Moshood Adisa Olabisi Ajala
London, England, Spring 1994
I had just turned eighteen years old.
Within a few months of being given the London council flat on Isledon Road and Hornsey Road, and after being released from HMP Holloway, my mother insisted on finding me a roommate.
My mother was still living in Italy with my eldest sister Etna. My mother Lucia had driven around Europe in her youth with us her daughters in her car on many other occasions. Lucia, my mother, would think nothing of driving around Italy. From Italy to France. From France to London and back to Italy again. This, of course, was when we were children, and my mother was in her early forties. My mother would have been around fifty years old in the early nineties.
My mother was concerned that living in a council flat near Finsbury Park might not be entirely safe.
It is fair to say that Finsbury Park was one of the most disreputable parts of London, as were Brixton, Lewisham, Peckham, the Elephant & Castle, Hackney and many more London boroughs.
Finsbury Park was particularly unpleasant. Finsbury Park, at that time, was overrun by rapists, drug addicts known as crackheads, heroin addicts, robbers, and prostitutes. This assembly of dubious distinction sprawled out to Stroud Green Road, Blackstock Road, and Hornsey Rise and stretched as far as Manor House, Stamford Hill, and Stoke Newington. That part of north London was a veritable ghetto. Except for Islington, located slightly out of range to Upper Street and joined onto the Angel and City Rd.
Islington and its surrounding locations in the direction of the Angel were considered more innovative places and were inhabited by the working lower class. The working lower class were a step below the working middle class. That is to say that Finsbury Park was a hazardous area for all accounts and purposes.
Finsbury Park was a refuge for the released and the escaped residents of Broadmoor Criminal Lunatic Asylum. Broadmoor Hospital opened in the village of Crowthorne in Berkshire in 1863. The patients of Broadmoor rehabilitation institution for the mentally unstable were often male and female child murderers and considered dangerous. Many of the patients residing in the lunatic asylum were set loose unto the community, possibly due to overcrowding in the hospital wards. Thus, the patients were left to fend for themselves on the streets.
The streets surrounding the Finsbury Park area, that is. The formerly hospitalized patients often wandered around the Finsbury Park underground station. They would either be begging for money or trying to steal food.
A mummy’s boy. My mother engaged the services of a young Italian boy named Arturo, whom she had found by placing an advertisement in the local Italian newspaper near where she lived in Bologna. The twenty-nine-year-old Arturo who had answered my mother’s advertisement was what is often referred to as a ‘mammone’. In Italy, a ‘mammone’ is a fully grown man who has yet to sprout wings and move out of his parent's home. The ‘mammone’ depends on his mother and father to provide for him as though he was still a young child or a young man. On average, a ‘mammone’ is around forty years old. This young man Arturo, whom my mother had found, was considerably younger than forty but was nevertheless a bonified ‘mammone’, for he did live with his parents in Italy and depended on them for his board and keep.
Arturo the ‘mammone’ and my mother had met up in Bologna and had thus readied themselves to set off for the drive to London.
Upon their first meeting, the unfortunate young man Arturo was surprised to see that my mother had innumerable luggage that she intended to load onto his car. The young man’s vehicle was inevitably overloaded to total capacity and beyond. The car could hardly pick up any significant speed on the road to London. The young Arturo could not dissuade my mother from carrying such cumbersome luggage, so they set off. I wasn’t present then, so I do not know the actual happenings during their drive from Bologna to London. Knowing my mother, the poor ‘mammone’ would have felt much stressed within hours of their departure.
Three days after leaving Bologna, my mother and the ‘mammone’ pulled into Finsbury Park in London. My mother telephoned me upon their arrival in London at around 8:00 AM.
My mother informed me that they had parked the mammone’s vehicle, whom she had recruited to become my roommate, by Finsbury Park Underground Station. My mother further explained that the young man wanted to practise his English in his land of origin. Hence, he agreed to be my roommate for a limited time. This was the first I heard of my mother’s plans to get a roommate. However, I was accustomed to my mother’s improvisations. I was mainly put out by receiving a telephone call during the early hours of the morning.
At this point, I wish to remind the reader of the well-known fact that some of the very best people in history have been detained at Her Majesty’s Pleasure. Elizabeth the I, Joan of Arc, Niccolò Machiavelli, Oscar Wilde, Marco Polo, Nelson Mandela, Mohamed Ali, Malcolm X, John the Baptist, Jesus of Nazareth, etc. The list goes on and on. Imprisoned idealists and zealots have been and will continue to be the cornerstone of non-conformism.
