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JUJUS (Gambia 2008) |
| Written by stephen west | |
| Wednesday, 30 July 2008 | |
It gives me great pleasure to declare that I am still on a learning curve. Life continues to surprise me. Cynical, (sometimes), I may be, but open to new ideas and concepts ever. Not just, as Ovid said, "Always something new out of Africa", but the whole wide world insists on presenting with absolutely amazingly novel and tantalising revelations. During my lifetime there has been so much innovation, invention and change. New art, new music, new media, new forms of travel and a load of luxuries to make life easier. (Except nylon bags. I hate nylon bags. They are a curse, an anathema, a devil's joke. More than a trillion blots on any landscape.) New wars, new peace, new regimes, new leaders. Discoveries in medicine, palaeontology, geography and archaeology. Almost daily the flaky foundations of usual practice and traditional thought are undermined: and rightly so in many cases.
But something happened to me the other day that beggars belief. Before I recount this new tale, let me, for a moment, take you back some thirty five years. I found myself, then, as a young man, in some serious danger. My life was saved by an old Irish Catholic priest with whom I remained in contact. We used to meet regularly in Liverpool for a meal when ever he was travelling home. On one of these occasions he gave me a Claddah ring. This traditional Irish ring depicts a heart held by two hands and a crown on top. Sometimes referred to erroneously as "The Irish Wedding Ring", it is actually a friendship ring. Legend has it that you never buy one for yourself. It has to be given. So he gave me this ring at one of our bi-annual lunches, and at the same time announced that he was taking a new post in some far away land, and that his leave would now be at five years' interval. We said our goodbyes. A couple of years went by and then suddenly, one day, the ring broke. Three days later I received a phone call. His brother, from Galloway, informed me that Father Paddy had passed away peacefully in his sleep. You have guessed it, I am sure. The ring had split at the exact moment that Father Paddy had died. I still have it, but I will not repair it. Now that is weird!
But it gets weirder. Last week I bought a new car. Now I have been driving in The Gambia for over thirteen years and during that time I have owned three or four different vehicles. From day one I had keepsakes in my car. Emblems, icons, protection, blessings, call them what you will. Okay. Jujus. That is a suitable all-encompassing word. From an old and trusted friend who died long before his time I had a set of Muslim prayer beads, generously given to me as a memento by the man's son. They are a constant reminder of our rapport and mutual understanding that was so tragically terminated by his early demise. I also transport around with me a set of rosary beads which were blessed by Pope Pious XΙΙ at The Vatican in 1950. Now history will tell you that this particular Papal bull was not squeaky clean. And I agree with that view. But my mother gave them to me, and I carry them for her. My third item is protection created by Pa Buba, the Marabout in Kerr Serrign. It consists of a tiny little bag of something magical and mystical tied up with red cord. When he gave it to me the sage remarked that while this particular item was in my car I would never ever crash into anything, and nothing would ever crash into me. And I have never hit anything nor anyone, and nothing and no one has ever hit me. Now I know that some of you already are giving out the old, knowing, nudge-nudge, wink-wink smile or have even descended into convulsive, mocking laughter. Just bear with me for a few more minutes. Tell yourself that you are indulging me if it makes you feel better. But hear this. I transferred my mementos to the new car, but then realised that my chances of advertising the old car for sale diminished if I kept it parked in the compound. So I took us out for a spin to a supermarket in Kololi. I sat in the car park, with the engine off, waiting for the blonde to reappear. Lo and behold, a great big American bus thingy started to reverse towards me. Now you know that bank robbers never use a Benz as a getaway car because it will not start instantly. So I am sitting there frantically multi-tasking, papping my horn, shouting, and trying to warm up my plugs while this vehicular leviathan continued on its wayward journey (in slow motion, these things always happen in slow motion), and thumped into my car. Crunched nearly half of my front wheel arch. You can believe what you want. I know that I believe in something. My only problem of faith is that I do not know which of my three mementos has actually been protecting me over the years. So I am keeping all three of them in the new car, and I am anticipating, nay, looking forward to, another thirteen years of accident free motoring. It obviously works for me. But it is still weird! Copyright 2008 stephen west |
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