TAATA & ME
by Nzinga Nzinga
Pt 1
For Taata & my darling little sister, Norma Evadne, 1940-2003
Only my maternal grandfather, Taata could or would be able to understand, appreciate, feel happy and rejoice about my decision to repatriate to Africa. He always spoke of Africa as the home of the black man and how much he would like to live there. He believed in Marcus Garvey and his opinions. Taata had even invested in the Black Star Line Shipping Company. His shares were kept in an old battered trunk which had travelled with the family through their sojourn in Panama, Costa Rica and Cuba and eventually back to Jamaica.
Taata wouldn’t ask, like my friend, Christina, who lives in Canada, “Repatriate where? To America, Canada or England?”
Or a young relative, Michelle, who is studying in Atlanta: “What you going to Africa to do? Did your parents spend all that money to educate you for you to go and throw away your talent on those heathens?”
Or a family friend, an elder politician, who exclaimed, “They going to nyam you! You too fool-fool. Why do you believe they are going to welcome you back to Africa, you, a descendant of someone they sold as a slave? What’s wrong with staying here in Jamaica or going to America, Canada, U.K or other parts of Europe, for that matter? You’ve studied, lived or visited there. I’m telling you that they are going to eat you.”
Or my cousin, Basil the computer genius who lives in England,
“How can you repatriate to a country that is not yours? ‘Re’ means ‘back’ and ‘patriate’ is from the Latin word ‘patria’ meaning fatherland or Motherland if you prefer that. In plain English, ‘to return to the land of your fathers’. But I don’t need to tell you that. You are the Latin brains in this family. Anyway, to return to the issue in hand, you no more belong to Africa than you do to USA, Canada, Russia or the UK. In fact if you are foolish enough to follow this senseless dream of yours, you are surely going to regret it. It is going to turn into a nightmare. I could better understand if you said you were coming here to England. After all, that’s our Mother Country, isn’t it?"
I couldn't believe he said that. Could he still regard England as his Mother Country?
He wore a troubled expression as he continued, "Actually I am quite worried about my niece and nephew going off into the wilds of Africa with no kith or kin to call on if necessary. If you change your mind and decide to come to England, I will pay your fare, yours and the children’s, and have accommodation for one year waiting for you. Think about it seriously. You won’t get a better offer. I told you before that it will not be difficult for you to get a job here. If push comes to shove, you can join my firm.”
Those were the sort of negative sentiments that bombarded me whenever the matter of my desire to repatriate to Africa came up and it came up frequently.
“Too frequently, if you ask me,” I told my godmother, Aunt Joney whose only objection was that I was going so far away. When I told Aunt Joney that England was not near, she replied, “You’re right, child. You see, I’ve lived in England for forty long years and I have a good idea of what you will encounter there, but as for Africa, I don’t know ‘dee nor doh’ about it and I don’t know anyone who has ever had any good thing to say about it.”
“What about Marcus Garvey?”
"That man never set foot on African soil so how come he can talk so much ‘bout Africa? He reminds me of your grandfather, Taata. Always talking about this Africa. How it is a fine place and that it’s the homeland for all black people. I can’t say they are wrong and I can’t say they are right being as I never ever been there myself. To tell you the truth, I never ever got that desire to go there. Not like you and Taata.”
“There are people you know who have been to Africa and back safe and sound—like Newsy Waps, Eddie Burke.”
“That’s a different kettle of fish. They were missionaries. Maybe, just maybe you could give some consideration to Basil’s advice. Sometimes an outsider sees more than the insider who is too close up to distinguish the woods from the trees. England is not such a bad place you know.”
“I have never said it is a bad place, only that it is not my place.”
“Is not what you say but how you react to the suggestion that you might see it as an option.”
At those times I wished Taata were still alive to support my decision to repatriate to Africa. As always, thoughts of him came into my mind.
I still feel teary at the memory of a time, a brief moment in my life and in Taata’s when his leaving to go somewhere else away from me seemed so painful.