I dare not compare my plight to the many great achievers in history. Nevertheless, as a former captive, I know myself in good company.
“Get dressed and come to Finsbury Park right away,” my mother’s bellowed at me on the phone. “You must inspect the young man and escort him to your flat.” My flat, on the 12th floor of Talbot House, is located directly opposite the Sobell Leisure Centre. It was around a 10-minute walk from my flat to Finsbury Park and less than a five-minute ride on my bicycle.
I brushed my teeth, took a quick shower, threw on some clothes, grabbed my bicycle, and ran out the door without locking it. This was when the self-respecting and discerning burglar would not attempt to rob a house that had not been verified as having belongings worth stealing. At that time, my flat had nothing worth stealing.
I arrived at Finsbury Park Underground Station, on Blackstock road, where I saw my mother walking toward me. It was early in the morning, and the streets were relatively quiet. Spotting my mother was no hardship. My mother came towards me, and we walked towards Blackstock Rd. “I have left Arturo in charge of guarding my belongings in his vehicle,” my mother informed me without a word of greeting. That was our way. There was no need for greetings. “That’s his name. Arturo. Let’s go grab a cup of tea.” Suggested my mother cheerfully.
“Where exactly did you leave Arturo and the car?” I asked as it dawned upon me that Finsbury Park is not the safest place for Londoners, let alone an Italian ‘mammone’.
“Oh, somewhere by the Stroud green Rd, behind Finsbury Park Underground Station,” replied my mother, unperturbed.
I was concerned. The Stroud Green Road was perhaps the most dangerous part of Finsbury Park. It is where most of the released patients from the asylum tended to gather. “We need to go and find this young man Arturo immediately,” I said to my unperturbed mother. “And his vehicle with your stuff in it.” That did it. The thought that her belongings might be in danger rattled my mother as she remembered Finsbury Park’s reputation.
As the words were coming out of my mother’s mouth, I saw a young man running from the direction of Finsbury Park station up the Blackstock road with fear written all over his face. I, of course, can spot an Italian a mile away, so I did. The poor man ran towards my mother and me at full speed.
“Aiuto!” screamed Arturo, the ‘mammone’ at the top of his lungs in the direction of my mother. “Aiuto Lucia!” shouted Arturo as he finally reached my mother and me. The young man was very shaken. Speaking in Italian, Arturo quickly explained that he was being chased by a humongous 7-foot black man the size of a wardrobe and had been brandishing a hammer, eyes bulging and yelling in English while running towards him. The young man Arturo tried to explain to my unsympathetic mother that the individual trying to assault him had appeared out of nowhere and looked like something sent from hell.
My mother quickly and quietly assessed the situation and became very angry with Arturo. Instead of consoling the young man, my mother started berating him about having left the vehicle with all her belongings unprotected and at the mercy of Arturo’s persecutor. The thought that her belongings were not as valuable as Arturo’s life never crossed my mother’s mind for an instant. In truth, knowing Finsbury Park as well as I do, the young man Arturo had gotten off lightly. If one was to go by the young man’s description of this individual, Arturo had probably been chased by an insane, larger-than-life crackhead whose intention was to rob in and possibly harm him. It was only after returning to the vehicle and having found it and my mother’s belongings intact and relatively safe that my mother took it upon herself to try to placate the horrified young man.
The young man was utterly disillusioned with London and afraid for his life by this time. It did not help that my apartment was a stone's throw away from where the ginormous man with the hammer tried to assault him. I remember Arturo saying that I lived practically at the crime scene and in the heart of the ghetto. There was no dissuading him after the unpleasant experience. Arturo truly believed London to be a dangerous place. My mother unloaded the young man’s vehicle of her belongings and refused to return the young man’s deposit for the accommodation she had, according to her, painstakingly provided for him. Namely, to stay with me in my apartment as my roommate. I had just been given the council flat in London, and already its location was proving to be a liability. Living in a council flat by Finsbury Park located only about a mile away from the ghetto was like being in a cage and paying rent for it.
The young Italian man Arturo sold his vehicle to take a flight back home to his mother and father, where I am 100% sure he is still residing. After his horrendous experience in Finsbury Park, London, it is doubtful that he would ever have gone anywhere outside of Italy again.
