SYNOPSIS

May I please have the honour to respectfully invite you all to the launch of my cutting-edge Pan African Book DARKEST HUMANITY on Ghana’s Independence Day the 6th of March 2019? Please find below the Synopsis and excerpts from the Book.

INTRODUCTION:

In the summer of 2013 in England, during NEWSLETTER - journalism class in Pentonville, a reporter from the Guardian Newspaper was invited to give a lecture on journalism. He spoke about a new book titled “The British Dream.” He expounded on the historical account of post-war Britain, and how Britain opened the floodgates of immigration and sent emissaries to the West Indies to bring in African Caribbeans to help rebuild the country after the Second World War. Britain lost most of its active workforce to the war. The reporter spoke about “The British Dream” and the portrayal of immigrants in a negative light by the author David Goodhart, and the ‘left-wing myths’ of post-war immigration.

“Lots of people get their knuckles rapped in David Goodhart's critical history of post-war immigration, from lazy Somalis and macho African-Caribbeans to inbreeding Pakistanis and standoffish Poles.”

At that moment in NEWSLETTER, I knew someone had to re-write “The British Dream” from the perspective of immigrants. God must raise a voice for the lazy Somalis, standoffish Poles, macho African-Caribbeans and the inbreeding Pakistanis – the British Commonwealth. But who would take up that mantle? Who would the cap fit? It got to be someone who had seen it all – an insider with an in-depth knowledge to expound on the correlation between the wealth of Britain and post-war immigration. At that moment in Pentonville, I knew there was a mission. I knew there was a call – a call from the British Commonwealth – a call from the fifteen (15) Caribbean States including Jamaica that have launched the First United Campaign for Reparations from Britain, France and Holland.

“Then I heard the voice of the Lord, saying: “Whom shall I send? And who will go for us?” Then I said, “Here am I! Send me.”

DARKEST HUMANITY, a Pan African Book set in Post-Colonial Britain, chronicles the lives of Immigrants in Britain after WWII, and how desperately Britain needed immigrants to rebuild the country. Set to shake the moral foundations of British society, and the very tenets of our shared humanity, DARKEST HUMANITY revisits the British Commonwealth, and how heavily Britain relied on immigrants from the Commonwealth Nations to rebuild, and the subsequent inhumanity perpetrated towards immigrants by the British.

Ghana and the UK maintained relationship ties and remained Commonwealth members after independence. Many Ghanaians on the other hand are rather unhappy about what they describe as unequal relationship even after independence. Citizens from all other Commonwealth Member States share same sentiments. Amongst these member states are the fifteen (15) Caribbean Nations including Jamaica that have launched the First United Campaign for Reparations from Britain, France and Holland. Whilst the scars of British Colonial Crimes still remain, it is rather unfortunate to note that Britain still perpetuates inhumanity towards Commonwealth citizens and the immigrant community as a whole.

DARKEST HUMANITY details the epic journey of African immigrants who became useful to the British Establishment - used and abandoned. Unable to renew his Residence Permit in 2007, Maxwell Maundy decided to pursue his master’s education as an over-stayed immigrant, after which he’d return to his native African country and live a decent life. But fate had a different itinerary in store for him.

Barely weeks after starting his Postgraduate studies in London, he was arrested on his way to school. He was served with papers authorising his removal (deportation) from the UK in few days’ time. However, something dramatic happened and he became needed and useful to the British government. As a result, his removal was cancelled. British intelligence trained and used him for a year-long undercover sting operation. Subsequently, he became a Prosecution Witness to the British Crown.

Britain's Metropolitan Police Service (MPS) and the Crown Prosecution Service (CPS) used him and his Passport for year-long undercover Police operations and court case. Afterwards, he was dumped.
Unable to accept the “Heart of Darkness” thrown at him by the British; and urged on by Prime Minister Gordon Brown's speech “The Mission of Our Times - The Fair Society - Building the Fair Society of the Future,” and Prime Minister David Cameron's philosophy of "Something for Something Culture," he spent five years writing to the rank and file of British government, British Monarchy and British society at large, desperately seeking something to be done for him in return for his services to the British Crown. But the government refused and turned a deaf ear to his plight and struggles. His passport spent five years (half of it life-span) in the custody of the British government.

Bruised, and left fuming with rage, he demanded for his Passport from the government in order to return to Africa. He was told that his Passport had been lost, so he should forget about his “useless” Passport, get a travel certificate and leave. The sheer level of British hypocrisy, barbarism, wickedness and underhand dealings is beyond human comprehension. Having lived through it all, it had taken years of pain, bravery and courage to document the systemic failings, injustice and inhumanity perpetrated on a wholesale by the British Establishment towards immigrants. Maxwell Maundy has painstakingly produced a long awaited ground-breaking memoir for the British Commonwealth, Pan Africanists, Reparation Advocates and the world at large in DARKEST HUMANITY.

“Whilst in Pentonville, I saw writing on a wall in East Wing Cell 12: "They said they will kill me and make it look like I did it myself." Every time I saw the writing on the wall, it reminded me of the British…”

EXCERPTS PART 1

On the morning of the interview with the Bank of Ghana, we were given forms to complete, a detail disclosure. The forms were collected with our original certificates. So I gave out my certificates with my three affidavits. As fate would have it, I was the last to be interviewed. And I think my interview would go down the memory of the panel and in the history of the Bank - the applicant with several names. As I was led into the interview room, my affidavits were being discussed by the panel. The Chairman of the Interview Panel had a missing link. He couldn't locate one of my affidavits - the fifteen year old metamorphosis - Azameti to Maundy, was missing from his bundles.

They questioned me about the changes. I gave an extensive explanation on what led to the changes and showed them some newspaper publications to back my case. But that didn't seem to do my bidding. Many questions were thrown at me about the change in the UK. The Chairman recommended it would be more appropriate for me to go back to Maxwell Maundy, rather than very old Eli Azameti, which does not bear on any of my university certificates. My interview began. My first question was to explain time value of money. As more finance questions were being thrown at me, I drew the attention of the panel that my major area was Corporate Governance and Accountability.

They looked at my application again, and thank goodness, that was it - Corporate Governance did my bidding, and I nailed it. The interview went superb. I couldn't be happier. I won the day! There was an inner satisfaction within me. I hadn't felt this good in a long time. When the questions ceased coming, the Chairman asked: "Don't you have any more questions for him?" A lady panellist replied: "He's an expert, a UK expert." My interview ended and I was in high spirits. All panellists were looking at me with admiration. Then the Chairman said: "Before we offer you the job, we'll seek clarification from the British Police."

With that, I knew fate had dealt me another blow. Indeed, the American lady's post had come to haunt me: "The Beasts of England have ruined your life. Even with your master’s degree, you'll struggle to get a job with multinational companies because of your criminal conviction." A week later, in a desperate attempt to salvage my dream job, I wrote an extensive three page letter to the Chairman of the Interview Panel. But I guess the harm was already done. Her Majesty's Beasts of England had put me down, really down; and it would take long for me to get back up. So I became a taxi driver instead... Whilst my hard earned British certificate gathers dust ever after… Dear Diary; here ends my story!

EXCERPTS PART 2

When my case was moved to the Crown court, a different Barrister was assigned to me, an elderly fellow. I asked my solicitors why the change in Barrister. I was told as the case moved to the Crown Court, the charges had been reviewed, and some were quite heavy. So it would require a more experienced Barrister to handle it. During my first meeting with my barrister in court, he told me he had been reading my blog, and enjoyed reading my writings. He likened me to African leaders who had resisted oppression. He asked if I knew of Patrice Lumumba of Congo.

He mentioned Nelson Mandela, Kwame Nkrumah and some American civil right leaders. We had a long chat. My barrister would look at me for long and say: "Maxwell, you’re very intelligent; it's unfortunate the system has worked against you." My barrister explained that his priority was to get me out of prison, and that he'd try to secure a plea bargain with prosecution in order to drop one of the charges, which carried a maximum of five (5) years. According to my barrister, if we didn’t get that charge dropped, I'd be in trouble. The white man was bent on screwing me big time.

