Tears Are Not Enough

Tears Are

Not Enough

Copyright © C S Duru, 2019
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ISBN-10:

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www.chididuru.com

Foreword

This work is based on certain elements of a true
story. However, names have been characterized to
protect actual persons living or dead and where
public place names have been used, are purely for
identification purposes only.

Dedication

To Akugbo!
Graceful.
Peaceful.
And until the end, your wonderful memory will
remain in our hearts.
Always!



1

The tears in my eyes weep for Amara Kash.
The one who loved all my siblings and me, from

the minute we were born.
My heart is heavy and drawn out, like the tsunami

of a mischievously turbulent sea.
Riotous!
Sometimes tragic!
I'm not so sure now, but I believe it must have

been about six months since I last spoke with Mum.
Of course, yes! I'd been meaning to call.
But never actually got around to it.

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Tears Are Not Enough

I guess I'm not totally immune to the daily grind of
duty after all. This of course generally happens to
most normal people with a wife and kids.

Having to take care of the usual business of
providing bread essentials for my family!

Life just gets in the way.
I hear people with not so normal lifestyle feel the
same way too, sometimes.
Besides, I didn't have the good news Mum sought
after.
News which would have probably made her
attempt the shake your bum-bum dance, across the
living room floor, in sheer ecstasy - elderly style.
You see, for the last two and a half years, I’d been
chasing the UK Home office department, who were
responsible for immigration and border control.
For what it's worth, they owed me an update on
my mother's application for leave to remain with her
bona fide son.
The process should have been simple for any
British citizen - right?
I beg your pardon!
It was an absolute nightmare!
I found it frustratingly crawling with much arthritic
difficulty.
And depending on whom I spoke with, the version
of information received was usually slightly out of
sync from the previous.
They either tell me it was still being looked into.
Or they had all the paperwork required, and still
no decision had yet been reached.

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With these people, I cannot be sorry to make this
comparison.

Honestly, they're like conveyancers.
Delay means busy!
You never quite understand why the system is so
clogged up with unnecessary bottlenecks.
Asking when a final decision was likely to be given,
would be like sending a carefully worded letter
through Nipost, requesting to see God, walking
barefoot across the surface of Mount Sinai.
You just knew you won't be getting a direct
answer any sooner.
The last I had a letter from them was an official
request to update her file details with any material
info.
Well, there wasn't!
And then, the forever silence endured.
That was until I prompted them once again with
an email query, six months prior to events unfolding.
The response received was the typical, soulless,
unapologetic notice about time frames and closures.
Apparently, there had been a closure of a
previous department, which handled such matters.
Beneath that statement was an embedded link to
another web page, detailing various departmental
updates and mergers.
So, when Mum eventually called, requesting an
update, as you can imagine, I was ashamed.
Because the one thing she’d verbally asked of me,
I couldn't properly deliver.
Instead, I made silly excuses for non-performance.

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Tears Are Not Enough

I told her it was out of my hands.
That the process was regrettably slow.
And I was waiting for the home office department
to respond to my queries on her matter.
The truth was that I felt guilty because Mum had
to call to ask.
It concerned me a lot to think that all wasn't quite
right at home.
I did suspect that something was bothering her.
Even though she particularly never said so herself.
Mum had her way of saying a generic ‘all is well’
when prompted.
Nevertheless, if you really knew her very well like I
did, would know when she was being economical
with information by her chuckles or size of her grin.
Her facial expressions spoke volumes.
On the other hand, my Dad never bothered to call
to ask about my welfare.
Why would he?
He wasn’t the sort to enquire about my wife and
kids, even if he didn't mean it.
He just never took it upon himself to do check-
ups.
Perhaps he never considered it at all a necessity. I
cannot tell.
But Mum would call from time to time.
She was the kind who took great interest in
knowing what's happening in the lives of her
children.
Progressive or not!

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Once, she’d told me in confidence, that she
generally obtained greatest pleasure in knowing that
all her grandchildren were well and thriving.

