Open Letter To Theresa May

Dear Theresa,

I hope this letter meets you well and you are in good health.

My plan is to keep this brief just because I know you have a million items on your desk. My intention is to pass on some advice re: Syria.

To facilitate this approach, I will communicate by bullet points.

As a background, I must inform you I have form for this sort of thing, having written a similar piece to David Cameron.

In any event, please ignore that epistle for now and let me spell out my counsel to you:

1. 1. Chemical weapon attacks have happened several times in Syria. Evidence has shown the Assad government has not been responsible for all those attacks.
2. 2. Britain is on his way out of the European Union. We need to start being more strategic in our actions. Just because the EU supported our accusation of Russia on the Salisbury attack, doesn’t mean we owe them support on Syria.
3. 3. Macron will need to show us his evidence that “they were used by the Assad regime.” We can no longer risk the security of our country just on the basis of innuendo.
4. 4. Every single military action we have taken in the Middle East has come home to roost in the form of refugees and domestic attacks.
5. 5. With the expiration of Tony Blair’s influence at governmental levels, the EU hawks have now pitched their tent with Macron. We don’t have to follow him blindly. Remember, we did that in Libya, only to find out France went into that crisis with a completely selfish and hidden agenda.
6. 6. You are a PM who was not voted into office by the people, so it’s imperative that you listen to the electorate before you enter into any commitment of our armed forces. Your legacy will suffer if you ignore public opinion.
7. 7. Your government is already suffering the backlash of jumping to conclusions re: Russia’s involvement in Salisbury. Time to tread softly.
8. 8. Don’t rush to a decision based on the current noise. Think about what your point of view will be 10 years from now and then come to a conclusion.
9. 9. As you can see with Tony Blair before you, no one remembers the other members of the cabinet after the event. The consequences of the whatever commitments you make, will be an albatross around your neck until the grave.
10. 10. Leave Syria to Syrians.

There you are PM. Thanks for your time. Wishing you the best.

Alcohol, Emotion and Good Intentions

Have you ever had one of those moments when you genuinely meant well and it goes all awry?

You are with a mixed group of friends and strangers, when social etiquette is not necessarily mandatory, but displaying it shows a considerate and emotional intelligent being resides in your body.

I have been in several of those situations and though most have gone well, I have, naturally, had a few bloopers!

Let me share:

June 2016 - Serena Williams had reached another grand slam final and as any true fanatic, I had no interest in her opponent's identity. Conveniently, I had found myself using a pre-booked day off to the maximum, with a group of fellow red wine lovers in a favourite haunt in the Midlands.

Suffice to say, Serena lost and my pre-game boasting, came home to roost. Whilst I was being picked apart by the baying crowd, I sought solace in my phone to see how the Mighty One could let me down so badly. A few googles later, I found the winner's name was something Muguruza!

Like a flash, I found something to hold on to....or so I thought. 

"The winner is African anyway, so I still won in a  way, " I slurred.

It was an unguarded moment that though drenched in alcohol, exposed a lot of my hidden thoughts and depth of my ignorance.

(courtesy of the Evening Standard)

I have since managed to pull up my pants since that cringeing experience and thankfully, my friends still hang out with me.

I have just issued a mental note to self:

The French Open in is another four months and please don't act like you don't who Garbine Muguruza is. If the Serena episode didn't help, her defeat of sister Venus in the 2017 Wimbledon competition, forged her name, background and non-Africaness in your Medulla Oblongata.

Morale of the tale:

a) Alcohol and Emotion don't mix well with Good Intentions.

b) Watch out for non-Africans with African sounding names....

The New Africa - in Black and White

"It doesn't really mean anything when you take a step back and look at the bigger picture."

The voice, distinct and clear, belonged to a Lupita Nyong'o lookalike and it cut through the rising hubbub of the venue.

Her group, smaller, but much more spirited than ours, was a smorgasbord of dandy characters.

"Never buy into the idea that one individual cannot make a difference, talk less when we are discussing about the world's most powerful individual," said the guy with the Einstein haircut.

Eavesdropping has always been one of my many social flaws, but today, I was literally on fire, with my blazing ears. The mind-numbing topic on my table left me with no choice.

Besides, the whole world is talking about the choice made by the American electorate a few months ago and very few topics have captured global attention as this particular outcome. Never has the idiom; between the devil and the deep blue sea, rang so true.