I was told in Pentonville that: "You can't fight the system. If you try to, they'll put you down." Yes, I tried fighting the system. And indeed they put me down, really down. It was now left with my legal team to negotiate how down I’d go. When I returned from court, I went to the library to search for books on those black leaders my barrister spoke about. I found Jessie Carney Smith's BLACK HEROES, and it became my favourite book ever. As I read through the biographies of all the Black Heroes, I saw a common theme of Faith in God, and that encouraged me the more to put my trust in God. I couldn't help but take my prison copy of the Black Heroes home with me.

Back in Ghana, the struggle continued. Getting a job proved futile. I decided to focus more on the public sector due to my prison convictions. But there was an embargo on public sector employment. I realised that I had missed the golden years. I saw several banks that were not in existence when I last left Ghana. I'd have loved to work in the bank, but I had missed the era of Ghana's banking revolution. I spent days, weeks and months glued to my laptop. I applied to thousands of jobs online. I went from place to place. I even tried lecturing but that was beset with problems.

In November 2014, I submitted an application to the Central Bank of Ghana. In October 2015, I had a call from Bank of Ghana to come for an Aptitude Test. It took place at West African Examination Council's (WAEC) Hall, Community 5, Tema. Three thousand applicants turned up for the Aptitude Test on a Saturday - morning and afternoon sessions. In January 2016, I was called to come for an interview letter. On 23rd January 2016, I had an interview with Ghana's Central Bank. This was my best shot at a decent career, but sadly, as it turned out to be, my fate lies in the hands of Her Majesty's Beasts of England.

My journey in life had been inter-twined, like a web - webs. My birth name was Eli Kwaku Azameti. Along came Maxwell when I was in lower Primary. So I was Maxwell Eli Azameti through primary, Junior and Senior High Schools. To put paternal family pains behind me, I swore an Affidavit in 1999, after Senior High School and changed my name to Maxwell Kwaku Maundy. I applied to the University of Ghana as Maxwell Kwaku Maundy and was admitted as such. Then I had a birth certificate done, with which I applied for my Passport in 2002, my fateful passport. Then I embarked on my epic journey - The British Dream - The Odyssey.

In England, I became Miguel Kwaku Webbs. On my return home, I felt I couldn't carry on as Miguel Webbs - it sounds too white - too English - too British. So I swore another affidavit and changed back to the origin - Eli Kwaku Azameti - with which I made the application to the Bank of Ghana. I submitted my application without my certificates. I don’t submit my certificates with applications. I'd only bring them along when invited for an interview. On the morning of the interview in Bank of Ghana, we were given forms to complete, a detail disclosure...

EXCERPTS PART 3

BATTLE WITH THE BEASTS OF ENGLAND

"When people are pushed to the wall with no window to vent their frustrations, violence seems to be the only option" ... Ghana's former President Flt Lt Jerry John Rawlings, on the upsurge of conflict, terrorism and social upheaval.

Having exhausted all possible non-violence and peaceful means to get my passport back, the softie in me started giving way to radicalisation. I realised that I was dealing with beasts, and that I'd just be flashed down the drain by the wolves if I stayed human. Slowly, the human in me started giving way to a beast. “Only a beast can stand up to a fellow beast.” I felt resigned to give what I could to protest against the way I was being treated by the British establishment.

After my airport ordeal, I did a one-man demonstration on the street of Westminster, in front of Houses of Parliament, Westminster Abbey, through Downing Street to Trafalgar Square. I dressed myself in British paraphernalia – I wore England designed sunglasses, wrapped my body with St George’s Flag and other British memorabilia. I held Placards in my hands with inscriptions such as:

1.     Immunity from Prosecution – Liverpool trial

2.     Immunity/ plea bargain – Murder on Honeymoon, South Africa

3.     Plea bargain – Convicted terrorist Saajid Badat

4.     1, 2, & 3 = Justice for Witnesses

5.     Give me back my missing Passport

I stood at the entrance of Downing Street with tourists, some taking pictures of me and with me. Government officials going in and out of Number 10, on seeing me, some would stop to read the inscriptions and move on, unconcerned. I walked from Downing Street to Trafalgar Square. At Westminster Abbey, I stood in front of the statue of Nelson Mandela. I did this for three days. Though I planned doing it for a week or two, or till I get some result, some fear gripped me on the third day. I was having some strange premonitions. I felt as though something bad was going to happen to me.

As a result, I didn’t continue after my third day. That night, I had a strange dream. I dreamt I was tied with rope. My hands were tied at my back and I was locked up in a basement room, like a dungeon.  I saw a man opened the door and walked towards me. He was holding a rod in his hand. Out of fear I started shouting “Jesus! Jesus!! Jesus!!!” He got to me, raised his rod but could not strike me. He stood there watching me for a while, and walked away. When I woke up from the dream, the word ‘fear’ just vanished from my mind.

I started reading heavily on Martin Luther King Jr. and the American Civil Rights Movement. I was struck by one of King's quote:

"The question is not whether we will be an extremist, but what kind of extremist we will be, the nation and the world is in dire need of creative extremist".

I read King's quote again and again and again. At that moment, I became a prodigy of King. As he wrote in Stride toward Freedom:

"At that moment, I experienced the presence of the Divine as I had never experienced him before. It seemed as though I could hear the quiet assurance of an inner voice saying: 'stand up for righteousness, stand up for the truth: and God will be at your side forever."

I was now ready to face the Beasts of England. This was the beginning of my insane letters – “Diary of a Mad Black Man” - to the establishment. I started writing vile and aggressive letters to the Westminster fraternity. Nothing would stop me now. I wrote to Louise Richards and Sonia Dower.  Sonia Dower was the one who sent me an anguish letter following my knowledge of the loss of my Passport in a confidential memo to Dagenham MP Jon Cruddas. It was now my turn to write to SONIA DOWER, and let her know that I can equally be as insane as her. Sonia Dower was now a “venom” in my mouth. I desperately needed to spit her out; else I'd end up poisoning myself. So I wrote my first letter to Sonia Dower - Deputy Director of Operations.

20TH APRIL 2012

HOME OFFICE / UKBA

MPs CORRESPONCE SECTION

PO BOX 1586, CROYDON

 Dear Sonia Dower,

I trust this letter finds you well. How was your Easter holiday? Nice and well spent? I hope you had a nice time with your family, not sure if you are a Christian or some other faith. For Christians, it is a time of sorrow (Christ death) and happiness (the resurrection). Dear Sonia, my name is Maxwell Kwaku Maundy, a Ghanaian national. I have tried very hard to resist the temptation of writing to you again, but the demons in me won’t let go. So here I come again, with my insanity perhaps! First and foremost, did you receive my earlier correspondence I sent you? And why wasn’t my removal authorised on Good Friday the 6th of April as I requested?  Or do the ‘rules’ forbid you from sanctioning a removal request on the grounds that it comes from the illegal immigrant himself?

Dear Sonia, sometimes I wonder if people like you take a break, and ponder over the pains, hurt and agonies you inflict on others. Or perhaps look up yourselves in the mirror. Recall my questions on Osama Bin Laden, and those other thoughts on Boko Haram by a Nigerian Journalist, copies of which I sent to Justice Secretary Ken Clarke and the American Ambassador Hon Louis Susman? Several months have passed since you sent me correspondences on my case via Jon Cruddas MP; dated 23rd September and 3rd October 2011 respectively.

In your second letter (3rd October), you stated that my passport will be released to me at the port of departure. Exactly Five (5) weeks after your letter (9th November), another letter from Richard Marley states “We have been unable to locate Mr Maundy’s passport in our offices. Enquiries are being made with the Police to ascertain whether they retained the passport after the court case,” dated 9th November 2011.

After my failed attempt to leave the UK on Good Friday the 6th of April 2012, and again being told by airport immigration that the whereabouts of my passport is not known, and that I should get a travel document and “get the hell out of here” and forget about my passport, I am beginning to ask myself a lot of questions about the state (sanity) of “British society” or “British rules,” and most especially people like you! Dear Sonia, if I may ask, are you fully aware of the history of my case? Are you aware that I was supposed to have been removed from the UK on the 13/10/2007? And are you aware of why that removal was cancelled?

Dear Madam Dower, so five years now since MPS, CPS and your UKBA cancelled my deportation and used me and my passport for the so-called British Justice, I am now being told by your Home Office to buy my own ticket and travel document for my departure and forget about my passport and documents as they have been lost? Louise Richards at Angel Square UKBA now tells me she would make “another” enquiry with regards to my passport, six (6) months after a previous enquiry placed by Richard Marley (09-11-11), with no further feedback to date.