I have always had great difficulty in saying goodbye in parting with anyone whom I love and I have always loved many people. It was even harder saying farewell to Taata. I felt so much at ease with him. There was not a minute that I felt that I was not an extra special person for him, a treasured, beloved, cherished and adored grandchild.
This time of which I speak was the afternoon of a Saturday market day when the usual market day crowd -- buyers, sellers and other commuters were dispersing in different directions. I stood in one of my father’s shops—he had two, one in Thornton beside the house, and the other at Appleton near the railway station. You could stay there and call to the passengers on the train. We used to rush to buy Mills & Boon romances, comics and pocket books off the train when it grounded to a stop. As I watched a train gearing up to pull out of the station, a feeling of acute melancholy and sadness engulfed me. It was the same indescribable sadness that usually overwhelmed me when I watched a passenger train pull out of a station. I didn’t have to know anyone on it. I think it was the inevitability of it, the inability to say goodbye without breaking up or down.
As the train gave its final hoot and slowly dragged away, out of sight, my sister came to call me to the front.
“Your grandfather is ready to leave”, she said. We did not share a maternal grandpa. I had known all along that he would be leaving for home but that did not make coming to terms with it any easier. I couldn’t bear it anymore than I could bear the thought of mouthing the goodbye words. He was leaving me.
All the folks from our village had already left, bar one, the nephew of my stepmother. He was always the last to leave. And there he was, unlocking his bicycle to make his homeward journey. A shiver ran through my body, leaving goose pimples. All hope was gone. Everybody was leaving me alone, a vulnerable little girl in the company of a side of her family with which she was not at home. This was my first time away from the comfortable and familiar bosom of my loving maternal family.
Soon my tear-sodden eyes would follow him atop our mule, Maggie, as far as the bend in the road which would unfeelingly take him away from me. I felt an unreasonable resentment for the road which would, in the twinkling of an eye, rob me of his beloved presence. I was petrified with fear that I may be left there forever, forgotten by those I held most dear for whatever reason.
Never mind the kind faces of my father, my sister, the two shop assistants and the three unfamiliar customers. They knew what was going on but none of them could fathom the depth of profundity of my feelings of despair. Taata, my Taata, was leaving me.
To be continued.
Taata wouldn’t ask, like my friend, Christina, who lives in Canada, “Repatriate where? To America, Canada or England?”
Or a young relative, Michelle, who is studying in Atlanta: “What you going to Africa to do? Did your parents spend all that money to educate you for you to go and throw away your talent on those heathens?”
Or a family friend, an elder politician, who exclaimed, “They going to nyam you! You too fool-fool. Why do you believe they are going to welcome you back to Africa, you, a descendant of someone they sold as a slave? What’s wrong with staying here in Jamaica or going to America, Canada, U.K or other parts of Europe, for that matter? You’ve studied, lived or visited there. I’m telling you that they are going to eat you.” Or my cousin, Basil the computer genius who lives in England,
“How can you repatriate to a country that is not yours? ‘Re’ means ‘back’ and ‘patriate’ is from the Latin word ‘patria’ meaning fatherland or Motherland if you prefer that. In plain English, ‘to return to the land of your fathers’. But I don’t need to tell you that. You are the Latin brains in this family. Anyway, to return to the issue in hand, you no more belong to Africa than you do to USA, Canada, Russia or the UK. In fact if you are foolish enough to follow this senseless dream of yours, you are surely going to regret it. It is going to turn into a nightmare. I could better understand if you said you were coming here to England. After all, that’s our Mother Country, isn’t it?"
I couldn't believe he said that. Could he still regard England as his Mother Country?
He wore a troubled expression as he continued, "Actually I am quite worried about my niece and nephew going off into the wilds of Africa with no kith or kin to call on if necessary. If you change your mind and decide to come to England, I will pay your fare, yours and the children’s, and have accommodation for one year waiting for you. Think about it seriously. You won’t get a better offer. I told you before that it will not be difficult for you to get a job here. If push comes to shove, you can join my firm.”