She'd genuinely ask about me and the others.
Not because she wanted something in return.
Absolutely not!
She did, because she cared!
It was one of her great attributes.
She cared enough to want to know whether I was
eating healthily, organically and sleeping normal
adult hours.
I guess it was all with good intentions.
But sometimes, it really gets on my goose, to note
that she worries too much for us.
Most loving mothers generally do the same thing
anyway.
Don't they?
Oh! Didn't someone say something like; mothers
probably often see their grown-up children still as
their babies, even when some may have migrated
farthest to the North Pole.
Strange you might think, right?
But it's true.
She’d like to know what my wife and I had for
dinner the night before.
Whether we were living in peaceful harmony?
Yes, we were!
Once, she did ask without any pretence; if my wife
and I were having any sort of marital disputes. Which
in certain circumstances, have been known to cause

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Tears Are Not Enough

previously loving couples suddenly having to begin
sleeping in separate bedrooms.

“You could imagine the implication,” she says.
Not a good start, if such couples were planning on
making babies anytime soon.
“So far, so good,” I reassured her.
Truth is; my wife and I were still basking in love
haven.
We still haven't got to that squabbling stage.
Not yet!
How embarrassing!
This is usually before nosing into how my business
was doing.
I used to have a sweet warm feeling in my
stomach, just knowing that my mother cared so
much.
Not just about me though, she was the same with
all her children.
It wasn't such a bad thing!
But sometimes too, it made me wonder whether
she’d ever stop being so mumsy, and not worry so
much about us.
So, to deal with that, I made a habit of telling bad
jokes on how things were absolutely hunky-dory.
She'd kindly laugh with me anyway to make me
feel better even though they were crass. And I knew
she wasn't buying any of it for one bit.
Yeah! Her favourite phrase; 'all is well' is usually
the positive side of 'not so well’.
I'm sure she must have known I was merely doing
a poor imitation of her good self.

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All my life, I've known my mother as being the
most caring, peaceful, loving human being any child
could have wished for.

And yet, I never wished or asked for her.
That is, in the actual process of wishing or asking
for who wants to be my mother before I was born.
Every child would have had to learn to live and
cope with whichever family they were born into.
Don't they?
As babies, who totally are dependent upon their
parent’s endeavour for all things, the choice of who
gave birth to whom and why, was never negotiable.
You can't suddenly then decide to divorce your
parents either.
No one can! No matter how desperate or
embarrassing they'd become.
As for me, I was lucky.
I couldn't have been more pleased to note that
this caring, nice and beautiful woman happened to
be my mother.
See, if you so desperately sought my opinion on
her character, I would strongly recommend that our
society adopt more of Amara Kash’s kindred spirit.
It’s more valuable than the horribly lousy head
bangers patrolling our high streets, spitting curses
under their breath.
Mum never used any derogatory words as far as
I'm aware.
Rather mindful, always.
Not to complain about anything or anyone, unless
they were a direct threat to herself or her children.

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Tears Are Not Enough

Or perhaps grossly and utterly necessary.
She would never gossip about other people's
demeanours.
Not even after they had left the room and out of
sight.
It didn't matter how painful her own experiences
were, she'd opt always to stamp a cheer upon her
face to the world.
She would bite her tongue quite nicely; smiled to
everyone she met and got on with her life.
“Amachie uwa George,” she'd say in Igbo.
Meaning: gird your troubles tightly against your
apron, and the whole world would think you don't
have any!
If there was anybody who truly cherished strong
family cohesion that I know, it would be my dear
mother.
She totally got it.
Family is the base, upon which everything else is
underpinned. Name it, if you will!
Love, integrity building, charity, kindness, creative
negotiating skills, bonding, faithfulness and the lot.
They all begin from the home.
For her, the family home should forever remain
the caretaker’s door of certainty.
It should be the one door through which any of
her children could always return to find open
whenever there's nowhere else to go.
Family therefore meant everything to her.
Building one up is like carving your name on wood
covered in concrete.

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Similar to leaving your mark on the world, a trail
of your DNA code.

“Family;” she once told me: “was like etching-out
good solid foundation for generations yet unborn”.

On another occasion, she declares: “Someday
when you all grow up and successful, it is my wish
that you mould yourselves into one solid family unit.
An unbreakable alliance.”