The venue was now filled to the brim. As the conversations bumped into each other and laughter and discourse filled the air, I suddenly remembered the real reason for my presence here.

"So, tell me about this guy of yours then," I said, elbowing my friend.

"Ah yes, you are going to love him. Let me just get this thing up and running," she said, as she fumbled with her tablet.

She was right. The piece of work she was sharing with me was not only engaging, it was endless in beauty.

Oh, did I mention I was in Lagos, Nigeria?

I love coming back every now and then, to explore the new energy flowing in from the new class of returning Diasporas, who have abandoned Western comforts for the raw dynamism of Africa's biggest economic hub. Their brewing optimism combined with the resident creative bravado of the locals, has produced a vibrancy unseen here for a long time.

"He goes by the alias Logor, and is a fabulous creative talent. This recent work is ample evidence. Now, the world needs to know what is happening here."

Ten minutes later, still mulling over a credible strategy and a viable offer to move negotiations forward, an impeccably dressed gentleman joined our table, shaking hands vigorously with my friend as he sat down. It turns out he is also here to see work of other emerging talents, with the sole aim of returning to London, with a few clients on his register.

"This is the new economic Wild West, but there's no one dying. All the blood is on canvasses, in images and print," he quipped.

My friend nodded in agreement; "five years ago this artist was selling his pieces for two hundred and fifty dollars tops. Today, his pieces are going for five thousand and that is one of the modest ones. It's the only thing bucking the trend!"

"Maybe Trump will buck the trend," I whispered.

Admittedly, it was a clumsy return to the original conversation, but one that allowed me attempt distraction from a subtle bidding war. My debonair rival, was outstripping me with every nod as he flicked through the chunky portfolios.

"I really hope so," he replied, with his head still buried in the goodies.

"When you can have Obama's Vice-President calling Africa a nation, maybe a change of direction wouldn't hurt. For an individual with African blood running their veins, Obama has been an abject letdown, It was a golden opportunity for Africa, one that I believe will take a while to return. A Trump presidency cannot be any worse, in my humble opinion. Remember, there has been no better friend to Africa in the White House, than George W Bush!"

It took a while for his words to sink in, but when they did, I did sympathise with his position. Here we are in a venue that could well be anywhere in the world, with superb ambiance, highly educated and sophisticated clientele. An Africa, with the fastest accelerating economies, and the Africa they never show on television.

In today's Lagos, with all its challenges, business is brisk and products of  local citadels of learning and the Ivy league, jostle for contention, whilst bouncing ideas around with jocularity. A cheerfulness etched with a steely tinge of unerring professionalism. This scene is replicated across many African cities and still, the rest of the world has not been let into the secret.

I begin to wonder whose job it is to make it happen.

Looking through Logor's monochrome pictures, it was as clear as black and white.

5 Reasons I believe Trump will be the next POTUS.

And just like that, Donald John Trump, the one-time ‘presumptive’ buffoon in the Republican presidential line-up, is now the presumptive nominee, in what can only be matched by Leicester City FC’s capture of the English Premiership league crown. Unless some grand scheme is concocted to trip him on the home strait, Trump is already home! It is indeed a stunning outcome.

The GOP establishment - like some pompous millitary brass, which has forgotten to inspire its soldiers into a willing and friendly unit - has completely lost touch with the grassroots, and are now in essence facing a revolution, which could sweep the party away if unity is not the keyword.

That is what I call a Republican problem….it is a troublesome one, but not as big or potentially damaging as the bigger issue…the American problem. Well, what is that then, I hear you ask?

It is the problem of dealing with a Trump presidency. This is an ending even the likes of Hilary Clinton (first credible female candidate or not) and the full combined forces of some savvy Republican heavyweights, appear unable to stop.

Here are 5 reasons why the Don will soon be the King.

1. Trump is a phenomenal salesman:

Electioneering is fast becoming a form of grandstanding. Candidates offering a magical version of reality that can never be delivered and gathering more followers than Kim Kardashian in the process. This has increasingly been the case in the USA, especially in this last round of party campaigns.

The person with the sweetest patter and most stirring, albeit unrealistic message, often wins. Trump was born to do both.

2. Hilary is a Clinton:

Please don’t make me explain why this is a problem.

3. Trump supporters are fired up, rebels with causes, and will come out en masse to vote:

Nothing propels a presidential candidate towards 1600 Pennsylvania faster than determined supporters who will suffer rain, sleet or snow to cast their vote. We only need look back at how Obama came to office.

