my initial bumpy ride I described in my letter the other day. I hope you are well.

My new host, Armah, is a really nice fellow, and we get along well. We both work such long hours, though, that we hardly see each other. Sunday is the only day we meet.

Of course, my primary concern was to find work and settle in properly after Armah took me in. As you know I only had about ?150 on me when I was leaving home, and my reserves were dwindling real fast. Of course, my mind is almost always engaged in the cedi mode so I tend to do my conversion before buying anything. London is expensive.

After about a week of restlessness in the house with no work and consigned to boring daytime television, Armah managed to help find me a job in a hotel kitchen just off Hyde Park, in central London. I was really lucky, because I am told some people take months to find a job upon arrival. The supervisor is a Ghanaian, so he was not particular about needing to see my immigration papers before allowing me to start work. All I had to do was provide bank account details for my salary to be paid into it. Armah kindly allowed me to use his bank details. I was grateful. I was set for work.

My sister, I will never forget this first job for as long as I shall live. My position was that of a kitchen porter, which is the lowest of the low in the kitchen hierarchy. My work involved cleaning cookers and the food preparation areas, washing pots in steaming, soapy hot water and sweeping and mopping the floors. On my first day there, I very nearly walked out after two hours. I scrubbed and cleaned and washed as the smell of detergent and pungent food waste invaded my nostrils and a million tiny stars exploded deep inside my brain. My back threatened to snap into two like a fragile dry twig. My hands felt literally numb as I scrubbed the growing mountain of heavy pots and pans the chefs had used and dumped by me with careless abandon. You should have seen me in my work attire of green overalls, plastic white apron, catering hat and thick elbow length industrial gloves, sweating like a bottle of cold ?ice kenkey? in the African heat. In spite of myself, I found it rather surreal an experience, almost comical. This could not be me. Yet it was. When I got home, I simply collapsed in a pathetic heap, clothes and shoes and all, and fell into a deep slumber till very late. Armah told me I would get used to it. I don?t believe him.

It is my third week in the job now. The work remains backbreaking and the hours long, but I need the money. I hate the job, but it pays the bills. Sometimes I wonder what I am doing with my life washing dishes in a faraway land whilst I am the proud holder of a BSc degree in Mathematics and Statistics from the University of Ghana, no less. A second upper class degree, mind you. It makes me sad, really sad, but I look forward to a better tomorrow. You would be amazed to know that out of the seven porters in the kitchen, five of us are university graduates, and all seven of us are Africans. In a way, knowing that I am not the only graduate-turned-porter at work is comforting. There is a geologist from Uganda, a biologist from Sierra Leone, an engineer from Nigeria, an economist from Malawi, and then me. In a way, it is the biologist I feel most sorry for, because it seemed he had fallen the hardest among us. A top government scientist in his country, he was forced to flee with his wife and young child when the country descended into chaos during the war. From different countries and with different backgrounds, each with a unique story to tell, we have a common denominator-we are qualified Africans doing menial jobs in a white man?s country. The ?economist-porter? from Nigeria, Olu, insists that the slave trade of old has come full circle, with the African now begging the white man for a visa so he can come and do the work no white would do- a sort of ?woara beba? slave trade?. Hard to argue with that, you know.

I guess that for each of us Africans working in the kitchen, the hope we have for a better future is what provides a sense of escapism, enables us grit our teeth and bear our present circumstances. Personally, I look forward to being able to complete a Masters programme here and returning home after that. I am not sure I want to live here. Armah tells me that was exactly his plan when he came here nine years ago from Ghana. He holds a degree in law from Legon, and planned to do the Bar here after working for a while and saving some money. Then he would go home and practice law. He dreamt of becoming a great advocate, maybe even rising to become Chief Justice. His dream slowly evaporated however, he told me, as crisis after crisis erupted back home (including the deaths of his mother and sister) which called for his financial assistance. His papers eventually ran out whilst he was busy solving the problems at home. He then lost his job and had to live off his modest savings for five months. He could not afford the bar course, so he abandoned his dream of becoming a barrister, or indeed anything else. Now he works at a security guard at a shopping centre. In a way, he has come to accept that wearing a gown and a horsehair wig and performing in court is a dream of his that will never see the light of day. He smiles almost patronisingly when I declare my intention to do a masters programme, almost as if he is mocking me, daring me to do better than he did. I am determined to do so.

I hope everyone is fine at home. I have just received a letter from my girlfriend Baaba. More when I write next time.

My regards to all.

Your bro?. Fiifi

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