Lagos, Nigeria, 1970’s
Most people have never heard the name Moshood Adisa Olabisi Ajala. I have listened to this name almost daily since childhood. It is my father’s name. I was born on the 11th of October 1975. Almost 100 years to the day of Alistair Crowley. [3]“Edward Alexander Crowley was born on October the 12th 1975 in… England.”
My father, however, collected my birth certificate two days after my birth. My birth certificate shows the modified date from the 11th (my birth) to the officially recorded date of October 13th, when my father went to collect my birth certificate.
The conspicuous abundance of the letter “A” in my father’s name and my own is no coincidence. Most countries have the letter “A” woven into their names. Also, no coincidence.
I fondly remember my father Moshood Olabisi Ajala as my guardian angel, a constant guardian angel to all of his children.
Olabisi Ajala was responsible for procuring my mother’s, mine, and sisters' visas out of Africa. Some people in Nigeria did not all-heartedly appreciate Olabisi Ajala wanting his life accomplishments validated. Olabisi Ajala wanted the Nigerians to recognize all he had accomplished while travelling worldwide.
Olabisi Ajala started frequenting musicians who sang several of his namesake songs about Olabisi Ajala travels worldwide. Olabisi Ajala did this to become better known and respected in Nigeria. To this day, Adisa has had over half a dozen songs written and sung about him. Many of these songs have been lost to time. Thus, the little money that Olabisi Ajala had managed to save was quickly depleted through his acting and journalistic worldwide career. Most of Olabisi Ajala’s money was invested in sponsoring various artists and musicians. There remain at least two famous songs written about Olabisi Ajala.
Allegedly, Olabisi Ajala was often financially dependent on his two sisters and his late brother in the Nigerian army.Olabisi Ajala felt above working in Nigeria, except for writing the occasional article and continued to depend on his family.
Lucia met Olabisi Ajala entirely by chance.
Lucia, my mother, was hospitalized for almost two years after becoming a motor accident victim. My mother’s car accident involved a sizable vehicle. A truck drove directly into her, crushing her legs against another car. My older sister Etna, born in August 1972, was a premature babe in my mother’s arms.
My mother’s accident occurred in 1972, on the 18th of December. When my mother left the hospital, she lived with her aunt and undertook an extensive search for her daughter. My mother’s unrelenting quest bore fruit, as Etna had been rescued from the asphalted road two years prior by a kindly family.
One day Olabisi Ajala came to visit the two sons of my mother’s aunt. My mother and Adisa were first introduced in my mother's aunt's house. My mother's car accident was told to Olabisi Ajala and thus, their friendship was forged.
My mother eventually moved into her very own lodgings. Olabisi Ajala , who at the time was sleeping wherever he found a woman who would accommodate him, moved in with my mother. Adisa would sleep at his parent’s house the rest of the time. My mother Lucia and my father Olabisi Ajala lived as husband and wife for several years.
Eventually, my mother asked Adisa to provide the necessary paperwork required for the passports for herself and her three daughters so that they might get away from the dangerous place that was Nigeria. My mother often spoke of having to climb over-bloated dead bodies scattered on the road to reach her destination. This always sounded like a hard way of life to me, but my mother assured me that the brutal reality of this existence was the norm as far as everyone was concerned.
My mother had concluded that, because of Adisa’s financial instability, he would not be able to be financially supportive of his many children. Thus, my mother took advantage of Adisa’s popularity. Adisa’s notoriety commanded respect in Nigeria. Adisa was one of the few people that would be immediately accommodated by simply writing to a top official in Nigeria.
My mother was lucky to have met Adisa. Although Olabisi Ajala had no money to spare, Adisa was notorious and respected; thus, he commanded considerable influence, influence being the longer-lasting kind of currency.
Lagos, Nigeria, 1900’s
My mother used to tell me stories when I was little. These stories had a profound effect on me.
My fondest childhood memories are those of my mother telling me stories.
The Nigerian folk tale below has been passed down through generations. It is a story that could have happened anytime in history.
The lesson this story teaches us can be understood by what ensued.
Sofia was a local wealthy merchant's concubine and was second only to Maria, his wife. Sofia’s three sons also came second, as Maria had four sons of her own. Maria and her sons revelled in the legitimacy many cultures believe only marriage can afford.
Sofia felt hard-done-by as she continued to imagine her children to be the least favoured by their father. Sofia figured that her status would be automatically elevated if she could do away with her rival’s children. Thus, unbeknown to her sons, Sofia devised a fatal scheme.
