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." 

EXCERPTS PART 10

THE SCRETARY OF STATE - Rt. Hon Margaret Hodge

"Throughout history, it has been the inaction of those who could have acted, the indifference of those who should have known better, the silence of the voice of justice when it mattered most; that has made it possible for evil to triumph." Haile Selassie

Rt. Hon. Dame Margaret Oppenheimer Hodge, MBE, DBE, MP, also known as Lady Hodge by virtue of her late husband's knighthood, is the Member of Parliament for Barking. Prior to my first letter to the secretary of state, I had never heard of Margaret Hodge. I didn't even know that Baking has an MP. I had no interest in British politics whatsoever. Growing up in Ghana, I had been scared from politics.

As far as I can remember, politics was about power, fame, wealth creation, dictatorship, oppression of opponents and disregard for the marginalised in society. Democracy wasn't a thing in Ghana. Journalists would lose their jobs for criticising the government. I remember Mawuko Zomelo, Komla Dumor and Kwaku Sakyi Addo. They were my favourite journalists in the days. I was at the Presbyterian Boys Senior Secondary School (Presec-Legon). Newsfile, Front-page and Super Morning Show were my favourite programs on Joy FM. Mawuko Zomelo lost his job over a program that was aired. President at the time, Jerry John Rawlings and his government took offence.

Losing Mawuko Zomelo as a Joy FM presenter was a big blow to me. I was aspiring to become a journalist but the political system scared me from pursuing my dreams. For these reasons, I detested politics in my native Ghana. Moving on to Britain, my dislike for the political establishment remained the same. I just wanted to pass through life without causing pain or hurt to anyone. In any case, Britain was not my country. I had only come here for economic emancipation. All I knew about British politics from Ghana were John Major, Tony Blair and Queen Elizabeth.

One of the most influential British Politicians of all time and a close ally of Tony Blair, Margaret Hodge had been the MP for Barking since 1994. Being told by the intelligence officers that my MP was my best option, my hope rested heavily on Margaret Hodge. She became the mediator between me and Home Office. As my new beacon of hope, I read a lot about my knight in shining armour in the making. The late Sir Henry Hodge, husband of Margaret Hodge was highly regarded as a humane lawyer and judge. As High Court judge, the late Henry Hodge once blocked the deportation of a convicted rapist on humanitarian grounds. It was therefore not surprising when my undercover detectives said my MP was the best person to handle my immigration matter. Following receipt of Home Office's first letter via my MP, I wrote my second letter to the Secretary of State, now my MP Margaret Hodge on 22^nd July 2008.

On 20^th May 2011, Margaret Hodge again wrote to Home Office and sent me a copy. By this time, it was becoming clear that Margaret Hodge - my Secretary of State had been nothing but a white elephant to me. The gravity of my wasted years was now taking a big toll on me. It was time I started closing up with my Secretary of State. So I wrote to Margaret Hodge again on 28^th May 2011. And that was my final letter to my Secretary of State Margaret Hodge in my era of sanity. And I copied:

The Rt. Hon Nick Clegg, Deputy Prime Minister  
The Rt. Hon John Bercow, Speaker of ParliamentThe Right Hon Ed Miliband, Leader of the OppositionHis Excellencies Peter Jones and Matthew Johnson, British High
Commissioner and Deputy to the Republic of Ghana  
Most Reverend Dr Rowan Williams, Archbishop of Canterbury - Leader of the Church of England.

As always, I received a response from My Dear Margaret. It was dated 10^th June 2011. I made calls to Blackfriars Crown Court to get the name of the Judge who presided over my corruption trial case. His name was Honour Judge Richardson. I also got to know that Judge Marron was the Resident Judge of Blackfriars Crown Court. So I wrote to Judges Marron and Richardson and I received a response. I received another letter from Dagenham MP Jon Cruddas, dated 23^rd September 2011:

"Dear Mr Cruddas, on 22 August 2011, Mr Maundy submitted an application for leave to remain under Article 8 of the European Convention on Human Rights. This application is currently awaiting consideration. As Mr Maundy had no valid leave to remain when he applied, I cannot say when a decision will be reached. This is because cases of this type tend to be complex in nature and can take longer to decide.
 I should point out that should Mr Maundy’s application fall to be refused, he would have no right of appeal against the decision. In these circumstances he will be expected to make arrangements to leave the UK without delay. Should he fail to leave the country voluntarily, consideration would be given to enforcing his removal at public expense if necessary."

The letter was from Sonia Dower, Deputy Director of Operations, London and South East Region. My application was refused on 13^th October 2011. The decision letter was sent to me, dated 14^th October 2011, and signed by Mr A Gannon, General Group Managed Migration Directorate. I then asked Home Office to return my Passport to me so I could book a flight and leave. I made several phone calls to Home Office asking for my Passport. During one of these phone calls, a male officer who refused to disclose his identity, told me to forget my useless Passport, go to my Embassy for travel document and leave. He also said my useless Passport was lost and hanged up the call. In a fits of rage, I struggled to hold on to my phone as my whole body was shivering. Indeed, “life is pain,” and I tasted some of life’s pain in the hands of Her Majesty’s Beasts of England.

I was now battling with emotions hearing that the Beasts of England had lost my Passport. I attended Jon Cruddas’ surgery in Dagenham and pleaded with the MP to get Home Office to return my Passport to me immediately so I could leave. I told the MP that my Passport was going to expire soon and I wanted to use it to travel before it expired. On my next attendance to the MP’s surgery, I was told that there had been a confidential email from Home Office that my Passport was missing.

I was mad and fuming with rage on hearing this. I asked for a copy of the email but was told it was strictly confidential and that I wasn’t supposed to be made aware of it. I was furious and mad on hearing this. I left the MP’s office grinding my teeth against each other. I wished I could turn Home Office's twin towers of Lunar and Apollo Houses into ground zero in search of my Passport. But I could only wish, just wish.