Those were the sort of negative sentiments that bombarded me whenever the matter of my desire to repatriate to Africa came up and it came up frequently.
“Too frequently, if you ask me,” I told my godmother, Aunt Joney whose only objection was that I was going so far away. When I told Aunt Joney that England was not near, she replied, “You’re right, child. You see, I’ve lived in England for forty long years and I have a good idea of what you will encounter there, but as for Africa, I don’t know ‘dee nor doh’ about it and I don’t know anyone who has ever had any good thing to say about it.”
“What about Marcus Garvey?”
"That man never set foot on African soil so how come he can talk so much ‘bout Africa? He reminds me of your grandfather, Taata. Always talking about this Africa. How it is a fine place and that it’s the homeland for all black people. I can’t say they are wrong and I can’t say they are right being as I never ever been there myself. To tell you the truth, I never ever got that desire to go there. Not like you and Taata.”
“There are people you know who have been to Africa and back safe and sound—like Newsy Waps, Eddie Burke.”
“That’s a different kettle of fish. They were missionaries. Maybe, just maybe you could give some consideration to Basil’s advice. Sometimes an outsider sees more than the insider who is too close up to distinguish the woods from the trees. England is not such a bad place you know.”
“I have never said it is a bad place, only that it is not my place.”
“Is not what you say but how you react to the suggestion that you might see it as an option.”
At those times I wished Taata were still alive to support my decision to repatriate to Africa. As always, thoughts of him came into my mind.
I still feel teary at the memory of a time, a brief moment in my life and in Taata’s when his leaving to go somewhere else away from me seemed so painful.
I have always had great difficulty in saying goodbye in parting with anyone whom I love and I have always loved many people. It was even harder saying farewell to Taata. I felt so much at ease with him. There was not a minute that I felt that I was not an extra special person for him, a treasured, beloved, cherished and adored grandchild.
This time of which I speak was the afternoon of a Saturday market day when the usual market day crowd -- buyers, sellers and other commuters were dispersing in different directions. I stood in one of my father’s shops—he had two, one in Thornton beside the house, and the other at Appleton near the railway station. You could stay there and call to the passengers on the train. We used to rush to buy Mills & Boon romances, comics and pocket books off the train when it grounded to a stop. As I watched a train gearing up to pull out of the station, a feeling of acute melancholy and sadness engulfed me. It was the same indescribable sadness that usually overwhelmed me when I watched a passenger train pull out of a station. I didn’t have to know anyone on it. I think it was the inevitability of it, the inability to say goodbye without breaking up or down.
As the train gave its final hoot and slowly dragged away, out of sight, my sister came to call me to the front.
“Your grandfather is ready to leave”, she said. We did not share a maternal grandpa. I had known all along that he would be leaving for home but that did not make coming to terms with it any easier. I couldn’t bear it anymore than I could bear the thought of mouthing the goodbye words. He was leaving me.
All the folks from our village had already left, bar one, the nephew of my stepmother. He was always the last to leave. And there he was, unlocking his bicycle to make his homeward journey. A shiver ran through my body, leaving goose pimples. All hope was gone. Everybody was leaving me alone, a vulnerable little girl in the company of a side of her family with which she was not at home. This was my first time away from the comfortable and familiar bosom of my loving maternal family.
Soon my tear-sodden eyes would follow him atop our mule, Maggie, as far as the bend in the road which would unfeelingly take him away from me. I felt an unreasonable resentment for the road which would, in the twinkling of an eye, rob me of his beloved presence. I was petrified with fear that I may be left there forever, forgotten by those I held most dear for whatever reason.Never mind the kind faces of my father, my sister, the two shop assistants and the three unfamiliar customers. They knew what was going on but none of them could fathom the depth of profundity of my feelings of despair. Taata, my Taata, was leaving me.
To be continued.
All
the images were taken from the Internet and I claim no copyright.
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