The family had a century-old tradition of dressing the legitimate children in the most delicate and most luxurious garments, whilst ordinary clothes were to be worn by Sofia’s sons. Having dispatched the servants, Sofia gained access to the room where Maria’s children slept. Sofia sighted the prestigious costumes sprawled out over a massive four-poster bed, where the children slept, to be worn after their baths. Sofia drenched the expensive clothes in a deadly poison, which she had previously sent a servant to fetch from the nearby apothecary. Sofia carefully rearranged the tainted garments on the large bed in the exact position she had found them and perfumed the room with scented lavender oils. Sofia then calmly left the living the bedroom doors wide open.
The shimmering glow of the beautifully embroidered garments, accompanied by the pleasurable notes of lavender, proved irresistible to Sofia’s sons, who happened to be walking past their half-brother’s room. The boys, who were on their way to the dining hall, found the pungent aroma of lavender too much of a temptation. Sofia’s children entered the room and paused to admire the elegantly scented golden costumes glowing in the candlelight, carefully sprawled out on their younger half-brothers’ large bed. Sofia’s sons became overwhelmed by envy. A heated conversation took place between the young boys. How nice it would be if they could try these forbidden clothes just this once, and how no one would ever know. They told themselves that, as they were older than their legitimate counterparts, they indeed had the right to such a privilege, if not more. Their conversation progressed, fuelled by the twisted jealousy they felt, a product of their mother’s unfortunate position beneath Maria as a mistress. Sofia’s sons resolved to wear the threads and keep them secret from everyone else, including their mother.
Their prediction turned out to be only partly accurate. No one ever found out that the children had died due to the poisonous toxins in the garments. As part of the funeral arrangements, their father decreed that the children be buried in the same glamorous, deadly clothes. There followed widespread mourning and spectacular memorials, whilst Sofia, the mother of the dead children, unable to overcome her guilt, could only appear at the funeral seemingly as shocked and horrified as everyone else.
[5] This Be the Verse
“They fuck you up, your mum and dad.
They may not mean to, but they do.
They fill you with the faults they had
And add some extra, just for you.
But they were fucked up in their turn
By fools in old-style hats and coats,
Who half the time were soppy-stern
And half at one another's throats.
Man hands on misery to man.
It deepens like a coastal shelf.
Get out as early as you can,
And don't have any kids yourself.”
Lagos, Nigeria 1970’s
It's true what Philip Larking says, “Our parents fuck us up”. My mother is my nemesis and my role model.
My father passed away, and how he died gave me cause for self-reflection. Nevertheless, my fear of losing her to the afterlife is real. After reminding you of my father, I should continue telling you who my mother is.
You would be hard-pressed to find a woman more money-oriented in any other part of the world. My mother and father were devoted to one another, making losing my father more heart-breaking.
I had better elaborate on that remark. I am and have always been an obedient daughter. Though I am immensely grown up now, when my mother gives me advice, I try to follow it even when I know it's terrible.
My son, as a seven-year-old, was also very obedient, so I guess it must be a trait that runs in the family. The problem is that my mother is prone to giving lousy counsel. So, I am effectively one teardrop away from constantly following awful instructions. Invariably, I get into trouble due to following my mother’s instructions.
Lucia, my mother’s name, was my role model for relationships. I am referring to relationships with men. Let us glimpse into my mother and father's connection to fully appreciate where my mother and I are coming from.
My mother and father were young parents in the 1960s. They lived in West Africa and were comparatively wealthy. They enjoyed a vibrant social life and often went to functions together. My father, a well-known journalist and socialite, was a notorious womanizer. My mother came from a renowned family of merchants and was also a socialite. My mother and father often attended functions together and continued doing so until the late early seventies. Undaunted by the arrival of children, they would organize for a family member or servant to look after me and my sisters, dawn their most dazzling clothes and set off into the night, trotting from one party to the other until the early hours of the morning.
Let me relay the events of one night of “glamour and passion”, as my mother nostalgically recalls it.
One evening, my mother was talking with my dad. My sisters and I were about four, two and three months old.
“I am not coming to the party tonight.” Stated my mother flatly.
“Why not?” Asked my dad, sliding his right leg into grey slacks, followed by his left.
“I am not really in the mood, that’s all.”