Sonia Dower, do we really have to look the other way unless something “really seriously terribly bad” happens before we realise how much pain, injury and hurt we are inflicting on others? And why a “have become animal” would be glad to be an extremist than spend the rest of his life regretting for ever assuming that the British are human beings? And am I supposed to move on with my life, without my passport, and assume nothing happened, taking solace in the fact that the world is unfair, and that perhaps it is just as well for me to have been used by British for free (nothing for something) in spite of assurances by the MPS that British immigration would apply “common sense” on my immigration status, and that the CPS would rally behind me if UKBA tries to do something silly, in an attempt to dissuade me from selling my story when an offer was made for it?

Please be aware that I want to “get the hell out of this country” at the very earliest possible time, but not without my Passport, and other documents! Please get them for me as soon as possible, and book a flight for my removal. And please, I want to travel with my passport, expired or not! Enough of the insanity! (Edited and moderated).

My anger was at it boiling point. The least provocation and I’d explode. My character had been tested to its limit. The thought of being used for free by the Beasts of England; and hounded like a defenceless prey by the Beasts fraternity had taken its toll. I had wasted five years of my life chasing the wind. My mates I graduated with were gainfully employed whilst I was still an illegal immigrant scavenging to survive. Psychologically, the gravity of my loss had become unbearable.

During one of my phone calls to Louise Richards, she said they could not locate my Passport so they would get an Emergency Travel Documents for me to leave and forget about my Passport. She incurred my wrath with that statement. I got furious and told her that, even if they have to set fire to Home Office in order to locate my Passport, they should do so. Otherwise, I'd set fire to the twin towers of Apollo and Lunar Houses myself to look for my Passport. During another phone call, Louise told me she spoke to the MPS, and they confirmed they still had custody of my Passport, and that they were in the process of retrieving it from their archives. She promised to have it ready for me by the end of the week. Two weeks passed without news from Louise Richards. I called the office several times without getting hold of her.

Over the years, from 2009, I depended heavily on painkillers and prescription drugs to go through the day. In the midst of the storm raging in my head, I wrote an angry and vile letter to the Metropolitan Police Commissioner, Sir Bernard Hogan-Howe. The MPS was getting ready to provide security for the London 2012 Olympics Games at the time... Three weeks after, I managed to get hold of Louise Richards on the phone again. This time she said the MPS had told her they could no longer locate my Passport. As searches for my Passport proved futile, officials started telling me on the phone that Home Office was willing to issue me an emergency travel document and pay for my ticket so I could return to Ghana and forget about my Passport.

Six weeks after, I received a response to my letter to the Metropolitan Police Commissioner. It was dated 28th June 2012. Indeed I found myself in the Animal Kingdom of the Beasts of England. I was understood and communicated to in return.

EXCERPTS PART 4

THE TRIAL - DAY ONE

The night of September 14th 2008 was my longest. Events of the days, weeks, months and the year leading to this night kept unfolding before my eyes. I tried to catch a glimpse of sleep, but, alas my eyes betrayed me. Night is long when your eyes are unsleeping. I woke up at five to have a shower. I had to be ready before my chauffeur arrived. He was always on time. I’ve been given a glimpse of the life of a detective.

At exactly six in the morning, my phone beeped. I flipped my Motorola handset - a text message - my driver had come. He was spot on - 'six is six.' It was time for court. As usual, I knew where he'd park - some distance away from my flat. I lived on 34 Abbey Road in Barking. Back in October 2007, it had been explained to me that whenever an officer came to pick me up or drop me home, they'd drive past my front door - some metres away. So it had been throughout. So much was buried in secrecy - I was falling in love with British Intelligence.

I came out of my flat, turned right and walked down the road toward the area where my driver had parked - a garage nearby. He quickly got out of the car and opened the front passenger door for me. "Please make yourself comfortable," he said. As we were both seated, we shook hands and exchanged greetings. "Did you sleep well?” he asked. My driver had become the symbol of British hospitality to me. Shane was his name. So I was told. It remained to be known if that was his real name. The truth about the dark art of British undercover policing began to emerge years later when I was in Pentonville. It came to light that undercover detectives used the identities of dead children.

"Won't you wear a tie? It'll be nice if you put on a tie, a nice tie to match with your dress." I’m not used to wearing tie. I told Shane I was ok without tie. May be I’ll start wearing one when I join the establishment. But for now, let my neck enjoy its freedom. We made our way through the North Circular unto A13. We were heading towards Central London.  Our destination was Blackfriars Crown Court. As we passed Canning Town flyover, Shane began briefing me on what was going to happen in court. I reminded him about the screens. I had been promised screens. I was told I'd give evidence from behind the scenes.

He paused for a while. Perhaps he was trying to focus on the driving. Then he said there was a problem, the court had refused screens. "Maxwell, the law is losing recognition for evidence from behind the scenes," he said in a soft tone. That sounded like a bombshell to me. I felt heavy and uneasy. Fear gripped me. I told Shane I did not want to appear in court. In fact I made this clear from the very beginning of our operation, that I wouldn’t risk my safety and security. There was still silence. I wondered if he was lost in thought. Just then, his phone rang. He turned off the stereo.

“You’re on loudspeaker,” he said to the caller. Officers would normally prompt a caller whenever they had to answer their phone in my presence. I guessed it was part of their protocol. These phone calls didn’t usually last. They would say very little, especially when I was in the car. We went through Lime-house tunnel and made a left turn before we could reach Tower Bridge. I wasn’t quite familiar with London roads at the time as I hadn't started driving. About half an hour into our journey, we got to a place I suppose was a vicinity of Blackfriars. It was my first time in that area.

We drove to a nearby car park. We had to park our car some distance away from the court. "Undercover Police vehicles are not supposed to be parked on court premises," he said. We entered a cafe nearby for breakfast. I still hadn't come to terms with the absence of screens. Indecision was making me nervous. Shane could sense I was tensed. "Cheer up Maxwell. We're going to have an English breakfast. The screens will be sorted out when we get to court. For now, let's enjoy our breakfast." I loved English breakfast. Shane knew that. We've had close working relations for a year now. The officers in my inner circle knew all about me.

They knew the air I breathe and the food I eat. They knew my workplace, my school, my home. They knew my every move in London. They had become my 'guardian angels'. If ever there was such thing as 'human angels, I’d say I found them in the British Police. Back in 2007, I was told they'd be watching over me even when I was sleeping. Cameras would be installed at my front door if need be. No stone would be left unturned in their quest to safeguard me. All assurances were offered with regards to my security.

I couldn't eat all of my breakfast. My apprehension with “no screens” was eating me up! I had little appetite for my favourite English breakfast. "Won't you finish it?" Shane asked. "Please try and finish it. It's going to be a long day. We don't know what time we'll have a break. Please try and eat some more. I told you we'll sort out the screens when we get to court. Don't worry. You're with us now. We need you. The government needs you. We're working for the government. We're working for the Crown."

It was too late. My appetite was long gone. "I can't have anymore. I'm done," said I. "Can I have your leftover then?" he asked. Shane reached out for my leftover toast, scrambled eggs and sausages. He consumed my leftover as if he hadn't eaten anything that morning. I was quite impressed. This was now the second time Scotland Yard detectives had eaten my leftover. I was made to feel like an equal. I wish I knew much about Lucky Dube's “It's not easy” back then. As the lyric goes, "Behind the beauty lie the true colours ..."

EXCERPTS PART 5

PENTONVILLE - PASSPORT TO PRISON

Pentonville is a crowded prison in North London that houses not only criminals, drug addicts and rapists; but failed dreams and aspirations of immigrants in search of greener pastures.

May 15th 2013 was my darkest day! At twilight, Pentonville received its newest inmate, an immigrant with failed dreams and aspirations. A sight greeted my arrival, a world away from view. Blacks, blacks, blacks - blacks everywhere! I saw more blacks in Pentonville than any social gathering of blacks I had ever attended in my twelve years in Britain. I was shocked to see the sheer number of blacks locked up in prison. It saddened my heart as I went through induction formalities seeing countless of my race in incarceration, even those born in Britain. Everywhere I looked, I saw blacks.

