OPINION: When a stranger asked serious, awkward questions

I was going to work. Stood waiting for the train... Next to me was a Nordic or Eastern European looking mid 30s male. I say Nordic with an assumption. Like looking at a dog and assuming it might bite, bark or sniff you. I could have been wrong, but as soon as he opened his mouth, the accent proved me closer to the truth.

As we hopped onto the fast morning train I caught site of another London based Tanzanian. We said our hellos in Swahili and chattered like ducks.

The stranger watched as we “Hapanad and Ndiyod”- if you are following my Swanglish. Soon the other Bongoman arrived at his destination. “What language were you talking? Sounded Italian.”

“Swahili.”

“It has a very interesting melody. Quite musical,” he complimented.

Statistically, 300 hundred languages are spoken in London, so hearing people blabbering (on the phone, business or face to face),in Greek, Yoruba, Hindi, Luganda, Turkish, Japanese, Somali, Russian, French or Lingala, is as normal as Buckingham Palace, The Queen, Fish and Chips or London’s red buses.

Now the Nordic looking fella was asking big questions. I should say he was giving opinions as well as asking. I guessed he was keen to know my POV, i.e. point of view. I asked him where he was from, originally. A small country somewhere in East Europe was cited.

Stranger: “Like you, I have lived in London for some time. I am always fascinated by behaviours although there is alot I don’t know. I need to learn.”

He cleared his throat.

“Life is a learning curve...” I interjected philosophically.

“Exactly. There are two things I would like to ask you. You know I am not a racist. In fact I am planning to travel and even live in Africa for a while. Do some positive projects... So I cannot be a racist. But your women. When I came to London, I had never encountered so many black women. Used to see them in movies. I watched singers. Like Michael Jackson’s sister. Jennet? Janath? (I nodded and corrected, Janet Jackson)...Yes. Janet Jackson. And then came the new generation. Beyonce and Rihanna...and I have watched the blacks here in London...all of them wear wigs. I was shocked. Young beautiful, old, all... all... wear wigs. They look like black plastic dolls! Even Michelle Obama... in the news these days with her new book...and who is that TV woman? Ofrah Wilfred? (Oprah Winfrey, I corrected, again)...yes...Oprah... all wear false hair. What is wrong with your women? Why can’t they accept who they are and how they were created by God?”

He looked at me intensely.

Like when you need to go to the bathroom and it is ten minutes later. Relief. Searched, curiously, for my reaction. Around the train were other passengers, some black women too. However, most were busy on their phones, i.e. not bothering to listen to this heated conversation.

I said: “You are right, Valev (false name)...yes you are...but not all wear wigs. Some have extensions, or conk their hair, or are genuinely bald...some love fashion....but most of course....very true, they do wear false hair, silk hair, sisal hair....”

Valev shook his head as if in mourning. “I cannot understand...why...Look. I think your black women are so beautiful, sexy, smart...I went to a club...you know.... in East London... went with a Ugandan friend...and the women were hot man...but, again THOSE WIGS!”

That was one topic...

Valev was not finished.

“I am glad I can speak with a black person without fear. Can I ask you something else?”

I nodded. “I have been curious for years. You know how Londoners are. You can be attacked just for saying something... You blacks can be very sensitive. Dont be offended.”

I smiled at him. “Yes sensitive because of 500 years of racism. Wouldn’t you feel uptight after five centuries of abuse?”

Valev bobbed his head, vigorously, up and down. “Of course. But you have prejudice, everywhere. All humans are prejudiced.”

I waved my hand, as if to say, carry on. “ In my apartment, are over twenty families...you know...from every corner of the earth...Portuguese, Italians, Chinese, Polish, English...and of course you Africans...and all the mothers speak to their children in their language. But with the Africans you hear the parents speaking English and French and Portuguese ...I am always wondering why. I have lived in this place for five years. Hardly heard an African speaking their language to their children. Maybe Somalis. Are Somalis Africans or Arabs? Strange. All other people... speak their languages to their children...Are you guys still inferior or what? I know you are proud to be black. There is no way I provoke a black. It is going to be a riot... (Laughter) but where is the actual cultural pride? Tell me...am I wrong?”