She carried on: “Never give room for divisions no
matter how negligible. Distance yourselves from
anything which could bring mistrust. It's usually the
first sign of a divided home. Yes, it's repairable
though. But with great difficulty than when two
nagging neighbours fight. Don't allow whosoever you
bring home to sow the seed of discord by design
amongst the brethren. Always endeavour to come
together under one roof as brothers and sisters
whenever you can. At such evenings, gather
yourselves together around a large table, with all
your wives and husbands. Support one another. Let
your children play and bond with each other.
Cultivate the habit of sharing meals amongst
yourselves in the spirit of thankfulness, graciousness
and most importantly, love. That's what will
continually bind you together. Eat from the same
pot, saucepan or whatever else you may cook with in
your time. And never forget to pray!”

I was only twelve years old, and carefree.
Suddenly, there we were.
Wide-eyed siblings, all seven of us.
None said a word.

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Tears Are Not Enough

I believe we listened in rapt attention.
And yet terribly spooked into thinking that
somehow something was wrong with Mum.
Personally, I thought that maybe our mother was
not so well after all. Even though I never saw her lay
down with a headache.
Not for one day.
Maybe she was dying!
But didn't want us to worry.
She had her way of masking her own troubles,
where necessary.
If not the case, why was she being so emphatic
about all this stuff she was telling us, as though she
wouldn't be doing the same tomorrow?
In my young ears at the time, it all sounded too
dramatic.
Like she was planning on going away without the
possibility of coming back.
Luckily, and to our greatest relief, it turned out
she wasn't dreaming on a course of abandonment.
Tufiakwa!
Never!
Thankfully though, we learned something.
Nothing was physically wrong with her at the time
either.
Well, I guess it was as much as we could all see
and wished to believe.
Mum was merely voicing out sensible motherly
advice as she deemed necessary.
Some, perhaps were more impractical than others.

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Still, she shared her thoughts for the future, while

effectively maximising her time with her children.
At the time, we remained under one roof.
The thing is, with our bellies full of beans and

garri, some of us were growing up faster than others,
as nature intended.

And like the rest of us, she knew it was only a
matter of time before potential husband men would
come.

They will begin to knock down on our doorstep,
seeking our beautiful eldest sister's hand in marriage.

She hadn't grown-up unnoticed.
Some have been hovering like pigeons, flapping
their annoying wings noisily for attention.
I can tell you one thing for sure.
My father’s mean stare hovered above us all, like
the eyes of a vexed hawk.
But this memory lane was decades ago.

11

2

I still remember the first time Mum arrived to stay
with me in London.

Officially, I'd been single as classified.
All grown-up.
Though seriously dating the lovely Pinky of a girl,
whom I was convinced was going to be my forever-
after.
She was the willow beside the still waters of my
flowing stream.
LOVE!
How awesome the feeling is!
Seriously, really!

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It still beats me, how two strangers could possibly
be introduced either by chance, design or
circumstance.

And yet soon recognise they have so much in
common.

Then agree they're meant for each other.
Two of my very close friends, notably Skcuch and
Bobbin, had previously tried setting me up on blind
dates, on more than one occasion.
Not exactly my sort of thing, to be honest.
But I'd gone along with my eyes wide open
anyway.
After all, it's called 'blind date’ for a reason.
Not because people are usually blindfolded before
they arrive to meet the other.
No, they're not.
Maybe they should!
For me though, I just didn't want any blinding
surprises.
Hence, my eyes were peeled, taking in every
detail.
Turned out that my first properly arranged date,
already had a boyfriend.
Apparently, he was doing time away from home.
And guess where?
At one of her majesty's many prisons.
Poor girl, I thought.
Thanks for telling!
On first impressions, she seemed so classy, lovely.
And looked like a very nice person.

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Tears Are Not Enough

The sort who would unlikely be hooked up with a
jail Racoon.

I never did admit this to any of the boys though,
the fact that I was genuinely attracted to her.

Thereafter, the problem wasn't with her, but me.
My own stubbornness.
Did we stand any chance of working out
something together under her very awkward
circumstances?
I was carefully reluctant not to want to explore
this opportunity further.
Maybe she was ready to move on.
Maybe she just wanted an intern while waiting.
I would forever, never know!
For me though, I just was not comfortable enough
to throw caution to the winds with my hands in the
air, and then hope for the best.
Someone once told me it was a male preservation
mechanism.
These were strange modern times.
And one ought to be extremely cautious,
especially where female humans were concerned.
You must know that.
Don’t you?
So, the idea of a potential romantic rendezvous
with such a pretty young woman, whose ex is a
known shady character, didn't quite sit right with me,
if you catch my drift.
Things do happen in this foreign land.
People do suddenly disappear without a trace.