My first night I was put in a cell with an elderly man, a Nigerian. I'd later find out that Pentonville was full of Nigerians. It was as if Pentonville was annexation of Lagos. My cellmate and I chatted late into the night. He told me his own story and what brought him to prison. He as well asked to know what brought me to prison. I told him I had been a creative extremist. "What's that?" he asked. "I wrote and published extremist materials," I said. "Why did you do that?" he asked. "They used me and my passport and discarded me afterwards. I became angry and bitter. The only way I could get the pains off my chest was to write," I replied.

"Well, that's the British for you. You should have known better. It's their way of life. You'll hear more about them, and know them better by the time you're out of this place. Next time, don't write bad things about the British. They don't like being told the truth. Didn't you hear that the pen is sharper than the sword?" 

Suddenly, I woke up from my slumber. The air was different, the smell was different. What time was it? Was it dawn? It was dawn, crack of dawn. I was on a higher ground. I could hear the sound of cars beneath. But looking around, all I saw was walls. Questions began popping up on my mind. Where am I? How did I get here? It was Thursday 16th May. It all began to sink in. I was waking up from a prison cell. I felt something in my pocket. What could it be? I dipped my hand into my pocket - an ID card - A8080CX - Maundy - HMP Pentonville.”

I kept awake thinking till daybreak. Sometimes I feared my brain could crush at any moment - too much thinking. The words spoken by my cellmate started playing back in my mind. His words echoed George Orwell's: "The further a society drifts from the truth, the more it will hate those that speak it." What a valuable piece of advice! I could hear echoes of his voice reverberating in my mind. He seemed learned to me. I wished I knew him before. But it was too late now. All I could do was to sing Amy Macdonald’s “I wish I Knew You Before.” And so I had to brace myself up to face the consequences of “not knowing before.” I guess we all have had times in our lives when we wished we knew something or someone before.

Several weeks passed and the prison wouldn’t add even my solicitors’ phone number to my PIN. I was a prisoner within prison - double imprisonment. Indeed fate had dealt me a heavy blow. As my offence involved malicious communication, harassment and threat to kill a powerful British Politician, I was put on MAPPA. I was denied phone calls. My first few weeks were very tough. I struggled to cope emotionally. My mind was running riots. My head was aching. I needed painkillers now more than ever. I wished I never embarked on my British dream. Growing up in Ghana, it was as though Queen Elizabeth was my grandmother. But here I was in grandma's prison.

Then I had a flashback of 2007. Dear Diary: "We left Barking about half past four and made our way to Beckton. Shane my chauffeur drove to Gallions Reach Retail Park to get me something to eat. We went inside Tesco Extra. "Buy anything you want and I'll pay for it. It's our duty to look after you. We're working for the government." I picked a sandwich, a crisp and a can of drink. "Is that all you want?" he asked. Money had I not, but I had neither a want nor need. The prospect of becoming British was enough. It was all I ever wanted. To me, that was worth more than Silver and Gold. The British dream - my dream - the African dream!

We left Gallions Reach for Docklands, near City Airport. I ate my sandwich in the car as we were driving to our destination. I was oblivious of the enormous task that lay ahead of me. Dear Diary, crying was my way of talking to God in Pentonville... Do you know you can pour out your heart to God just by crying?

READERS DIGEST - CHOOSE A TITLE

Please I'd like to give readers the chance to choose or come up with a title for my MEMOIR. Five Titles I considered when I was writing this book in Pentonville: 1 - Heart of Darkness.  2 - The British Dream.  3 - Silver and Gold.  4 - Mein Kampf.  5 - Darkest Humanity. I'll talk about 1 and 2 in the next excerpt. Somebody must dare change the rules, or the status quo - The Audacity of Hope – “Yes we can!”

EXCERPTS PART 6

Ricky, my half-Jewish-half-English cellmate once said to me:

"You're too good and Godly. You're not meant to be here. London is not meant for you. London is an evil city, it's a secret society. It's a dark place. An eyebrow or handshake can send you to prison. Your fate had already been decided. I feel sad and sorry for you. Even as a criminal, I stand a better chance of walking out of prison than you. Just leave when you've the chance, and you'll be better off elsewhere. The crimes you see on the street or hear about in the news are just the tip of the iceberg. Many are buried. London is an evil city."

I spent over two months in Prison before my Psychiatric Assessment was carried out on 23rd July. After the assessment, I received a letter from my solicitors that I had been suffering from depression. I was put on antidepressants. In my next attendance to DAYCARE, I started reading books and literatures on depression. I was amazed. I didn't know I had been suffering from depression. I now had a different cellmate - a fellow African, originally from Congo but grew up in London with British accent. When my cellmate saw that I was taking antidepressants, he became worried. He feared I wouldn't be able to complete my book.

He had been reading my scripts and telling inmates that I'm a writer, and that he'd love to read my book one day. He told me about the harmful effects of antidepressants, and how so many immigrants; especially blacks had been rendered insane by the British criminal justice system. A lot of immigrants had tried using mental health as means of getting settlement in the UK or out of prison. As the practice became prevalent, the authorities became aware. You can't outwit the British for long.

As a result, the system devised means to equally outsmart those who feigned mental health problems. And so over the years, blacks who feigned mental health problems were given medications and injections that indeed rendered them with mental health problems afterwards. Henceforth, when a black man was caught up in the British criminal justice system and his legal team start pleading on grounds of mental health, it was business as usual. My cellmate told me about his own cousin, who developed mental health challenges as a result of immigration problems he had, and was subsequently caught up in the criminal justice system.

I became alarmed hearing this. I later came into contact with Minta, a Ghanaian who was awaiting trial. Minta, who later became my Bible teacher, narrated his ordeal at a mental health unit of a hospital. He said the aftershock of injections and medications he was being administered at a hospital’s mental health unit were so gruesome that he decided not to continue with rehabilitation at the hospital. Following advice from some concerned hospital staff, he opted out of rehabilitation for prison instead. He confirmed that many blacks had been mentally derailed by the British criminal justice system. The practice became so widespread at the institution where he was, and was later reported in the news.

On Thursday 3rd October, the night before my final court hearing and sentencing, I had an encounter with the Holy Spirit. I was reading a devotional guide in the evening. Suddenly, I set my eyes on a passage. I read the passage over and over and over. I took my Bible and started reading the scripture. I knew from that moment on that I had finally found my scripture in the Bible. That night I couldn't sleep. I held the Bible so close to my chest. I felt as if I could swallow the Bible and be set free from my chains. I shed tears like never before.

I saw myself in a different realm. My whole life story flashed before my eyes. The pains, the sufferings, the struggles - the thorns; the dreams, the visions and the revelations... It makes sense to me now. As I lay prostrate on my bed, with my Bible clenched to my chest, my pillow was wet in tears. I saw Apostle Paul - my mirror! I'd get out of bed and read the scripture again and again. The Scripture is 2 Corinthians 12:7-10. It says:

“To keep me from becoming conceited because of these surpassingly great revelations, there was given me a thorn in my flesh, a messenger of Satan, to torment me. Three times I pleaded with the Lord to take it away from me. But he said to me, "My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness." Therefore I will boast all the more about my weaknesses, so that Christ's power may rest on me. That is why, for Christ's sake, I delight in weaknesses, in insults, in hardships, in persecutions, in difficulties. For when I am weak, then I am strong.”

Throughout the night, I was in high spirits. As I woke up early in the morning to prepare for court, it started raining. The rain was a message from God. I told an officer who brought me medication in the morning, that if I don't come back to prison that day, it was because of the rain. As I was being taken to court, I felt the presence of the Holy Spirit all around me. I returned to prison only to realise that my cell had been given to somebody. When I asked why, officers told me they didn't expect I'd be coming back.

A new cell was given to me, nicer than the previous one. New bed sheet, new pillowcase, new towels, everything was new. As I settled down, I asked for my Bible to be brought to me. The officer who packed my things had left, and those around couldn't find them. An officer brought me a New Testament Bible. I told him to try and get me a full Bible. An hour or so later, he brought me a brand new Bible, Kenneth Copeland Ministries.

I opened to page 1 and read a message from Kenneth Copeland. For the next one month that I was in prison, I was on fire. There was some fire burning inside me. I’d wake up late in the night and my whole body would be literally hot. It was as if there was fire underneath my bed. I’d have to preach on top of my voice, and sing Christian songs such as "He Paid a Debt He did not Owe" for some time before my body would cool down. Officers would come pleading with me, to lower my voice, as everyone was asleep. 

