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.
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.”
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:
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."
“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."
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