Perhaps my anger and outburst over the loss of my Passport was relayed to Sonia Dower.  Sonia Dower sent another email to the Dagenham MP in which she, Sonia Dower, vowed to give my Passport to me at the airport. This was dated 3^rd October 2011:

"Dear Mr Cruddas, you will also be aware from the email of 23^rd September that Mr Maundy is an overstayer with no legal basis to remain in the UK. I should explain that it is the policy of the UK Border Agency to retain an applicant’s passport until the application process is fully complete, and if the applicant has no valid leave to remain. In Mr Maundy’s case, as he has no valid LTR, he should now contact Becket House, Local Immigration Team where he is required to report, in order to discuss and make arrangements for his departure from the UK. He should now do so and his passport will be released to him at his port of departure."

As it clearly became evident that Home Office didn’t know the whereabouts of my passport, Sonia Dower became a venom in my mouth. I thought deeply about her letter. If only fate could bring us together one day, perhaps I could spit out the venom in my mouth into her face. But all I could was, wish - just wish!

Following receipt of Sonia Dower’s letter, I contacted Becket House to arrange for my departure. Becket House told me to contact Ghana Embassy for Travel Certificate as they could not trace my passport. I was told Louise Richards was my caseworker and her telephone number was given to me. I began calling Louise Richards relentlessly. I told Louise that if I went to the airport and my passport was not given to me, there would be chaos at the airport and I’d bring the airport to a standstill. My entire being was filled with rage, bitterness and pain at that moment.

As at October 2011, my friend Justice was having problems with his tax deductions at work. He had been asked few times if he was working in two places. I was now desperate to stop my job in Croydon Tesco Dotcom in order to save Justice from trouble. In my desperation, I again wrote to MP Margaret Hodge MP who had presided over my case for five (5) years. I attached details of Sonia Dower’s letters and the response from Becket House concerning my Passport.

Margaret Hodge then wrote to Mr Rob Whiteman, Chief Executive of UK Border Agency on 11^th October 2011 concerning my passport. I received a response from Margaret Hodge, dated 16^th November 2011:

"Dear Mr Maundy, please find enclosed the letter I have received from the Home Office concerning your passport. I understand enquiries are still being made with the Police regarding the location of your documentation. I am sorry this will not be the response you were hoping for; nevertheless I hope you will find this update helpful."

Attached to the MP’s letter was the Home Office letter of 9^th November 2011 signed by Richard Marley:

"Dear Ms Hodge, thank you for your letter on behalf of Maxwell Kwaku Maundy about his immigration and Passport. We have been unable to locate Mr Maundy’s passport in our offices. Enquiries are still being made with the Police to establish whether they retained the passport after the court case. Mr Maundy’s most recent application for leave to remain outside the rules was refused on 13^th October. The decision paperwork was sent to Mr Maundy at his home address by recorded delivery reference AH579382554GB and was signed for on 20^th October. Mr Maundy has no lawful basis of stay and should make arrangements to leave as soon as possible. Members of my team would be happy to discuss his options with regard to making a voluntary departure."

So my learned MP Rt. Hon Margaret Hodge once again forwarded Home Office letter to me just like that! She was unconcerned by the content therein. What a Secretary of State! What a shock!! Dear Diary; Anguish, Bitterness and Pain had been my hobby for Seven (7) years in the hands of Her Majesty's Beast of England...

It has taken me another Seven (7) painful years and restless nights to complete this book. Here’s a review from an author after reading my excerpts:

"It is a mine of gold of experience that could be mined for generations. It could be a Pan African Book, a movie, and a topical writing in motivational speeches." 

Spirit leads me where my trust is without borders...

Let me walk upon the waters wherever you would call me...

Take me deeper than my feet could ever wander...

And my faith will be made stronger in the presence of my Saviour...

EXCERPTS PART 11

THE SAVAGERY OF CAPITALISM - ONE

“In the 18^th Century, British Merchants shipped around Three (3) million people from West Africa across the Atlantic to the Americas and sold them into slavery. They made Four Trillion Pounds (£4 Trillion) from the unpaid labour alone. Portugal and Holland pioneered the slave route; Britain made a national fortune from it. Much of the Britain we know today was built with slave money – Ports, Cities and Canals. Even the Church of England has admitted making money from the slave business.

By the 19^th Century, a fifth of the British elite had made their fortune from slavery, amongst them was David Cameron’s cousin General Sir James Duff. The Liverpool merchants who founded Barclays Bank were slave traders.

In 1833, when slavery was abolished, slave owners were paid Twenty Million Pounds (£20 million) in compensation for their loss of “property.” That is the equivalent of Two Billion Pounds (£2 Billion) today. More than Ten (10) Million People died as a direct result of the Atlantic Slave Trade. But the survivors got nothing, West Africa got nothing…” Source – The Guardian

The crimes committed by the British against Blacks - Africa as a whole, West Africa in particular, and the West Indies, right from the era of slavery and the slave trade, through to colonialism, all put together far outweigh that of Adolf Hitler’s Nazi Germany against the Jews a thousand times. Yet little is said about Britain’s crimes against humanity. 

Even in cases where there is an overwhelming evidence to prosecute British authorities, heaven and earth is moved to overturn such calls for justice to be served. In no doubt, the British comes across as the worst humanity ever – Darkest Humanity!

Does Britain have the moral compass to hold Charles Taylor captive in its prison whilst Britain’s own war criminals walks about freely, parading the corridors of wealthy Arab nations amassing wealth? Who watches the watchman?

Please look out for THE SAVAGERY OF CAPITALISM – TWO in the Second Edition of DARKEST HUMANITY.