I prepared sermons upon sermons and asked to see the Catholic and Church of England Priests. I asked to be allowed to preach in the chapel on Sunday. I wasn't permitted into the chapel for Sunday worship again. I was electrified, waiting to be let out to start my mission, the Lord's mission - evangelism. At the least opportunity, I'd preach to officers and lament how sad I was that Britain has become a Godless nation, the once Christian state that brought Christianity to my beloved Ghana and many parts of the world.

I started reading the Bible all over again, right from Genesis to Revelation. I also began reading a book I took from the chapel the last time I went to church. It's titled “Prepare for the Great Tribulation and the Era of Peace - Volume IV” by John Leary. As I started reading Leary's book, I became troubled. I saw some of my dreams right in there. The more I opened the pages, the more worried I became. I asked to see the Archbishop of Canterbury. I wrote a note to be given to the Catholic Priest, and stated that his book was with me. All I ever wanted henceforth was to reach out to the lost souls in England. My mission is to do the work of God. I began writing my next book - The Amazing Grace - My journey into Christendom.

I started fasting and praying. I'd skip breakfast and lunch. Most days I’d only partake in dinner. Bread didn't matter to me anymore. On the evening of Wednesday 30th October, I was on my knees reading my Bible as usual. Suddenly I heard an officer shouting my name and walking towards my cell: “Maundy home!” “Maundy home!” “Maundy home!” The officer got to my cell and opened the door: “Maundy home!” “Maundy home!” “Pack your things and go home,” he said.

"Please Gov, please don't make me happy for nothing," I replied. "Have I ever opened your cell at this time? You have been released. Harry up and pack your things and go, you're going home in London," he said further. “Home in London?” I was overjoyed. Tears filled my eyes as I quickly began packing my things. I never thought I’d see London again. I had loved London, with all my heart.

On my journey home from North London through Central London to South London that evening, at the least opportunity, I’d evangelised to anyone who crossed my path. I’d recount the story of my Amazing Grace, and how God had manifested in my life over the years. Those I evangelised to were keen to hear my story. But when I tell them I had just been released from prison, they were taken aback. Prison is a stigma. People don't want to associate with a convict.

From November, I started going out on the streets of London telling people about God. Elmers End Tesco became my spot every time I went there to shop. I just board the Tram from Blackhorse Lane to Elmers End. I spent time in the shop doing evangelising. Tesco was so dear to me due to my three years spell at Croydon Dotcom. Whoever the spirit led me to in the shop, I spoke to the person. Some unhappy customers would report me, and a manager would caution me not to do evangelism inside the shop. I created a new blog titled “My Encounter with God in Britain.” I abandoned my old blog. I was in a new era, my era of Missions - Evangelism.

After my release, I was attending church services all over - Pentecost, Hillsong, Lighthouse Chapel International (The Mega Church) and Latter Day Saints. On 24th December 2013, I lighted all the candles inside St Mary's Catholic Church on Wellesley Road Croydon for Carols Night service. Then I run to meet American Missionaries Douglas and Nielson who were waiting for me at East Croydon Station. We went for Carols Night service at Selsdon Ward of Latter Day Saints. After the service, I rushed back to St Mary's for the second Carols Night service.

On Tuesday 14th January, days after I began writing on my old blog and started sending letters to the various public figures again, I had a call from New Addington that two intelligence officers from Special Branch were looking for me. I was told the officers emphasised that I wasn’t in any trouble, and that they would be of help to me. So my phone number was given to them. The next day, one of the officers called me. He repeated that I wasn’t in any trouble. He booked an appointment to visit me the following week. 

On 22^nd January 2014, the two officers visited me. The officers spent hours with me in the house. They said their work also involved counter terrorism. Amongst the things discussed, I put it to them that it was the responsibility of the British Government to look after me from 12/10/2007 to 30/09/2008. If I was going to be deported by the government, but later cancelled it because my passport and I became useful to the government, then it was the responsibility of the government to look after me during that period, or provide me with the means to work so I could look after myself.

The officers agreed that I was right. They said they acknowledged that I had been treated unfairly and inhumanely, and so I had a genuine grievance. They said this was part of the reasons why they had been sent to visit me and to find out from me what I wanted. They said they didn’t want me to be arrested and imprisoned again. They promised they would get back in touch with me within two days. But that was it, very typical of the British. As usual, I didn't hear from them again. They would only take action when a crime is committed, especially when it's a black man.

On 12th February 2014, four undercover officers picked me from my friend’s home in South Norwood. They handcuffed and drove me to Barking Freshwharf custody. Next day, I was sent to prison. This time to HMP Thameside! Dear Diary, just when I thought my storm had subsided, I was wrong. More was to come. Indeed, fate had dealt me another blow. My cross in life is HEAVY!

EXCERPTS PART 7

HMP THAMESIDE AND HOMECOMING

“We hold these truths to be self-evident that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their creator with certain unalienable Rights that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.”

I wrote to District Judge Gary Lucie of Redbridge Magistrates Court, about the injustice she perpetrated on me by reminding me to custody when she didn't have a clue of what I had been subjected to by the Beasts of England. I recounted my ordeal in the hands of the authorities, copies of my blog publications and my blog address and mailed it by Recorded Delivery to Magistrates Judge Gary Lucie.

As the police van taking me to court was heading in the direction of Redbridge Magistrates, I prayed fervently to meet Gary Lucie again. Now I had given her a gist of the hell I had been through. So I was looking forward to see if she’d remind me to custody again. As we arrived at Redbridge Magistrates, all the prisoners were taken out of the van except me. I was in the Prison Van for almost an hour. I asked the driver what was going on. He told me I wrote a letter to Gary Lucie, so she had knowledge of my case. As a result, she wouldn’t handle my case. “Wow! Justice has eluded me once again,” I thought to myself. So I was taken to Woolwich Magistrates.

Many questions run through my mind as I was being driven to Woolwich. “Is this how the British justice system works? Do they take delight in just putting people behind bars, especially blacks?” Well, there was no need for me to drag it further then. I was told in Pentonville that: “the quickest way out of prison is to plead guilty at your first appearance, and save yourself an endless journey of prison to court and vice-versa.” So on my way to Woolwich Magistrates, I had decided to plead guilty right away. However, there was a little twist at the Woolwich Magistrates. As my charges were being read out, I realised that three more charges had been added to the breach. I became speechless. Storms were just raging through my head.

The prosecutor brought it to the attention of the Magistrates Judge that I was released from prison few months before. And that was enough to convict me. As the Judge read out the charges, I didn't utter a word. I refused to enter a plea. I was reminded to custody at HMP Thameside. I later got a copy of the Witness Statement and the Police Statement on my docket. The Witness Statement by Graeme SMITH is as follows: (Please look out for the launch of Darkest Humanity).

I also wrote to His Honour Judge Murray Shands (Shanks), the Resident Judge of Snaresbrook Crown Court who presided over my case. I acknowledged and thanked him for being a humane Judge, but it was wrong for him to have handed me a prison sentence, when he himself clearly said that he didn’t fully understand my case. I sent copies to Rt. Hon Margaret Hodge MP for Barking and Chair of the Public Accounts Committee of the House of Commons, the longstanding and powerful British Politician that I was accused of harassing and threatening to kill.

My case was again committed for trial at the Snaresbrook Crown Court. Again, I wished Resident Judge Murray Shands (Shanks) would handle it, but sadly, that didn’t happen. Not when he now knows about my grievance with the British establishment, and why my “Diary of a Mad Black Man” is filled with animals and beasts. So, I pleaded guilty to every charge and was handed down Nine (9) months prison sentence. By the time sentence was passed, I only had a month left to complete my sentence.

Without wasting time I submitted a request to the Home Office for my removal to Ghana. I received a response from the Home Office, dated 27/06/2014 and signed by M. Shah, Facilitated Return Scheme. My removal request was processed. My flight was booked for Thursday 10th July. On Monday 7th July, I was taken from HMP Thameside to a detention centre in Gatwick. On Thursday morning, I was driven from the detention centre to Heathrow Airport. About midday, I was escorted to board British Airways flight to Accra.