Though I was a toddler, I knew my mother well enough to sense that she was lying. It isn’t challenging to make out when my mother is lying; up to this day, she still isn’t very good at it. One gets the impression that she doesn’t care if people know if she is lying or not. I am pretty sure that my father would have also spotted the lie. Still, with his mind already reeling with the philandering possibilities that my mother’s absence at the party would enable, it suited him to overlook the lie. It later transpired that my mother had gotten wind that a married lady, one of her many rivals for my father’s affections, would attend the gathering. So, my mother had shrewdly decided - to avoid embarrassment to all concerned – to skip the function altogether. I wish I could say that was her only motive for not attending the venue. But I digress.
“Are you sure?” My dad said feebly.
“Yeas, I’m sure. I will stay with our girls instead. We’ll bake biscuits and dance until midnight.”
It wasn’t - and probably still isn’t - uncommon for children in Africa to stay up late. My two-year-old son and I had often put music on and danced the night away to the lyrics of Michael Jackson and Tina Turner. But again, I digress.
“How about you, dear? What time do you think you’ll be getting back from the party?” Continued my mum. An unmistakable note of amusement and mischief was detectable in her voice.
“I should be back around 6 AM, I guess,” said my dad trying to hide the sheepish grin spreading on his face.
“All right then. But you really should take those keys out of your trousers pockets. The bulge is unsightly.” Suggested my mother helpfully.
“All right.” Replied my dad as he proceeded to follow orders. “Well… I ‘am off then… See you later.”
“Have a good time.” Said my mum, gently closing and then bolting the door behind him.
The knock on the door came around two in the morning. My mother got up to answer it.
“Who is it,” whispered my mum.
“It’s me. Open the door, for Christ’s sake,” thundered my father impatiently.
“Me who?” Retorted my mother impishly.
"The father of your children, who else?" His impatience quickly turned into anger.
"All right." Said my mother resignedly.
Something unpleasant must have happened at the party. My mother unbolted the door as promised.
"What's going on? Why are you back so soon?" Asked my mother, clearly disgruntled by the unscheduled early return of my father.
"Nothing." He mumbled.
My mother gave way to my father as he strode in and walked towards the kitchen. She followed him. They sat at the kitchen table in silence, his face impassive—a mysterious mask.
“The girls had a great time throwing cooking flour around today,” started my mum.
My mother had shrewdly decided that a direct approach was out of the question and that the best strategy was to assume an attitude of nonchalance.
It was now four in the morning. Two hours had gone by since my father had returned home, and my mother was no closer to finding out what had happened at the party.
“What’s that bulging out of your pockets?” Asked my mother suspiciously.
My mother had long since noticed that my father’s trousers pockets were bulging. It was a stark contrast to how they had looked when he had initially left the house. She guessed that he might have received some form of bribe from some poor individual in need of a reference from a well-known personage, probably to process a visa application. It was not uncommon for my father to vouch for people for favours or money. The guilty look on my father’s face was a dead giveaway, and my mother was no fool. Having noticed my father’s discomfort and latching on to this flimsy clue, she requested that he show her the contents of his trousers.
As my father started to protest, my mother, quick as lightning, leaned over with dexterity and relieved him of his pockets' contents. According to my mother's recollection, the room went eerily quiet for an eternity. My mother stood in the middle of the kitchen holding in her left hand a pair of pink female panties and in her right hand what she immediately recognized as the undergarments my father had been wearing under his slacks before leaving the house.
“Does this mean that you have been sitting there all this time wearing no underpants?” Began my mother, “You must be quite uncomfortable.”
My father said nothing.
“Let me see,” continued my mother, unperturbed and somewhat amused, “You met with someone at the party. Having found a quiet spot, you and your conquest had begun to engage in lovemaking when you were interrupted. Probably by the lady’s jealous husband.” My mother mused.
“Panicking, you grabbed what garments you could find and figured it might be best for you to leave the party to distance yourself from the situation. Hence, you’re getting home early and in a sullen mood.” Reconstructed my mother with the precise deductive skills that would envy any police detective.
By now, my mother had burst into laughter at the thought of what had been an almost impeccable account of my father’s movements that night. My mother was laughing so hard that my father, who was at first dumbfounded by my mother’s genuine amusement, could not help himself and began chuckling, which quickly turned into a full-blown laughing fit.
“I had to climb out of the bedroom window, which, as you know, is on the third floor of the mansion. Her husband was furious,” complained my dad laughingly.
This new information was enough to set my mother off laughing so hard that tears were rolling down her cheeks like morning dew on a leaf.
It was fast approaching six in the morning when they eventually stopped laughing.
“All right,” said my mother eventually, “I am going back to bed”.
“Ok, let’s go to bed,” concurred my father.
