Please anyone out there listening feel very free to use the comments section at the bottom of this page to help a sister out over here.
I’m not saying I was at all witty to begin with but what few wits I had, I am definitely now at the end them. The child is becoming too much to cope with and her quote unquote father is giving me no love from his big, important we-are-the-world job or whatever it is he’s doing.
In a desperate move to fix this, I turned toward my faithful solution, shopping, and headed out looking for retail miracles.
Authentic fresh cactus sold by a Jamaican fellow. I cannot bring the child to her daddy in Mexico but it is possible to bring a little bit of Mexico to her. Between cactus and liberal applications of Mano Poderosa spray, perhaps I can make headway.
The stroll through Brixton Market was superb—as I paused to marvel at another impressive array of tropical vegetables and fruits, an extra-friendly chatterbox of a merchant struck up a conversation with me from across the aisle.
This is Farzan.
He told me he was from India, from Delhi and had been in London for 12 years, selling hair care products and cosmetics to his mostly African and Caribbean clientele.
Farzan had big plans for taking me to India with him, to Goa where he told me there were “lots of white people”. Flattered though I was, I told him I saw plenty of white people all the time and didn’t need to go all the way to Goa to see any more.
I asked Farzan if he spoke Hindi and he said “Of course and Urdu also and Farsi”. Why Farsi? Because actually Farzan was born in Afghanistan and moved as a child to India, a part of the story he left out. I asked “You are Sihk, right?” He told me that yes, all the “organic Sihks” come from Afghanistan.
This is Deb in the City saying, Khoda hafaz, namaste, wa-hey guru and goodbye from Brixton, Lambeth where more than 157 languages are spoken and many more are understood.