LAEBOAN LUPAEN With Femi Peters Jr. (Chelsea)

I have always wanted to tell a story. My story. It’s nothing to get you on the edge of your seat but it is worth telling as it is my story.

First off, I will kick off with my name. It is Alhagie Lameen Barrow. I know what you’re thinking. How could this old, wrinkled, on-the-home-stretch Caucasian have a name like Alhagie Lameen Barrow? Either he is taking too much of his medication or, as my grandson Kemo would put it, he is reaching. 

 

There, I have put you on alert, somewhat, with that word reaching. You and I know I’m not on about what the dictionary is saying by reaching and I can see you already have a grudging respect for me as I can talk street too.

 

Yes, old and near-senile Alhagie Lameen Barrow can chop with up with the boys on the block. Hell, knock off half a century off my age and a bit more and I could have dropped a mixtape that would have been, like Kemo would put it, tighter than a rat’s rear hole, if I had put my mind to it. Just messing with you. I can’t put words on a beat to save my life.

 

For what it’s worth, I learnt to talk street from Kemo. He talks to me like he does to his mates, which I find fascinating. I mean, when I was growing up, there was only one language- the Queen’s English. Fast forward over half a century later and now we have the Queen’s English and street English, which was born off urban music. When I first heard Kemo yammering on his Blackberry (everyone have one these days, thanks to Obama) that ‘he will hold Jerry down’ I had thought he was going to drown him! On another occasion, when he made it clear (on his Blackberry again) that he wasn’t, ahem, effing with Jordan no more, as the guy was, ahem, straight (don’t wanna say the word but think female modesty) I had thought him coming to see me with Susan, his girlfriend of two years, he had told me, was all a front!

More on Kemo and Susan and lots of others later. 

I will get back to how I happen to have a name like Alhagie Lameen Barrow. I know you must be sick to the back teeth anytime I reel off my name in full. Well, I love my name and if you don’t like that I love my name, I make no apologies. I would have been more ‘street’ with my language but I don’t want you to have the wrong misconception that I’m a bitter old man.

As I’m not.

Far from it.

 

I’ve led a full, rich life and I just want to share with you some aspects of it.

It is nothing to make publishers droll and fall over themselves to offer me a six figure book deal. If you read it, I can tell you it won’t change your life. Matter of fact, should I get all this in a book, I will personally know who buys a copy and can count them off on one hand.

Yes, that’s how vapid it is.

Hey, everybody has a story and this is mine.

So, pull up a chair and listen. Or, read.

If it bores you, I’m not apologising. Remember I warned you it was nothing pulse-racing…

I won’t tell you how old I am but I will give you a clue. I can recall the Queen’s coronation back in 1952 like yesterday. I’m not going to dilate on that day 58 years ago as that ain’t my story.

At least now you know I’ve weathered a few storms, have photos in black and white and coloured and, winged off a telegram and, surprise, surprise, even an email too. Well, I didn’t do it myself. Kemo sat down in this very chair next to my bed and typed away on his Dell laptop as I dictated an email to my daughter, Fanta, his mother, who lives in Nashville, Tennessee.

More about her later and my son, Jamil. 

 

I was born Colin Collins in rural England. North East Lincolnshire, to be precise. Funny name, that.

It was like my parents wanted a name that almost rhymes with my last name and closed in on Colin.

Even the wacky name naming didn’t elude my older brother, the aptly named Collinson Collins.

My parents were really having a joke at our expense.

My dad was a hot shot lawyer and my mum was his secretary.

  

In those days, women were nowhere to be seen on the career ladder and my mum typing out his letters, arranging his appointments and answering the phone (the damn thing has a ring so loud it could wake the dead) wasn’t seen as a career move.

 

It was more like she was helping out, in between cooking our meals, picking me and my brother up from school, doing the house chores and blah blah blah.

And I would bet the life left in me she sure wasn’t getting paid too.

My dad was like, say, Arsene Wenger with money!

There, I’ve just told you I’m an Arsenal die hard.

 

Would have loved to tell you how Tony Adams and Ian Wright showed up on one of my birthdays dressed in full kit.

Still, that ain’t my story. Who knows, I might tell you about that sometime.

 

Anyway, I went to school, got good grades, behaved when I wanted to but, overall, I wasn’t a bad kid at heart.

 

I was all set for graduation from law school; join my dad at his firm (he has long envisioned the sign outside the door would read Collins and Collins Law Chambers), marry pretty Amy Fitzpatrick down the road, start a family and all that until…

 

Excuse my taking a pause there but I just want to build up on the momentum as this is where the story, my story, starts to come alive.

…I went to The Gambia on a two week holiday, then under Her Majesty’s rule, met Mariama Ceesay, helplessly fell in love, married her, converted to Islam and became Alhagie Lameen Barrow.

All in one fell swoop.

 

I would have loved to say it was all in one breathe but it didn’t exactly happen that way.

I will give you the truth and not the sugar-coated truth as I don’t have a publisher breathing down my neck to pen an autobiography that would fly off the shelves like a James Patterson novel.

 

How did I get to go to The Gambia and met my wife to be?

By pure chance.

 

Jimmy, bless his soul, a university pal who majored in African and European History at the time, was all set to visit Juffureh, the home of Kunta Kinteh and write a thesis on it, before he fell off a horse and broke both legs.  

 

Rather than see his ticket go to waste, he insisted that I go and, as I tell you this story, I’m glad he insisted I went as that trip change my life.

Jimmy has been gone for five years now to cancer but I have never stopped being grateful for that massive hook up.

 

At his funeral, I told the story to the congregation and there wasn’t a dry eye in the house (not to mention polite laughter) when I looked over at his coffin, swallowed hard and brought out, ‘thanks Jimmy for introducing me to my wife even though it took you to have both legs about as useful as a used condom to do it!’

Such a joke is sure distasteful in a house of worship but that’s how dark my humour was.

 And when you live to see my age, you don’t care less how others felt. Back to my Gambian trip.

It so happened I had two weeks off coming out of uni so everything was kind of ironed out. When I look at it now, I think God orchestrated it all that way.

Jimmy breaking his legs and me having a forth night off wasn’t coincidence.

It was Him at work.

 

Amy was a bit pessimistic about the trip but there was no talking me out of it. She knew my mind was made up and she didn’t even try.

What was lip curling about the whole thing was I never heard of The Gambia before Jimmy rolled off that horse.

I’ve read about Egypt, the Nile and the Pharaohs and the mummies but never of good old Gambia, the country that I would have a romance with for the rest of my life.

You could have put a million quid, raw cash, on the table, ask me to tell you what part of the world The Gambia is situated and I wouldn’t have been a million quid better off.

 

 

I dare you to put up even a hundred quid, ask me the population of Basse and Berending and you will be a hundred quid lighter. That I can guarantee you like the aroma emanating at the Kitchen is the Benechin my wife is slapping up for lunch.

I was so engrossed in how to tell you my story that it slipped my mind. If my wife finds out, I will be I trouble so don’t snitch on me, ya heard? So, I will take them now; relax a bit before she serves lunch and if you pass by next time, I will tell you of my unforgettable trip, how I met my wife, swapped the mosque for the church, the drama that popped off off of that and all that. Like I told you, it is not something out of a Jeffrey Deaver novel. It is just my story.

See you next time

 


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