“No, dear, you’ll have to sleep on the kitchen floor tonight.”
“What for? Are you sore about the party?” My father inquired, alarmed.
“Of course not, dear. I am just a little concerned about the twenty-one-year-old Swedish young man waiting for me in the bed. We have been talking for the best part of four hours now, and he must be wondering when I will be coming back to bed.” Said my mother as she walked out of the kitchen and quietly closed the door behind her.
Bologna, Italy, 1978
[8]“What is man? He's just a collection of chemicals with delusions of grandeur.”
The last time I saw my father, Moshood Adisa Olabisi Ajala, was in the Italian Collegio Delle Suore Farlottine in Bologna. I was about three years old. Adisa had travelled to Italy to visit with my mother and their daughters. I remember him coming into Bologna's beautifully decorated Collegio Delle Suore Farlottine.
I was surrounded by nuns, fascinated by this ‘larger than life’ Negro foreigner. The nuns explained that my mother was speaking with my father and that she required my presence. I saw them standing very close to each other, whispering in the corner of the opposite room. My mother and father both spoke in one of the many Nigerian dialects. I saw a tall, large man with a big black beard. I remember my father’s beard and his eyes. Big brown eyes. Dark eyes seemed to sparkle in the brightly lit room. I was terrified of the beard. In truth, I remember being terrified of his presence. I remember crying. I remember my mother telling me to stop crying. “La Mora Data, stop crying. You cry too much.” I remember thinking that, indeed, I cried too much. I cried incessantly. “This is your father. Don't you remember him?” My mother persisted. I cried even more.
I later walked into the room whilst he sat with Nat, my younger sister, on his arm, for she was but a baby at the time. I slowly approached. With the fickleness of a child, I had ascertained his harmlessness. I felt reassured. After all, he was holding my baby sister in his arms. He surely could not be the ogre he looked like to me. I continued my slow approach. Suddenly I was up to his knees. That's how tall I was when he was seated on the low ornate bench. Sitting there, he seemed like a king to me. Childishly, I felt that this was a man that I could protect me from anything. Not because he was Adisa, the famous journalist, but because he was my father. Gingerly I approached his high knees, like two large tall pilers cladded in dark green tweed.
I paused about a meter away. I did not get close enough for him to reach out to me. He looked at me and smiled—that big Adisa smile. “La Mora Data, come here,” he commanded. I walked over on sure legs. His voice was compelling. I tried climbing on his lap and failed. My father lifted me and sat me on his lap, where I remained for his visit, at the Collegio Delle Suore Farlottine, in Bologna. I remember almost nothing else about my father except one earlier memory.
Lagos, Nigeria 1977
I remember being a three-year-old child and my older sister Etna holding my hand. The two of us were in a room that was unmistakably in Nigeria. There was a bed in the room. The bed was covered in colourful cloth. On the bed, my father was busily mounting a woman. It might have been my mother. I cannot recall the woman’s face. I did not recognise the woman at all. Come to think of it, it probably wasn’t my mother at all. Their semi-naked bodies were entwined in the tangled mess of lustful passion, something my young mind could not possibly fathom.
My sister Etna and I stood by the bed, completely unnoticed. My then four-year-old sister, Etna, squeezed my hand, which she was holding on to protectively. Eina would have been assigned to look out for me and never left me alone, always holding my hand like an unwilling gaoler. “We shouldn’t be here.” Said Eina pulling me by the hand. We left the room. Looking back, I imagine my mother would have been heavily pregnant with Nat at the time. Knowing my mother, it would have been her idea to provide Adisa with another woman to keep him amused during her pregnancy. These are the earliest memory I have of my father, Adisa.
Bologna, Italy, 1979
In Italy, I lived with my mother and two sisters around 1979. My two sisters’ names are Etna and Nat. Etna is the oldest, and Nat is the youngest, making me the middle child. My name you already know. My older sister is three years older. Etna has a different father. Nat is two years younger than me and has the same father as I do.
Nat and I are both Adisa’s daughters. Etna having a different father has no biological connection to Adisa. Nevertheless, we sisters share the same mother. Nat and I are only two of the many children Adisa sired internationally with different women, children that are now scattered around the globe.
My mother Lucia left Nigeria in West Africa around 1977 or 1978 to start a new life in Bologna, in the Emilia Romagna region of northern Italy.
“Why won’t you sleep, La Mora Data?” my mother asked me whilst standing over me.