The flight took off at 2pm and arrived in Accra about 8:30pm. Through the journey from London to Accra, many things flashed my mind. I had a flashback of my journey - the British dream, and how it all began. I recalled the times I spent watching Dolly Parton's 1983 live performance in London, I recalled Homer's Odyssey and Conrad's Heart of Darkness - both were my course materials for my undergraduate studies in English at the University of Ghana. Now I was recounting my own odyssey and my encounter with the Heart of Darkness. Many times I had walked on the banks of the Thames River along Embankment, trying to retrace the path of Charlie Marlow.

The American lady's post on my Facebook wall started playing heavily on my mind. With my love for the priestly mission weaned off, I'd soon be searching for a job. Twice Her Majesty's convicted felon, how do I explain my Grandma's felony to potential employers? Perhaps I’d rather renew my call into the priesthood, and continue seeing Apostle Paul as my mirror. Soon I'd start seeing family and friends I hadn't seen in years. As the plane touched down on the tarmac, I breathed a sigh of relief.

Finally I was in Ghana, my dear Ghana. How I had missed Ghana so much. I hope it's not the same Ghana I left years ago, where graduates unemployment was the order of the day. I walked to the arrival hall expecting to have a smooth checkout. My uncle had come to pick me up. But no, Ghana immigration was equally waiting for me. Fate always had something unusual in store for me. If indeed there's reincarnation, then I'd plead with the Creator to put me on a different path in the next life.

I spent over an hour queuing to an entry clearance officer. After that, I was directed to a room. I was told I needed to fill a form. On entering, a young lady and a gentleman were waiting for me. They handed me a form to complete. After completion of the form, they said I had to recount my ordeal for them to write. Every detail, exactly as it happened.

Apparently, often times there are discrepancies in the account of events passed on to the Ghanaian authorities by the British, so I had to tell my side of the story for the two to write. Recounting my ordeal had always been a painful process, and still is. I want to put the past behind me and move on. Sometimes I feel like abandoning this book, as it reminds me of my ordeal. But the truth can only be heard by publishing this book. And it’s only when the truth become known that I can move on with my life, and fulfil my divine assigned mandate on earth. Dear Diary, like I said, my CROSS in life is HEAVY, likewise that of my mirror – Apostle Paul.

I spent several hours still being held up at Ghana Immigration. At midnight, I pleaded with the officers to get information across to my uncle that I was being held. It was past 1am by the time I was let out... As I stepped out of the arrival hall, I started hearing echoes of Osibisa's:

“Welcome Home...”You’ve been gone it’s an empty home/ Come on back when you’re ready to know/ You are always welcome home/ Welcome home/ You’ve been kept on for much too long/ Stand up please and say I am free/ Don’t forget you are welcome home/ Welcome home/ Come with me/ On this happy trip/ Back to the Promise Land/ All will be happy again/ Come with me/ On this happy trip back to the Promise Land/ All will be happy again/ You’ve been gone it’s an empty home/ Come on back when you’re ready to know/ You are always welcome home/ Welcome home/ Come with me/ On this happy trip back to the Promise Land/ All will be happy again/ Come with me/ On this happy trip back to the Promise Land/ All will be happy again/ Welcome home…

Dear Diary, it’s been such an epic journey (The Odyssey), such a long dream (The British Dream); and so long a letter... “If the United Nations don't come for me,” - courtesy Prime Minister Gordon, then I'll be gone, but don't worry, even when I'm gone, I'll continue writing to you till my ink dries up... Letter to Komla Dumor of blessed memory... Please come with me on my British Journey... Please look out for the launch of the FIRST EDITION of the PAN AFRICAN Book DARKEST HUMANITY and let's journey together... The First Edition is sub-titled THE IMMIGRANT.  

EXCERPTS PART 8

In view of the tax problems I had caused Justice, I decided to return to Ghana immediately.Quickly, I started packing, with the determination to be in Ghana before Christmas 2011. As a result, I started giving my last push to my Tesco Dotcom Job in Croydon. I only had a month to go. My job in Dotcom starts at 4am. I was doing overtime as if there was no tomorrow. Throughout my time at Croydon Dotcom, I worked seven days most weeks. I’d be doing overtime till there was no more work. From the first week of November, I started packing my stuff in anticipation of returning to Ghana.

I started calling Home Office relentlessly reminding them that as soon as they found my passport I was ready to go. In the first week of November, I finished packing and waiting on Home Office for my Passport. I was calling Louise Richards almost every day. From the second week of November, my   health   started  failing.  I was having   pains   when   pushing trolleys and picking. I saw my GP and was given prescriptions. It became worse by the end of November.

On 2nd December, I was severely knocked down and an ambulance picked me up from home.I   was admitted   to   the   Surgical   Ward   QUEENS   2,   Jubilee   Wing   at   Croydon University Hospital. A surgery was going to be performed on me. As preliminary examinations were being carried out to know exactly what kind of surgery to be performed, I was denied food for three days. I had never been starved like that in my entire life. I spent two weeks in Hospital and was discharged on 14th December. Twice I had an MRI done. After a week in hospital and a first MRI, an official came to tell me I’d have to pay for my medical treatment. On hearing this, I nearly fainted. I was already booked for a second MRI and waiting for my turn when I was told this. She demanded I show her evidence of my immigration status in the UK.

In my first  week  on   admission,  I called  Becket House  that I was  hospitalised and  so  I wouldn’t be able to come for reporting. Becket House insisted I must come and report. Staff wouldn't accept an excuse till they see a sick note from a Doctor. As a result, in my second week, I sneaked out of hospital to travel to London Bridge to report. After my discharge from hospital, I became helpless. I had been knocked down by Bulging (Prolapsed) Disc. I had difficulty walking; I couldn’t lift objects or bend down without pain. I was on medication and booked   an   appointment   to   see   an orthopaedic   surgeon.   At   the orthopaedic   clinic,   the Consultant Orthopaedic Surgeon asked me what job I was doing. I told him I push trolleys in Tesco. "With your MSc?" he asked. "Well, not anymore with your current condition if you're lucky to be healed.

"He explained my illness to me in detail with a diagram on the computer. He went on further to say that if my condition deteriorates; I’d need surgery as a last resort. He emphasised that my trolley pushing job had contributed to my condition. He then booked me physiotherapy appointments  to  attend   in   Mile  End Hospital  in East   London and  come  for   review   in a month’s time. I was living in South London, Croydon - New Addington.

Whilst in hospital, I had calls from Sally, my Dispatch Manger at work. She demanded I sent her a sick certificate from my doctors so I could be paid. I was working as Justice Elikem; but here I lay in Hospital as Maxwell Maundy. How do I synchronise the two? Some colleagues from  Tesco  came to  visit a  sick relative in  the  same room as  I.  There  were many  such instances as Croydon is full of Tesco Dotcom staff. On seeing colleagues, I’d cover my face. I’d conceal myself till they were gone.

The money I was saving to travel to Ghana, I now spent on prescription drugs. I watched Christmas 2011 pass. The previous Christmas, I did a lot of overtime at work. This time round, I could only watch from a distance. After my discharge from hospital in December, I continued calling Louise Richards about my passport. She’d say they were looking for it and that she’d keep me informed on developments. Louise Richards seemed humane, perhaps an exception to the Beasts. She was always nice on the phone with me, even when I was angry.Sometimes, she made me think perhaps, there are some humans amongst the Beasts.

From January 2012, I started losing patience with Home Office over my passport, as it was going to expire in February. Coupled with my ill health, I made several phone calls to Home Office desperately seeking to speak to Sonia Dower. During one phone call, I told a staff that I wished I could come face to face with the animal called Sonia Dower. I made several calls to   get   her phone  number without success. After my orthopaedic   and   physiotherapy appointments in January and February 2012, I left London for Birmingham. London became untenable. I had become a liability again, this time to my friends in New Addington.

After recuperating in Birmingham for three weeks with Raymond Seword (Rekas) and his family, I returned to London. On my return, my uncle gave me several Home Office letters sent to me about my missed reporting sessions. I was being told not to miss another session due on 3rd April 2012. With that, I wrote to Home Office that I wanted to  be removed (deported) to Ghana on Good Friday, the 6th of April.  I sent copies of the letter to Becket House, UKBA Angel Square (later closed), and my “venom” Sonia Dower, Deputy Director of Operations at Lunar House.