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Only recorded purely for statistical data purposes,
where reported.

Overall, she seemed like the most dangerously
quiet one.

Pretty.
Young.
And harmlessly, soft-spoken.
Yet, she possessed this thing; somewhat
mysterious caveat smile.
Such a shame I couldn't remember her name.
Not even now.
Besides, it was such a long time ago.
That's my excuse.
In contrast however, my other blind date happens
to be a nurse.
Wow!
She was the stocky type, with calves as twice
bigger than mine for my liking, to be honest.
Other than that, she absolutely stood out from
the crowd.
How could I ever forget the flirty young woman
who drank like a fish?
Skcuch and co had organised a coach trip to
Llandudno.
Until then, I had never been to North Wales.
So, was glad to join the entourage for the benefit
of sightseeing and the other relevant reason.
Just sitting at one of several service station
stopovers, she'd managed to slurp down six glasses
of red wine.
Okay! Very interesting!

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Tears Are Not Enough

I was intrigued.
It also made me wonder.
How often does she manage to remain sober over
her twelve hours shift pattern, without mixing up the
wrong medication?
As for Alcopops, they were not my kind of
leisurely caffeine drink. Seemingly enjoyed by many
young people as a soft energy booster, but I never
had any deep tolerance for their consumption
anyway.
Besides, they were a bad trigger for my gout.
So, after the trip, I quickly killed off any fanciful
idea of a possible romance, which was beginning to
gain traction in my mind.
To Laura's credit though, she had a laughable
sense of humour.
And always the bubbly chatterbox fun to have
around.
I just couldn't get past the alcohol dependency
syndrome.
It was the one thing I knew would definitely
create a gully too deep between us to find any
common ground.
You could just imagine it.
Couldn't you?
Yeah!
So could I!
For a guy who gets giddy on fizzy orange
Lucozade, I couldn't possibly see any lasting
relationship between Laura and myself.

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My mate, Skcuch, on the other hand, was hugely
disappointed that I couldn't even give it a woofing
sniff.

“You could have considered it a work in progress
kind of relationship,” he had kindly advised.

“You never know what might happen. People
change people you know.”

Yep! Who doesn't?
I just didn't want to be the one who’d eventually
be drowning my sorrows in much alcohol at the drop
of a hat.
So, in spite of its surprising beneficial advantage, I
called it a night on blind dating.
Bless my meddling friends though, for trying to
hook me up.
There was no doubt in my mind they all had very
good intentions.
However, on this romance thing, I'd finally
decided it was mine to call after all.
But that’s another story on its own for a different
day.
Anyway, I’d driven all the way to Heathrow
Airport, to pick up mother and my sister Janet, as
their flight came in.
Heathrow was busy as could be expected.
Still London's busiest hub, when compared with
the likes of Gatwick or Stansted.
Large aircrafts were landing and discharging their
human, freight and all sorts of cargo, as fast as they
were taking off back into the skies.

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Tears Are Not Enough

I remember loitering, waiting and loitering once
again on ends at the arrivals lounge.

I must have walked two or three miles in distance,
just strolling back and forth, people watching.

Oh my goodness gracious me!
Hanging about waiting in such spectacle of other
people's blatant pretentiousness, was one of my
greatest dislikes.
For me, airports were generally like gargantuan
public bars, with overpriced shopping arcades.
And massive flying planes too, if you were waiting
for a getaway flight.
Hence, the arrival areas are the very location to
easily approach within breathing distance, people
who were either too tired to stand upon their own
two feet.
Or just bored out of their wits they were forced to
sit down.
For Taxi drivers, it was normal to witness a parade
of both bearded and moustached men.
Usually, they were middle aged. Some had the use
of an A4 sheet of paper. Others carried cut-out
square cardboard notices, each with inscribed name
of their expectant probable corporate passenger.
But what happens when their hands get tired?
I did notice though, there were no female taxi
drivers amongst the men.
Something else occurred to me.
The possibility that anyone brazen enough to try,
could probably take advantage of a potential free
ride.