I climbed down from the double bed all four of us shared and walked to the only other room in the small apartment. We lived in the centre of Bologna, where many of the houses were crumbling medieval ruins. I sat at the small circular table of our dilapidated lodgings.
“Mummy is always hitting Etna. Even in my dreams,” my mother pulled up the red iron folding chair and sat next to me.
“All right, La Mora Data. I won’t hit Etna anymore. Stop crying.”
Later that day, my seven-year-old sister Etna washed the plates, standing on a low wooden stool at the sizeable low kitchen sink. The apartment consisted of two rooms. A kitchen with a sink, a table, and three chairs led to a smaller room with a double bed and a wardrobe. I do not remember why, but my mother started berating Etna again.
“You are a slave, Etna. I am not hitting you only for La Mora Data's sake. La Mora Data has been having nightmares. Write it down, La Mora Data and Nat. Etna is enslaved and will always be one.”
An adorable child. Nat was only a baby, just a little over one year old, but tall and slightly chubby in the face. Nat said little to nothing until she grew to be around six years old.
To better explain the impact of the frightening nightmare I experienced at the age of three or four years old, I will need to expand on our family dynamics at the time.
My sisters and I first arrived in Bologna from Nigeria, with our mother Lucia, in 1977 or 78. For the first five years, mine and my sister’s living quarters, I alternated between the Collegio Delle Suore Farlottine and wherever my mother’s newly upgraded apartment happened to be.
My mother, Lucia, was born in Nigeria to Nigerian parents. David was my grandfather’s name, whilst Comfort was my grandmother's name. David raised my mother, Lucia, to be a winner. Lucia was what they would refer to as an overachiever. However, at the time, Nigeria was not an environment designed to cultivate prodigies. Especially boastful prodigies, lacking in humility and modesty like my mother was. We can all agree that the proper environment is essential for a seed to grow and bear fruit.
My late grandfather David was a wealthy merchant from a long line of merchants. My grandfather David was the father of my mother, Lucia. David was very proud of his first-born child, his precious daughter Lucia, and proceeded to spoil her rotten. As far as David was concerned, Lucia was what we might call a natural CEO these days. Lucia’s environment shaped and determined her morals, or more accurately, her ethical approach to life. In a hostile environment, the need to survive carved Lucia into the ambitious and unscrupulous individual she became.
Born in 1943 in Nigeria, Lucia was surrounded by poverty, crime, greed, corruption, murder, death by disease, Christian dogma, native black magic referred to as “juju”, and much more. It was, thus, inevitable that Lucia would grow up psychologically damaged and emotionally dysfunctional in many ways.
In truth, we are all psychologically damaged and dysfunctional to a certain degree. These personal deficiencies only become apparent when they can be described or pinpointed as ‘problematic’.
David, my grandfather, taught my mother that boasting was of the essence when training oneself to be and feel superior to others. Even in Nigeria, things were not easy for jumped up Africans, which is what an ambitious African is from the viewpoint of the colonialists.
My mother, Lucia, revealed to us as children that she would cry for sweets as a child. My grandmother, Comfort, would place a handful of sweets in my mother’s right hand, at which point my mother would cry because she had no sweets in her left hand. My grandfather David would ask his wife, Comfort, why Lucia was crying and then beat his wife for not satisfying his precious daughter Lucia in all her whims. Comfort would have to travel miles on foot in Nigeria to buy additional sweets for my capricious mother. Lucia learned her sense of entitlement at an early age from her father, David, who overindulged her every whim. My grandfather David was not raising a little girl named Lucia. David raised a tyrant.
This arrogant state of mind my mother cultivated might have contributed to the way people reacted to her throughout her life. We can all agree and attest to the importance of self-esteem, but my mother’s self-centred attitude made her enemies—lots of them.
It was when Etna was an infant that it happened. Nat nor I had been born yet or even conceived. At that time, it was just my mother and Etna. My mother held Etna whilst standing by her vehicle on the High Road, somewhere in Nigeria. My mother had stopped the vehicle, a small Volkswagen white van, for some reason. She had gotten out of her van with Etna on her arm. A truck appeared from nowhere and crashed into the two of them.
My mother’s legs were crushed, and Etna flew across the road. My mother tells us this story every time she undresses and sees the scars on her thighs. Huge angry scars, darkened by the years. My mother’s huge scars attest to the viridity of her accident. After the crash, my mother was hospitalized, and her daughter Etna went missing, having been flung out onto the road during the impact.