My letter was dated 25th March 2012. Same day, I wrote to Barking Police Station as I was bringing my activities in London to a close. I followed up my letters with several phone calls to my local immigration offices - Becket House and Angel Square UKBA. I insisted that I’d still use my Passport to travel, whether expired or not. I gave Home Office two weeks' notice to prepare for my departure and get me out of the Animal Kingdom of Queen Elizabeth. I told staff on the phone that I did not want any more mischief, and that further mischief would be met with mischief.

During one call to UKBA Angel Square, a male staff said to me on the phone that I am now an adult and should take responsibility for my life, and that there was no way I’d be granted a stay in UK just because I helped  the course of justice. He then said I should have left as soonas the court case was over and that my Passport had expired so I should go and do my own travel document, buy my own ticket, and get the hell out of Britain. He said it was not the responsibility of British government to pay for my return ticket to my country. I was agitated and had a heated exchange with him on the phone.

After few days in Croydon, I left for Chatham to spend my last two weeks in England with another friend, David Baidoo. I was distributing my liability to family and friends. Years later, I became the “Night Mayor” of Chatham. Whilst in Chatham, I received a letter from Peter Coughlin, the Revenue Officer at HMRC. He had brought my tax affairs to a successful conclusion. Inside the letter was a cheque for a tax refund of £325.20 from HMRC to me. I was  so   thrilled to  have  that cheque. Quickly  I cashed it  and   used  it  for  my last   minute shopping from Chatham. So I decided to write my last letter in England to Mr Peter Coughlin at HMRC, to express my gratitude and render an apology for my earlier writings to him.


READERS DIGEST:

I've   been   overwhelmed  by  the   messages   and   reviews   I've   been   receiving   from   readers.Brother Nelson, a friend who had once been a part of the British Dream along the way, and works in one of the Banks in Ghana, sent me a message: "Last nite ... I dey cry as I dey read.It's well...” Sister Margaret, a Physician Assistant in Techiman Holy Family Hospital wrote: "I'm always brought to tears anytime I read your story. It's really heart-breaking."

So, I don't want my memoir to be all about sadness, like a funeral ground, though I love sad songs - my similarity with my favourite Country Legend Dolly Parton. So, on my last share,I'll like to end it with Mika's 'Happy Ending.' So my next share will be from Chapter Four of my book, titled JOURNEY TO THE WEST. Chapter Four is actually the happy beginning of my British Dream. A common   message   I'm  getting from readers is that, once they  start reading my memoir, they just want to keep on reading, to know what happened next.

On that note, I'll like to spark a reading revolution in Ghana and Africa with my memoir; and to dispel the notion that:  "If you want to hide something from the Black man, put it in a book." And also to diffuse the assertion by our Dear Vice President of the Republic, His Excellency Dr Mahammudu Bawumia, that sections of the Ghanaian public don’t read.  In England, you see people reading everywhere - on the parks, on public transport - Buses, Trains, Tubes, Trams, Coaches, even in Pubs and Restaurants. Reading is a way of life of the British.   And   no   wonder   they   are   best   at  everything   they   set   forth   to   do   -  "Never underestimate our local intelligence."

A Ghanaian-British I met in Pentonville, whose father was a former Ghanaian Ambassador to the UK, said that before Televisions were introduced to Prison cells in England, a prisoner became a scholar by the time he spent a year's sentence. All you do was read. Likewise, for me personally, it was in prison that I read the entire Bible from beginning to end - Genesis to Revelation. My first reading of the whole Bible was prior to my encounter with the Holy Spirit. My second reading was after my encounter with the Holy Spirit. I now had a deeper meaning of the scriptures.

Ricky, my half-Jewish-half-English cellmate told me he had read the entire Bible three times.And I believed him. Ricky was very learned. Whenever we were watching quiz programs on TV, Ricky seemed to  know most  of   the   answers. He told me he  dropped out of  school because he was naughty. His Jewish dad then employed a teacher to teach him at home.Ricky told me that the Bible is full of contradictions. He backed his claim with scriptures, and I believed him. It wasn't until I had a different revelation, through my prison Bible teacher Minta Addido, that I was able to purge my mind out of the misconception planted into it by the learned Jewish Ricky.

So, England was   my  niche, it was where I  actually found   my love -  READING & WRITING! So, I had loved England, with all my heart, and soul... But Her Majesty's Beasts won't let me be in their midst... Dear Diary, falling in love can be heart breaking sometimes...So let's kick-start a Reading Revolution with MIKA's.


HAPPY ENDING:

This is the way you left me/ I'm not pretending/ No hope, no love, no glory/ No happy ending/This is the way that we love/ Like its forever/ Then live the rest of our life/ But not together/
Wake up in the morning/ Stumble on my life/ Can't get no love without sacrifice/ If anything should happen/ I guess I wish you well/ Mmm a little bit of heaven/ But a little bit of hell.
This is the hardest story/ That I have ever told/ No hope, or love, or glory/ Happy endings gone forever more/ I feel as if I'm wasting/ And I waste every day/ This is the way you left me/ I'm not pretending/ No hope, no love, no glory/ No happy ending/ This is the way that we love/ Like its forever/ Then live the rest of our life/ Both not together/ Two o'clock in the morning/ Someone's on my mind/ Can't get no rest/ Keep walking around/ If I pretend that nothing ever went wrong/ I can get to my sleep I can dream now and just carry on…

EXCERPTS PART 9

JOURNEY TO THE WEST

October 11th 2002 was my happiest day; or so I had felt for a long time. Days, weeks, months and the years that followed proved so. My life was in transformation - at least for the next few years. I left the shores of Ghana for Europe, the land of milk and honey. My destination was the United Kingdom, Britain, England; London to be precise; or better still Babylon. In the days leading up to my departure, I spent awful lots of time watching Dolly Parton’s 1983 live performance in London.

“We’re about to land in London Heathrow Airport. Local time is 11:30 am. We hope you’ll have a pleasant stay in London. You too Dolly.”

Looking back then, I guess I’d be pardoned for assuming London was the Garden of Eden. I couldn’t hope for anything more. My last days in Africa were my happiest. Though I was yet to step a foot on European soil, nothing in the world would take that joy away from me. My spirit had long left Africa. I was going to embark on a trip similar to Dolly Parton’s. Sadly however, time would prove that Dolly Parton and I have nothing in common. Our destinies are far apart. Our only similarity is the love for country music. My trip would be completely different from Dolly Parton’s. Mine turned out to be Will Smith’s “Pursuit of Happiness.”

My year of arrival was the final days of the “good old days” of Britain for the economic immigrants. I arrived at Heathrow airport in the morning of October 12th 2002 on-board British Airways flight. It was an odd time for a student to arrive for the summer holidays. The summer was long gone. Students were back in their respective countries to continue their studies. My case was however different. My six months Tourist Visa was issued on June 10th 2002. My Visa contractor then took custody of my Passport. I spent the summer holiday period looking for money to pay my Visa contractor. This took months. When I had my Passport back, came the next challenge - money for ticket. That also took months. When I got money for ticket, came the next challenge - where to stay in London. That also took months! Oh Dear!! What a journey!!!

I had some extended families in London, but they didn’t know me personally. The only person I knew in Ghana before he left for London was Uncle Eric. I called Eric few times when I began my application process. I again called to inform him when I got the Visa. That was the last time I spoke to him. My only hope of a London host had vanished. The battle to look for a possible host kicked in. Time was running out for me. Summer had passed, and my Visa was running out. Sadly, I was becoming Dolly Parton’s ‘Down from Dover’ – "time is running out for me."

For my British dream Elizabeth Etrue became my mum. The bank statement I used to acquire my Visa bore that name. So she became my mum by default. In reality, my aunt was my sponsor. Her name is Gifty Tornye Atamudzi, aka Akobalm, a businesswoman. She imports stuff from Nigeria and Togo. Her kind of trade is referred to as “smuggle business.” Akobalm spent a lot of money on my trip. After painstakingly footing my visa and ticket bills, she now had the odious task of finding me a host. Luckily, she got in touch with a friend who agreed to host me. Auntie Helen (Queenster) became my London host. She lived with her partner Sam.