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All that is required is claiming to be any of the
names on the cards.

Well, only if the taxi driver was dumb enough to
not ask to see a matching name passport photo ID.

It's not unusual for most people to pick up their
loved ones from airports while glancing over
everything else.

On this particularly special occasion of mine, I
took extra notice.

There were quite a few snorers about.
It’s funny how their heads rest like throwbacks
with their mouths open.
It suddenly made me wonder whether one must
have their jaws open to emit such strange snoring
noises.
I remember thinking to myself: how easy it would
be for someone else, not particularly myself though,
to maliciously squeeze tiny amounts of vinegar in
there, to shut them up from such annoying froggy
grunts.
Harsh, ha?
I know!
Just one of those random mischievous thoughts
out of nowhere when one is idling.
Poor souls! I thought.
I suppose they must have been tired just sitting
around doing absolutely nothing.
To be frank, the sitting and waiting about scenario
was totally arse numbing.
And for some of those who had arrived much
earlier than the anticipated scheduled landing, they

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too probably needed catching up on an already
disjointed sleep pattern.

Then I saw them emerge.
I was like; “hey people! You’re very welcome to
our little London, where the world is converged.”
This was a great moment for me, after such a lazy,
boring loitering and people watching irrecoverable
lost time of my entire life.
Even so, I was so excited that I blurted out those
merely thoughts louder than I'd intended.
As you can imagine, it wasn't exactly to everyone's
cup of shericoco in such a crowded environment.
There were some passenger waiters with
expressions as deadpan as a grazed back-foot.
I noted wearied faces grinding together their
molars, whilst grinning at my lack of shameless
outburst at the same time.
And then those others whom I guess probably
thought were doing me an unwarranted favour with
their meaningless nod.
They too offered their best-wicked glare of utter
disapproval.
On my part, I had to convince myself to believe I'd
carried out my version of a very good deed.
How humanitarian of me.
I'd done the snorers a massive favour.
I deserved a badge of honour to have woken them
up from their croaky breathing episodes without a
charge.
But you know what?

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At that particular moment, I couldn’t give a Noe's
‘fook’.

Definitely, I was past caring what anyone thought
or didn't, anyway.

But it felt awesome!
This was my family!
Additionally, it was also my very own moment.
Just couldn't give two ‘fook macarenas’ if you
catch my drift.
You know what I'm saying?
Instead, my analytical eyes swept through those
two very quickly, like raging flames chasing
disappearing chariots of fire.
It took only one sharp radar-like eye scan from me
to make my initial primary assessment.
Every little detail was noted.
It's been a while as you may have gathered, since I
last saw them two.
Young Janet looked as lovely as ever.
What I did not expect, was the current shape of
my mother’s right knee.
It looked so out of sync with the left one.
Deformed actually!
To my surprise, it leaned to a 'K’ formation than
vertical straight.
I was terrified it would pop out from its socket
with any pressing false moves.
Still, I couldn't have been any proudly happier.
Not about the knee though.
Oh no!

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The fact that I was able to bring them over here
brought an incredible bounty of emotional joy to my
heart.

I did not have to worry about where they would
stay.

Or bother too much how to feed them, as host.
Gladly, I was finally settled in my new home.
I was at a happy place.
It was all very different from when I was rudely
awakened early one late Autumn morning.
I am leaning back a few years now.
This was within a couple of weeks or so into my
sojourn in this land.
I had my sights set on my envisioned rapid
progression.
That experience now has a permanent imprint
deepest into my human memory stick.
I still remember the incident, as though it only
happened yesterday.
The elderly ‘ancient person’ I was sharing
accommodation with at the time, may probably have
thought he was doing me the world's greatest
favour.
Without my invitation though.
To this day, I still never knew the man's real name.
He didn't volunteer to tell.
I never bothered to ask either.
We were poles apart.
Had different aspirations, intent and desires.
Age also played a crucial part in our parallel lives.
I was young and vibrant.

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Let's just kindly say; that he was past half a
century.

Funny thing was; everybody around me called him
brov!