4. Clinton’s Dodgy Emails:

Unless there are some very dark and dastardly items in The Donald’s private inbox, the issue of HRC’s unscrupulous email palaver will still come back to haunt and damage her campaign. This is where Trump’s lack of governmental involvement will boost, rather than knock his presidential bid. 

Mrs Clinton has walked too many official and dark corridors, and once the light starts to shine on her activities, it will be difficult for her not to buckle.

5. Benghazi:

Nuff said!

One Red Night - Part 2

The doctor’s words came flooding back to me.

“You may experience shortness of breath, pain in your neck, arms, chest or even jaw. In general, it will be a feeling of discomfort and the best thing to do is alert anyone nearby

and desist from any activity which may exert you further.”

I was convinced the symptoms were spot on, so I reached to Barry (you will have to read Part 1 to understand), who was two seats away. As it turned out, it looked like everyone in my section, including my only hope, Barry, had similar symptoms. It was going to be a collective heart attack. How horribly romantic, I thought.

With my last ounce of energy, I reached into my bag and squashed the Marlboro Lights packet. My friends always told me cigarettes would kill me, but I never thought it would be so public. I glimpsed up at the scoreboard:

3-0?!

One minute to go in the first half and we, previous four-time winners of this competition, were three nil down?

My Nokia 6310 kept humming as a flood of messages came in. Checking them was a redundant exercise, as I could almost mention the origin of every last one of them. My gloating and over-celebrating during the qualification stages had caught up with me. My work colleagues in Norwich - mostly non-Liverpool fans – had in the tradition with that part of the world, been measured in their reaction to my excesses.

This was their opportunity to unleash and they did.

The rest of the derision predictably, came from my Manchester United (I have to wash my mouth out now), Arsenal and Chelsea (oh boy, did they let me have it!) mates. The traffic was so much, the blue light on the Nokia came on so many times, the battery went flat. At least this was my excuse for not replying. I have never stopped asking myself what it would have been like, had Facebook been as popular as it is today.

Anyway, half-time went like a blur and the stadium rule of serving no alcohol, ensured the pain could not be dulled. I looked across to Barry and ran my hand across my throat. He responded using another hand signal - the universal ‘calm down’ gesture. I sighed heavily and held my head in my hands, as the choruses of the Milan fans swept across the arena.

I began to mentally tally the financial costs.

The closer the figure got to two thousand pounds, the more depressed I felt. As it reached the more realistic number of three thousand, I shut my eyes, held my prayer pose. I was ready for God to come.

A strange feeling descended on me, as my seat began to feel like a pod isolating me from everyone (I later found out from a spiritual guru in Norfolk that this was a state of transcending from reality into delirium) around me. I am almost certain now, that had it not been for the unexpected roar from the wall of Liverpool fans behind me, my descent would have been final.

“Four-three, we’re gonna four-three, we’re gonna win four-three,” rang out breaking any Guinness Book of World records for decibels, recorded in a sporting event. My pod shattered into insignificant little pieces, as I stood up and roared into life.

Barry and the other people sitting in our ‘sandwich brigade’ section, sprang into action, stumping the stadium’s foundations into a rippling rumble that seemed to travel across to the Milan fans, quietening them in the process. It was clear they had never seen confidence like this.

The fully suited guys behind us were new to the confidence thing too and their uncontrolled exuberance, when Steven Gerard rose like a phoenix from the ashes, to bury Arne Riise’s brilliant cross in the 53^rd minute, betrayed their initial corporate swag.

If I had thought that was over the top, what occurred over the next five minutes was absolute mayhem!

In a space of three hundred seconds, the Liverpool section of the stadium had been transported from the depths of hell into first-class seats in heaven. There was now nothing corporate about the suited guys around us. Their jackets and ties were off, as they joined in the song and bounce, which had now consumed the match. A solitary ambulance drove around the stadium track, stopping in front of the Milan section.

Apparently, like one usually sees in a Michael Jackson concert, some Milan fans had been overcome. It had been too much for them. 

Saying that, it now appeared the euphoria had spread to our section. The man-mountain decked in all red in front of me, was already in tears; “it doesn’t matter what happens now, I have seen the greatest football match of my lifetime and I have been watching Liverpool for over forty years,” he said, blubbering uncontrollably.