In Heathrow, I was subjected to lengthy interrogation. I spent so much time at the immigration desk. The purpose of my trip couldn't be justified. I had to come up with a story to convince the entry clearance officer why I shouldn't be returned to Ghana. My summer holidays had changed into autumn. I was an exception, and always will – Dear God – GRACE and MERCY! When I was finally let out by immigration, I was again stopped and searched several times. Eventually, I reached the arrival hall. Now I had to make a phone call, my first phone call in London.

I was advised to carry coins on me for the airport calls. Auntie Helen's number was in my mind. She had told me to memorise it. "Never write my number or anyone else' and keep on you. You'll have yourself to blame if you're caught," she warned. I didn't have a phone. Mobile phone revolution had just begun. The Motorola brand with aerial pole was the phone widely used in Ghana then. Nicknamed “timberland” or “me gyina abonte na me kasa.” In London, Nokia 3310 was the market leader or bestseller. I put a pound into a payphone to make my first call. Aunty Helen was on the other end. “It’s me auntie. I’m in Heathrow now.”

I was breathing in British oxygen at the arrival hall – “Johnny Just Come” (JJC). English weather was anxiously waiting for me outside. “Ask for Piccadilly train. Board it to Finsbury Park. Call me again when you come out of Finsbury Park station. Hurry up and get out of the Airport. If they see you wandering about, they’ll call you back for questioning.”

Me to be called back? God forbid! 'Oya', off I went. London must see me physically! Remember my spirit had arrived in London long before my being did. I got home in Dalston at about two o’clock in the afternoon. At long last, my European life had taken over. My African woes were now behind me - but only time would tell. One thing amazed me about my new found European life; the weather. As I came out of Finsbury Park station, I had a strange encounter. It was sunny, yet cold. Not the kind of weather I had known all my life.

Auntie Queenster and her partner Sam made me tea as soon as I arrived. Tea wasn’t my thing, but they insisted I needed it to keep warm. They made me understand that hot tea or coffee is a necessity in England. I got up from the sofa to empty my pocket so I could sit comfortably to enjoy my ceremonial English tea. Only my ticket and boarding pass were found. My Passport was not to be. Just when I thought my African woes were behind me, I found out otherwise. I was wrong. Perhaps more was to come than anything I could have ever imagined. Fate had thrown another heavy blow in my face. It was the beginning of things to come. My Passport was missing. There’s something unusual about my passport.

"My Passport!" "My Passport!" "My Passport!" I kept saying. “What about your Passport?” aunty Helen asked. Little did I know that the fate of my Passport was just beginning! It would one day become useful to the White Man – the establishment - the Beast of England! And it would one day become the means to prison. "My Passport!" "My Passport!" "My Passport!" What a fateful passport!

“Drink your tea before it gets cold,” Uncle Sam said. But I couldn’t. My mind was fixed on my Passport. My passport and Visa had cost a fortune. The thought of losing it would be a tragedy in my Odyssey. Barely minutes into my arrival in London, the stress over my passport began staring at me in the face. I was yet to become aware of the fact that being an immigrant was a struggle for survival. Your whole life depended on your Passport. As I later realised, your passport is your right to life in the pursuit of happiness.

My first night in London was not as I imagined. It was a terribly long one. I couldn't sleep. I was thinking about my passport. My fateful Ghanaian passport! Where did I leave it? Was it taken away from me by the last official who stopped and searched me? Could I have carelessly dropped it in Piccadilly? Or Finsbury park where I had my first view of London? How I wished my African plights had stayed behind in the Gold Coast. Sadly, they had come with me to Europe. In the midst of the storm brewing in my head, I was given a ray of hope by my hosts. They assured me that if it did drop at the airport, then I might be lucky. However, if it fell into the hands of certain nationalities, then my passport would soon change ownership.

Next day, I boarded Piccadilly back to Heathrow Airport in search of my “unusual passport.” I was now a Londoner. I went to the information desk at whichever terminal it was. God knows I couldn't remember which terminal. The terminal didn't matter to me. What mattered was my passport. My fateful passport! "My Passport!" "My Passport!" "My Passport!" What a fateful passport! At the information desk, I was given a paper to write my name, nationality, and date of birth. "Your passport has been found. Go to Lost and Found Desk." I had a sigh of relief.

My first week in London passed with no job in sight. Then I called Akobalm to give me Duncan's number. Duncan is a distant relation of mine. I didn't bring his phone number with me because I was warned. He lived in Walthamstow. I called Duncan in the afternoon and we spoke. By evening, he had gotten me a job as labourer on a construction site.

He called Coyle Personnel, a recruitment agency. Within an hour, the Agency called him back for the job. The site address and company name were texted to Duncan. He in turn forwarded the details to me. Next day, I was on site working for one of Britain’s oldest construction giant William Verry in Tottenham Court Road. By default, Duncan Williams became my first “adopted British name.” What a way in the world, thanks to VS Naipaul.

That's how easy it was to get a job in London then - the “good old days” of Britain for the economic immigrants – the Africans, the West Indies, the Indians, the Pakistanis, etc - the Commonwealth citizens - the once beloved servants of Her Majesty's Britain. So it was before the European Union expansion. A Jamaican I worked with on my first job was really saddened when he heard in the news that they would henceforth require a Visa to travel to the UK. He had come to London as recently as I. Many Jamaicans were very unhappy with the changes that would soon take place at the time.

The free entry of Jamaicans to the UK had come to an abrupt end. They were the last of the Commonwealth Caribbean countries that required a Visa. Having secured my first job, I was made aware that I needed a second one. "You can't survive with one job," I was told. Luck was on my side again, Duncan introduced me to his evening job. He worked as a Kitchen Porter at the Queens Pub/Restaurant on Primrose Hill, Chalk Farm. A new branch was being opened in Chelsea. Duncan arranged for me to get the evening shift at the new Pub. The Phoenix it’s called. I went with Duncan to the Queens to learn the routine of a kitchen porter. The Queens later became one of four Pubs I had worked for Geronimo Inns over the years.

A week or two after starting my first job, my second job was underway. I was the first evening Porter at the Phoenix Pub/Restaurant, off Kings Road, Sloane Square. Tony, a Black British from Caribbean origin - British Barbados - was the head chef. Tony was nice but very principled. There was another black chef, Raul, an African from Benin and Ivory Coast. Raul was his “adopted British name.” He lived in France for years before coming to Britain. I became very friendly with Raul. He told me he was working as a porter in another branch called Builders Arms. Tony brought him to the Phoenix to be trained as chef. Builders Arms is also off Kings Road, about 20 minutes’ walk from The Phoenix.

The Queens in Chalk Farm, the Phoenix and the Builders Arms in Chelsea are part of a chain of several Pubs and Restaurants across London, owned by a company called Geronimo Inns. Once employed by Geronimo Inns, there was always a job available. One can request transfer to another branch if and when necessary. Years later, I moved to work at the Builders Arms. It was there I saw Prince William and his girlfriend Kate Middleton wine and dine. And the privilege of washing the royal dishes – my share of the British royalty! Oh wow! Duke and Duchess of Cambridge they became.

It was also at this Pub that the dark art of British intelligence would be revealed to me in black and white. “When they need you, they would do whatever it takes to keep you.” Philosopher Immanuel Kant has it that: "So act as to treat humanity, whether in thine own person or in that of any other, in every case as an end withal, never as a means only."

The British establishment is the exact opposite of Kant’s doctrine, at least I can testify to that. It’s a normal practice of the British to use humans as the means to achieving their ulterior motives. And history attests to this fact. In their own words, Craig Murray, former UK ambassador reveals UK Government Corruption:

"I worked for the British foreign office. I became a British ambassador. I was a British diplomat for 20 years. I as a British diplomat saw all the internal memos that went through that decision. I used to be the head of the FCO unit that monitored Iraqi weapons of mass destruction. I know for certain I can tell you they knew there weren’t any. It wasn’t a mistake. It was a lie… I’ve seen it on the inside. It’s almost always about control of resources... The system stinks. Westminster stinks. British Government is deeply, deeply immoral. They don’t care how many people they kill abroad if it advances them... Britain is a rogue state. A state prepared to go to war to make a few people wealthy."

As my case made news in Pentonville following an attempted suicide, few staff kept telling me I wasn’t the only one who had been used and rendered insane by the British establishment. "It's a way of life of the British," a staff lamented. "We should never have mingled with these species. Even those of us born here know it's a mistake, but this is where we belong."