Two bangi boys telling us a serious, twisted story

Two bangi boys telling us a serious, twisted story

IT is early morning.

You are in a London train, coming from a night job. You note a mother with two children. You don’t know whether she is going to hospital, shopping or what, so anyway...

The mother’s face looks cheerful as she plays with the older, giggling child. The other is fast asleep in the pram or push chair. Quickly, moods change.

Happiness turns to grimness and the gentle looking facial brows are knitted and a sense of protectiveness envelopes the parent.

A sudden, cumbersome, strong stench of booze and marijuana fills the train.

This train is the type that is not divided into compartments. You can be seated and see almost all fellow travellers for at least hundred metres around you. Someone, you cannot recall, once explained such locomotives were made specifically to combat terrorism. That the culprit would easily be seen from a distance and encircled by security services. You are trying to figure that out as much as accommodate the heavy aroma of alcohol and cannabis. And it is still around 8. 30am!

A common geographical vibe of London’s public places-including buses and trains. The perpetrator is openly holding a piece of a half smoked marijuana, or call it Spliff. Weed. Bangi. He is shouting. Really loudly, no wonder the mother stopped smiling to her babies.

As the man barks, (without any mask on), you wonder whether he cares about social distancing and Covid 19? You have seen him before, same hours, similar train journey. You are certain the CCTV camera must be monitoring his movements. But then is he breaking the law?

Holding a half smoked piece of Bangi?

Big news in London? Nope my friend.

The man is really annoying.

Annoying and annoyed.

“Yes! I’m discriminated against! I am the Messiah! I am the most black man on earth! Look at me. I am me! Hanging on a dangle! Dancing the tango! All the way from Congo...”

As he raps on, few other train takers are filming discreetly (or openly) through their phones. You wonder if he is really from the Congo.

Congo, our dear Congo!

You recall reading the news, recently, that the golden tooth ripped from the mouth of slain Congolese leader , exactly, 60 years ago is due to be returned to Kinshasa soon. This is after many years battles fought by Patrice Lumumba’s children to bury the ONLY MEMENTO, only physical memory of their heroic dad. The tooth was kept by one of the Belgian police officers, Gerard Soete, who murdered and burnt Lumumba’s body in sulphuric acid early 1961. A “souvenir” allegedly left for Soete’s daughter, Godelieve, before his death in 2000.

Congo has subsequently, seen tears and blood ever since those sinister shadows of 1960 and 1961 and beyond.

Here is a young man. High as a kite. Stoned and drunk chanting madness and rubbish in a train. Annoying and disturbing and reminding us of the ugly nature of history.

Later on the same day you are in another part of London, about to cross a busy street. As you wait you notice another young black man. Almost the same build and age as the one you saw in the morning. African, with Somali features, trousers hanging down, revealing his underwear.

He is yelling on his phone, but standing right in the middle of the road. Drivers in their vehicles watch, hearts probably beating. Lights are red. For us pedestrians, green illuminates , as we amble fast.

What is the young man saying?

You just catch a few lines:

“ I told you they were coming! Just wait there...”

Who is coming? You almost holler back. Moments later you see the twenty something year old, knocking at the gates of an abandoned building; close to a narrow alley and ...and

He calls you.

“Listen brav. I told them I was coming. Every day I tell them! The bastards! They never listen to me...”

You don’t respond. You don’t keep eye contact. This is London. But you can smell the crazy, insane Weed. Again. Cannabis. Bangi. The burnt grass that is loved and adored so much (by some) in this city.

Yet another wasted, ill African youth.

Another Bangi boy!

How and why did they come to Europe?

To escape the madness back home? To the green pastures of Bangi and Marijuana and cheap Booze?

Young males, filled with energy.

In your younger days back in the 1970s you were offered the National Service. Very few countries, like Israel, still give this service. A mix of military training, farm work and discipline. Wake up daily at 5 am to run and sing mchakamchaka. Run, sing, hop, work, run. At twenty years or so you do not have time for pombe and marijuana.

You are ready to be productive. Every nation needs to bring this service back. Give our youths a sense of purpose.