Carried along by the rejuvenated fervency, an almost celestial version of “You’ll never walk alone” exploded into the air. Every note delivered perfectly and impeccably aided by those who clearly did not know the words, but felt they would be missing out by not joining in.

By the time we had come down to earth, Djimi Traore had erased the memories of a disastrous personal performance from the first half, by clearing Andrei Shevshenko’s goal-bound shot. Minutes later, Dudek, the Liverpool goalkeeper denied the Milan striker again, when he produced what can only be described as an extra-terrestrial double-save, in what was a particularly horrific night for the Ukranian.

It was now apparent to all watching here in the stadium and the millions across the world; the Milan players and fans were shrinking right before our eyes. They started to sense they had snatched certain defeat from the jaws, of what had seemed like certain victory.

With Shevshenko left to turn the tide in their favour, it was never going to happen. As Dudek raced towards his team mates, I couldn’t honestly account for the next thirty minutes. Suffice to say, I lost almost all the contents of my pockets in my rabid celebrations, but thankfully, not my passport and the banknotes secured within.

In truth, it was a moment where loss was redundant. It was a moment that gave me more than I could have hoped for. It was a moment to start responding to those texts. What I could have done for a charger…..

An hour later, in the food halls of Istanbul Airport, we meandered through waves and waves of Milan fans. They were inconsolable and for most of the time, some of us managed to be magnanimous. If it had been us, we know how we would have felt. The Ultras were a different thing entirely though….in a bizarre close of an almighty loop, we have brushed past some of the same group we had encountered earlier.

Unlike the average Milan fan, their look of disappointment had a slightly different tilt to it. Their eyes seemed to be saying; somebody has to pay. It was impossible to avoid them, but the lethargy had begun to descend.

As I contemplated our next move, I could see Barry folding his backpack to make a pillow.

“Baba, are you going to sleep with all these goons around us? We might never have the chance to wake up bro,” I said with genuine concern.

“Kanmi, I have a meeting in Switzerland in ten hours and I am tired. After all you have seen tonight, do you not believe in miracles? And even if anything happens, can anyone or anything take this day away from you,” he asked as he began to lay down.

I contemplated his sentiments for a few seconds and began nodding and smiling. It was time to  make my pillow.

One Red Night - Part 1

“You get down here,” the taxi driver growled, in his best English.

My co-occupant and I looked at each other mysteriously. Was this a weird Turkish joke specially designed to wind up all football fans on this special day or was the serious look on the driver’s face, a valid clue to our predicament?

As we grudgingly exited the taxi, my cultural instincts kicked in. The co-occupant I refer to is slightly older than myself and also had the special status of having been my senior at both secondary school and university levels. As in we went to the same educational institutions. It was only courteous I suppressed my rising irritation, do the Nigerian thing and give way to his ‘superior’ knowledge.

“Baba Barry, can you believe this toe rag,” I asked, my emotions betraying my intent.

“It’s okay Kanmi, just let’s get to the game without any hassle,” he replied justifying my belief that he had to be in charge of all decision-making on this trip.

My nerves had clearly been frayed by the preparation for this football match. As we stood listening to a group of Liverpool fans, who had been equally dumped at the hurriedly assembled roadblock, the economic ramifications of the trip had finally caught up with me. I reached for the comfort of my Marlboro Lights and commenced to puff my nervousness away.

Barry, noticing my Tyson-like head movements, winked at me. I nodded back reassuringly, wincing as the cigarette alerted me to the fact I had held on to it for too long. A sudden burst of noise diverted me from the pain.

“We are Liverpool,” bellowed the now self-chosen leader. His ruby face, full of Scouse pride broke into a big grin as he ushered us forward - flags in hand and scarves on shoulders - into what can only be described as a march. We stomped the freshly laid tar proudly and seemed to be literally walking through a valley of hope, bordered by newly created mounds of sand, enforced, to pave way for the road to the brand spanking stadium.

Twenty minutes into the walk and with several blacked-out Mercedes whizzing past, it slowly began to dawn on us. We had not only drawn the short straws, but there was now the distinct possibility we may need them to aid our liquid consumption, on what was turning out to be more of an endurance event. 

To make things worse, we had begun to attract spectators, as the local people had walked up the mounds and used them as a vantage point, to view what must have looked like the Great Red Walk. Of course, in typical friendly Liverpool style, we waved at our audience and soaked in their reciprocal applause.

