In Banjul: there are open sewers criss-crossed by overhead telegraph poles. there are rusty tin-roofed buildings with moats of standing water. industrial rubbish lines the streets. naturally, there is dust. At the tranquil intersection of Daniel Goddard Street and Independence Avenue, a man pisses against a wall. In any other global city this would be... Continue Reading →
In the house of happiness - this Maison du Bonheur - a child tries to learn the Qu'ran, confusing Allah Al Akhbar with Ali Baba, Smiling proudly as his mum and dad laugh from the depths of their stomachs. In this happy place, the war against the harmattan that daily brings its carpet of dust... Continue Reading →
They live in houses with walls - modern castles of opulent isolation. Wearing scarves with suits, and driving cars whose doors open, the wrong way round; an unfashionable fashion statement, much like all unfashionable fashion statements produced by over-renumeration in the office. They do not talk to each other: neither in the shop nor on... Continue Reading →
'Come on Eileen' plays on a stereo in a town where I have never spoken or heard any English. In a nation where I have not met anyone of Anglophone origin in nearly two weeks. The strange is familiar and the familiar strange hearing Dexys Midnight Runners sing Tuh-Rah-Lu-Rah-Tuh-Rah-Luh-Why-Aye in dulset Brummie tones.
The young black wife of the old white man... ...laughs. At the table, in the restaurant, between the azure swimming pool and the azure sea. Who are we? Are we? to judge...? Human rights answers are not easy. I wish I knew them.