Summer

For The Sunday Muse prompt #113: \\\* The light in her eyes mirrors the mirth, in the wry smile that still, some days, wraps itself around her lips, a bird, free, born of the wild borne by the wind. The heavy scent of summer, of flowers blooming and of squirrels flitting between the trees, reaches down into the depth of the memories she bears within, the delight of summers past simmering, then bubbling to the fore though her fingers can no longer coax life from the dry earth or press pleasure into a cone.

By some unexpected twist of fate, I found myself heading into Central London on the hottest day of the year, a fairly tropical 37 degrees Celsius, and that for the first time since last December. The destination was the Nigeria High Commission on Northumberland Avenue, the plan to get my expired Nigerian passport renewed. To get here I had had to jump through several tortuous loops, not helped by the fact that my trips down to England are scheduled months in advance with impromptu trips being aggressively minimised due to the costs. My takeaway from my dealings with the appointment’s system was that the (re)scheduling system could be significantly improved - first, you sign up via a third party web service, pay the booking fees and then get randomly assigned a date, one you can only change to a more suitable one by emailing back and forth, no less than six in my case – which meant in addition to the heat I very much had my mind prepared for a terrible experience which could potentially take the whole day. It might have been my low expectations, but the experience was far less stressful than I expected, sans the slow pace at which things trundled along from picking a ticket to getting called for an initial review and then submitting my biometric details. If there was a silver lining, it was that the slow pace of things – and the very many other Nigerians there for similar purposes – increased the likelihood of running into people I had not seen in a long time; 20 plus years and two kids in one case. That the most unsettling thing from all of that was wondering what the scrawny lad I ended up sitting across from on the tube from Charing Cross to Waterloo was up - to whilst reading from 2nd Corinthians 1 in a huge bible - is a miracle of sorts (events at the High Commission didn’t leave me mentally drained as they have in the past) or perhaps only the symptom of my low expectations. ...

For The Wednesday Muse Prompt, Summer Rain. \\\* It hangs in the air like a shroud, this heavy, brooding cloud of dust through which the sun tries to force its way; the same way a frail old man, bent double at the waist, tries to hack his way through dense undergrowth, by dint of will power and persistence. Suddenly, like a giant oak falling, squashing dense foliage with its weight, the heavens are torn by rain, and relief. Peals of thunder, flashes of lightning birth many miracles of tiny rivers suddenly sprung, washing away the dust of earth baked dry, after which comes the smell of new, clean things, of rebirth and things made whole again.

The day passes quickly without incident until they come through the door; they being Z, and A, here to spend a few minutes having a natter with me just after lunch. What strikes me first is how striking the resemblance is. Z has her mother’s eyes, flowing hair, and - from what I’ve heard - her penchant for good natured deviousness. When they first arrive, Z is hiding behind her mother, peeking out now and again like only children do, somehow believing that there not being a direct line of sight means they are hidden from view. A and I catch up about work and the latest office gossip, whilst trying to cajole Z into taking the hand I have proffered several times. Nothing works. By the time our catch up is done, they both leave me to the company of my headphones, and the pile of virtual paperwork I have been working through. ...

If you accept the recurrent narrative - regurgitated without so much as a bated eyelid by everyone from office mates to cab drivers - summer out here lasts a mere 172,800 seconds; two days. Making my way home, by way of the ASDA superstore, it is not hard to accept that as fact, given there are scores of people milling about, or seated in the outdoor stalls the pubs on Castlegate - most notably Black Friars, Carltons and Sinatras - have managed to set up. The two recurring decimals are pints of golden brew and bare arms of all shapes and colours; the sun deigned to shine in all its glory today, and we its doting worshippers have come out to play. ...

The bright warm sunshine that streamed in through the office windows – whilst I was hard at work on Friday afternoon - vanished in time for the weekend, true to form. Up here in my little corner of the world, the one gripe that we all - rich, poor, cab driver, CEO, native born or immigrant - share, is the weather and its propensity to turning on a whim at the most inopportune of moments. ...

To a fabulous week that is….. It is 11.41pm, and I am as clear eyed as I can be. I have just returned from the Muyiwa & Riversongz concert. It was fab, If I say so. Apparently the concert was designed to signal the commissioning of a ‘gospel’ choir in the city. The music was great all round - a throwback to my days back in University as an undergrad. Surprise, surprise, the bloke who leads the choir was also quite an active bloke on that same campus and was involved in plotting planning various musical events campus wide. The added benefits of catching up with blokes number 10 and 11 (the numbers refer to the number of close friends and acquaintances I have been re-united with since I made the move across the Atlantic) was fab and far outweighed any misgivings I might have had about shelling out 10 pounds to attend (and the 10 pounds I paid for a CD/DVD of Muyiwa’s album.) ...

I turned in my dissertation today. So to all intents and purposes, it should be ‘business as usual’ going forward. I need to get the final bits of utility out of Football Manager 2009 first though.. and get some summer loving…. ;) Oh and some reading too.