Another fifteen minutes down the never-ending trail, and we had started to ignore the gathering lines of the crowd. There was only a finite amount of time, that one’s niceness could last in such searing heat and besides, we had started to notice small groups of the Rossoneri. That special nervous energy, driven by sports rivalry, had taken over the air, as the evening began to give way to the dark.

Everyone in our group had a different reaction. Most let out odd noises, whilst others increased their pace for what we now knew was the last leg of a torturous walk. Barry cracked his knuckles noisily, as I reached into my pocket and bizarrely stroked my match ticket for comfort.

Now hot, clearly bothered and wet as rain, a few bottles of water began to surface. Incredibly, as we began to quench our thirst, it turned out the weather was not the only thing we had to douse. Bizarrely, maybe due to just sheer tiredness, we had somehow ended up at the entrance for the Milan fans! Never mind being wet as rain, right now, it was pouring Ultras.

All bedecked in Brigate black t-shirts and menacing stares, ensuring the wisdom of this Turkish journey began to drain from our faces. A few expletives and a coordinated gingerly taken U-turn through the tiny path they had now created for us, we found our way past the drama.

An awkward silence enveloped us for the next few minutes, as we wearily found the Liverpool entrance. A warm and frenzied embrace of the Scouse Army was waiting for us, with Chorus after chorus of ‘You Will Never Walk Alone’ ringing into the sweaty night.

Finally, we sighted the bowl of the stadium.

Emerging out of the dark, and emitting a radiant blue light towards the sky, it felt as if we had finally arrived at a long-lost spaceship. A spaceship designed just to take us home. Simultaneously, the much-loved UEFA Champions League anthem launched triumphantly and welcomed us to the arena.

Our group, now bonded by an hour of sweat, aches and fears, huddled and bounced in anticipation. It was on……

This piece is to commemorate the 10^th year anniversary of Liverpool’s UEFA Champions League victory in Istanbul. WATCH OUT FOR PART 2.

The Unquenchable Fire in the Belly...

It can be difficult…this writing palaver. Like an unfulfilled childhood ambition, it pokes continually at one’s resigned frame, asking the same questions on repeat.

This in turn, births an all-consuming belief most writers possess. A self-assuredness which convinces you, sitting behind your desk and tapping away at your keyboard, that you will eventually somehow, someday, make a difference.

All this, achieved without any political authority, economic influence or a warfare arsenal.

Just you and your chosen weapons of words, getting ready against all hope, to touch base with the implacable dictator, the unfeeling elite or the ordinary person on the street, who has completely tuned out, traumatised by a desperate bid to survive their overbearing conditions.

Staring at a blank piece of paper and urging your scrambled thoughts, to line up in an eloquent format and obey your quest to make some sort of contact. For if what one writes, had no impact on one’s intended audience, could one then still confidently call oneself a writer?

How does one avoid the cardinal sins of; using several words when one would do or indulging in verboseness, when succinctness will suffice? You see what I did there?

jrweinman.deviantart.com

Should a writer’s emotions be dripping from their paragraphs, or is restraint a key driver in conveying a message the audience can relate to? Why even bother about relating to one’s audience?

Is engaging with the audience, a requisite for a serious writer? Is it in fact, just a form of lazy pandering or an indispensable trait for any wordsmith true to his or her craft?

Must all writers be serious? Even the ones who satirise for a living? Is a deadpan delivery more effective than parody, when the issues at hand, are of a - shall we say - more sombre nature?

Why all these questions?

Well, it’s a lonely task….writing, that is. But one, that is guided by a certain amount of nobility, so it’s always necessary to contemplate on the ethics, as well as techniques of the art.

Very few writers for instance, write for no reason. They are always trying to change something and the wind in their sails, though abating intermittently, never stops blowing.

The fire never leaves the belly.

Writers must persevere and keep dropping their nuggets (golden or otherwise), because in the end, all it takes is a few lines to make contact. Yes, it could be a long, arduous road, but once contact is made, a shift occurs and hopefully, a new day is born or at least a new consciousness triggered.

I think James Baldwin; the late, great American writer captured it best when he wrote:

“You write in order to change the world ... if you alter, even by a millimetre, the way people look at reality, then, you can change it.” 

And that could be the hope keeping most writers going. Still hoping that; truly, one day, the pen will indeed be mightier than the sword and it would have all been worth it.