It later transpired that Good Samaritans had rescued etna, and my mother, who was admonished that she would never walk again, had the luck of coming across a doctor, possibly from the Netherlands. Europeans would come to Africa to practice experimental medicine on African natives. My mother’s recovery is attributed to one of these successful experiments, as the doctor placed a steel rod in her leg.
During her rehabilitation after extensive surgery, my mother forced herself to walk. The months passed. Many months were spent recovering in a hospital in Nigeria. When my mother could finally walk, she searched for her missing daughter Etna, whom she found, in the care of a kindly family not far from where the incident had occurred.
The events in this story are not my memories. The car accident is solely my mother’s memory of some of the hardships she endured in Nigeria. My mother always regarded the accident as another attempt on her life. This episode was an earlier attempt on her life by rivals and jealous competitors. At the time, my mother had been running her own business. She had finished studying at college and started a small removal business. She had procured herself a van and used it to help people move their belongings from one place to another.
My mother, like Adisa, was a boaster. It is entirely possible and widely believed that her enemies orchestrated the accident.
My mother later had the steel rod in her leg removed. The doctor had advised her to keep it inside her leg for one year, but the steel bar started to poke out of my mother’s hip ten years later. The metal bar pressed against her flesh and put my mother through unbearable pain. She arranged to have it removed at Saint Thomas Hospital in London.
My sisters and I travelled with my mother to London for her surgery. It was a successful surgery. I believe my mother still has the steel bar that came out of her leg, a testament to her determination to walk regardless of the injuries inflicted by her adversaries.
Lucia was the brainchild and the biological daughter of David, my grandfather. David had encouraged my mother’s outspoken arrogance, which reached an obnoxious level. Thus, my mother was moulded. Any task, however minor, accomplished by Lucia was disproportionately blown up by her father David to exemplify the epiphany of achievement.
My father visiting my mother and us at the Collegio Delle Suore Farlottine when I was a child is significant. The nightmare of my sister Etna being subjected to violence by my mother and my father’s presence reminded me of Nigeria.
One day my sister Etna and I played outside in my mother’s backyard yard in Nigeria. My mother was on the upper floor of the house, entertaining a white man probably from Switzerland, Germany, or the Netherlands. I remember hearing my mother scream and running down the short flight of stairs. I remember seeing the sun's reflection on silver among the trees that surrounded the house. I remember my incessant mother screaming whilst she ran towards us. “Etna, grab your sister La Mora Data and get inside the house,” my mother bellowed at Etna.
Then a completely naked white man descended from the upper floor and appeared behind my mother. “This white man has a gun,” shouted my mother in the direction of the surrounding woods. The would-be mercenaries hiding in the forest, screaming, and shouting at each other in one of the many undecipherable local native languages, began running away. My mother later explained to Etna and me that it had been another attempted assault on our life. Again, assassins had been dispatched to kill my mother and her daughters. Being Adisa’s daughter could be a liability. Olabisi Ajala had many love interests who would compete for Adisa’s affection by having their rivals eliminated. The assassins, partially naked Nigerian men with machetes, had surrounded the house. If it had not been for my mother alerting them to the presence of a white man in the house, we would all have been killed on that very day. Seeing a white man, even a completely naked one, was enough to scare off the natives as it was well known that all white men carried a gun. Back in those days, a white man without a weapon was unheard of.
That is my last clear memory of Nigeria and why I do not feel comfortable being reminded of the place. I genuinely do not think I can remember anything else from the motherland.
My mother and father’s courage and determination to survive were tremendous and undeniable.
Images and references:
[1] Finsbury Park, London, UK, the 1990s.
[2] Harvist Estates, Hornsey, London, 2015.
[3] Gary Lachman: Aleister Crowley, Wickedest Man in the World, page 20.
[4] Moshood Adisa Olabisi Ajala, Nigeria, 1970s.
[5] Philip Larkin: “This Be the Verse”, Collected Poems, Faber and Faber, Ltd, Farrar Straus and Giroux, 2001.
[6] My father Olabisi Ajala and my mother Lucia, 10970s, Nigeria.
[7] La Mora Data, Collegio Delle Suore Farlottine, 1978-9, Italy.
[8] Ayn Rand: “Atlas Shrugged”, Penguin Publishers, October 10, 1957, USA.
[9] “I remember thinking that, indeed, I cried too much.”
[10] My grandmother Comfort, Nigeria, in the 1940s.
[11] “David raised a tyrant.” Lucia with daughter La Mora Data, Lagos, 1976.
