War of the worlds

Vendors in this market sell imitation Gucci cufflinks and flowers, birthday cards and worksuits. They also sell the rudimentary vegetables and fruits, still encased in their plastic wrappers that advertise their countries of origin as Spain, Turkey, the Maldives and sometimes, even England.

It’s not an exceptionally trendy part of London where I work. None of the big stores have branches here — most commerce is carried out by little family enterprises. Immigrant storeowners sit in offices in the back while their offspring, the first generation born in the country, man the front desks. They make small talk with customers, speak about politics, the latest celebrity gossip, weaving their way expertly through the language and the culture which for their parents is still a labyrinth, even after ten, 20, even 30 years of self-imposed exile.

There is one proprietor who is what I like to think of as traditionally English. He owns a shoe and clothing store whose goods are a favourite with the young Nigerian men who have to pass along the street to get from the train station to their homes. He is an elderly man, running the business himself just to have something to do besides stay home and watch TV. Sometimes I drop in for a talk and to see what hats he has on sale. He’s fascinated by Trinidad, by my accent and also about my ancestry, which I know he wishes to question me about but in the new race sensitive era that England has entered, he is afraid to cause offence. We speak one day about Muslims and he is surprised that I know about Ramadan and Hosay. He assumes that I am Muslim and is confused when I explain that I am Catholic. He speaks of his holidays in Gambia and Namibia, the trouble he has with his tenants. He rents flats on this street, this common place, not very trendy, not very exclusive, just so-so sort of area. The rent for one flat is over ?2,000 a month. His daughter’s hairdressing bill is ?450 a month for a cut and a colour.

This street is a microcosm of English society and London especially. In this society, as in most so-called first world societies turned metropoles, there exist two worlds. In one world, there are no surprises. The inhabitants of this world can trace their ancestors back to several generations, the locations and occupations of their progenitors fixed like stars that help their progeny to map their own existence and form a solid link from their ancestors’ pasts to their own future.

No one leaves this world for another because of persecution, be it political or otherwise. No one sleeps in the back of his business with his brothers, sisters, aunts, uncles, cousins and/or grandparents whom he has sent for one by one by means both legal and illegal. The course of life for the inhabitants of this world is smooth and expected — primary school, secondary school, college, job, marriage, children, middle class comfort and stability, middle age, grandchildren, retirement, holiday trips interspersed with various health concerns of differing levels of seriousness then death.

This is the world that the proprietor of the clothing store with the cool hats and the predilection for warm vacation spots belongs to.

Then there is the other world, where battles against society, against government, against history, and, most especially, against oneself are constantly being fought. In this world, nothing is taken for granted, everything worth having is worth fighting for. This world is inhabited by a hodgepodge of nationalities who share one thing —hunger. For some it is physical hunger; starvation of multitudes which leads to an exodus to lands where milk and honey supposedly flow.

For others the hunger is more complicated but no less intense. In this world, each day history is created and demolished and recreated. In this world it is hard to know the self because the self is constantly destroyed and remade. On this street close to where I work these two worlds exist side by side.

But they never overlap. Sometimes, they clash. Sometimes the clash is simple, like the middle class lady with the Louis Vuitton handbag that sucks her teeth in annoyance at having to repeat her words to the Pakistani man whose limited English does not include the name of her favourite magazine. Other times the clash is more catastrophic, more front page worthy, as the inhabitants of the second world wish to find their place in the first, where they can take for granted everything that for them is now a victory, the reward of a battle hard fought, a sacrifice of the self and the heart and society.

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