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!”