“Omo wase orise, ha ilu le o. Ha, London yi le o,” Balikis Ramon groaned in frustration. Ibadan is a long way from London. The Ridley Road market popularly called Dalston market was a beehive of activities. Nigerians come from all the corners of London to hunt for bargain in this multicultural melting pot that caters for the weak, the tired, and the hungry. Some come for food. Some come for romance. Some come to search out for long lost friends. And some come to search out for long lost enemies who will not give up easily.
Balikis drew her shopping trolley along the paved road. She looked tired, lost, hungry and forlorn. She glanced at her wristwatch. In the next two hours she will be back to the care home where she has been looking after 40 residents. She hated the place but what could she do. The dream of riches and self-fulfillment drove her out of Nigeria to search for a greener pasture elsewhere. Coming to the UK was an answer to her prayer. Occasionally, she will remember the endless visits to Ahmadiyya to see her Islamic prayer cleric. Baba Olomowewe is a known Ibadan Islamic scholar and intercessor who had helped many desperate people to Japa to London.
KB was busy serving tired shoppers queuing up for her jollof rice. K – Buka had been a historical feature of the Dalston Market. Kuburat Amao came to Dalston in 2001. Tall, fashionable, culinary expert, sociable and a jollof rice evangelist. I was in market on Saturday – her busiest day of the week. She smiled at me from afar and gave me a knowing gesture. Four other girls were helping and could be seen dishing out jollof wonders to the old, young and the infirm.
Balikis sunk into her chair. She was a regular at the K-Buka. She ripped open her shopping trolley and brought out a half-drunk Pepsi Cola. She gulped it all at once. She had layers upon layers of clothes on because of the biting January cold weather. One of the waiters greeted her. She brought a large bowl of jollof rice, chicken and another Pepsi Cola. In between her lunch I engaged her.
“I used to own a big shop at Gbagi selling clothes – ankara, voile, lace and jacquard. I was married for 18 years, and I am blessed with 3 children. My husband used to work with Lafarge in Sagamu as junior accountant. He was the man who deflowered me. He was handsome, an Ibadan man, educated, tolerant, easy going and full of life. I lost him to a ghastly motor accident along Sagamu –Ibadan road five years ago.”
K came over when the busyness mellowed. She gave me a hug and Balikis. “E wo emabinu. Saturday is always like a mad house for the shoppers. Once I opened shop around 9, there is no let up till after 6.00pm when we serve the set of late shoppers,” K explained. K had one distinctive gold tooth. She got it from Saudi Arabia during her regular Umra to Mecca. She gave us two small bottles of table water and returned to the service line.
“So, when Qudus died, that was my husband’s name, I was left with my three kids. Sales of clothes at Gbagi slowed due to intense competition and sharp practices from other sellers. I sold my shop and the goods and used the money to procure visa to the UK. The pull to come to the Uk was irresistible. One of my friends here painted a picture of Eden where life is comfortable, relaxed and productive. I built a fantasy of riches and a life of ease and enjoyment.”
She watched her time and rushed her food. We both got up and joined Bus 76 going to London Bridge. She must start work in the next one hour. I like sitting in the upper deck but had to share the lower deck with her because of her shopping trolley.
“My boss is a racist woman. She pushes me around and allocate unholy shift to me. She threatens me regularly with deportation if I don’t fulfill all the demands and requirements of my carer’s visa. I work from 5.00pm till 1.00pm the next day. That’s my typical daily shift. I work 20hrs per day for six days.”
“Are you serious? Or are you joking? Balikis, are you a superwoman? You mean you have been doing this shift for the past two years,” I asked out of curiosity.
“Yes. That’s what I’ve been doing. I have no rest. My small bedsit is in a state of mess. I have no time to socialise. I have no time to organise myself. I am just like a living dead person. I am a beautiful person. But look at me now. I am looking old and haggard and aging because of the carer’s visa I got from Nigeria. I have no time to chat long with my children who are now with my mum. There was one day when I slept off in the bus and found myself in Morden.”
“One of my clients is Angela Bevan. I like this lady and I used to give her extra attention. One day, she spat at me and called me a monkey. She pushed me out of the way and wagged her fingers at me. Also, there was a day she accused me of stealing from her purse. It was hard for my boss to believe my side of the story. Nigerian carers are notorious for stealing from the vulnerable people under their care. Infact, some of them are in jail for that.”
Balikis got off at the Old Street station bus stop. Her bedsit apartment is just across the road from the station. She will rush in to dump her shopping trolley and change into her carer’s uniform for another gruesome night shift.
“There was a male client who asked me for sex. I have seen a lot on this job. What can I do. That is what I signed for. E wo, omo nwase orise gba ni. See me again next week at K Buka,” Balikis said waving me away.