Why?
I don’t know.
And guess what? It doesn't matter now.
Anyway, he made me an offer I couldn't seriously
accept without a second thought.
How dare he disrupt my beauty sleep?
Waking me up without notice at such wee dark
hours!
Only to summon me to join in his early morning
routine of public convenience sanitising rounds like I
was a child.
Excuse me!
What was that about?
Something he stylishly branded 'the key job’.
It was an undeserving choice of expression for me,
to be honest.
The title did not fit.
It couldn't.
And definitely nothing remotely like the 1969
Italian job movie thriller.
Obviously, he was comfortably proud doing what
he had to do to make a living.
I guess for him, it was just a job.
I was the new boy.
You know; the-Jamie-just arrived.
The novice!

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The ultimate new chicken-boy made to hop
around on one drumstick around an old rooster’s
pen.

Honestly, I should have been the one offended by
such unsolicited offer.

But oh no!
This ‘bozo’ of a human disaster wasn't impressed.
Instead, he took to the rumour mills of
broadcastination.
Firstly, to the woman who had shown me
tremendous favour and greater kindness on my
arrival in this foreign land.
Thereafter, what he actually thought about me,
made the rounds to his pitiful colony of middle-aged
losers.
The spiteful gist summary, as I gathered much
later, was the supposition, that I was such an
arrogant picky GIT.
He bragged to his other fellow clowns, who were
too eager for more unproductive gossip, that I'd soon
discover what life in London was really about.
Not exactly as easy picking as thought, if I carried
on with such dismissive attitude to work.
And for believing that certain types of low paid
work which were commonly on offer, and similar to
the one he was already engaged with were beneath
me.
Seriously?
What about my unmitigated audacity to pick and
choose what I was willing to do or not?
Bloody Hell!

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Nothing's wrong with that!
As a matter of fact, self-belief in oneself and
ability, however small, certainly goes much farther
than merely accepting mediocrity in any form.
Self-belief surely isn't pride at all!
I'll say!
Would you not?
I didn’t have to navigate through the proverbial
eye of a needle to risk everything that meant so
much to me.
Even the comfortable living I was used to.
I had left my family without breathing a word to
anybody, except one.
I sacrificed a progressive management job
opportunity midway, when I should have been in
cruise control.
Not to mention the very difficult choice to forsake
my growing network of collaborative friendships.
You know something else?
I even had to forgo a blossoming love affair, which
was soon to become as distant to me as a foreign
land.
Then, you might as well consider the terrific
tropical weather, if you like it warm.
I left all of those behind.
Only to arrive at the colder shores of little grey
England to be nudged to consider lowering my
expectations, and accept to suffocate my ambitions?
I don't think so, man!
No way!

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This ‘Jamie just arrived’ wasn't ever going to stoop
any lower to floor level, as to find it chronically
difficult to stand up straight again.

I will not give a thought to taking up any work,
which had anything to do with cleaning up any public
conveniences.

Well, unless I was the one using it.
And that was final. Period!
I know I was made in Africa. But for great things!
For me, it didn't matter where I chose to hang my
boots for a nightcap, the principle was the same.
A man should know when not to trade all his
dignified worth, even when starting from the dung
heap to rise up.
I definitely knew mine.
So, no apologies my dear!
With such mindful determination, lowering any
expectations of myself with so much capabilities,
would have been the worst mistake I could possibly
have made at the time.
And you know what?
I'm glad I didn't compromise one bit.
Time has passed since then.
The journey has been long, sometimes trying.
But overall, I'd come a long way.
By all accounts, I was doing pretty okay so far for
me.
At least in my eyes, that's how I saw myself.
My first proposed business partnership with a
friend I'd just met, didn't quite get off the ground as
anticipated.

26

C S Duru

He quickly skipped town unannounced.
The reason then became obvious later.
He had committed his girlfriend into the family
way without parental permission, allegedly.
Disappointed, but undeterred, I ploughed on and
opened up a men's Barber shop along Hertford road.
In the meantime, I kept hold of my day job.
I'd spent my savings to kit out the shop
appropriately, only to discover that my employee
was worse than useless.
Days turned into weeks.
Weeks rolled into months.
My nightmare had begun.
I paid for the shop.
I expected to cover such overhead costs.
The bastard claimed there were no sustainable
paying customers.
What I got in return for my investment was a
whole heap of moronic reasons for non-
performance.
Are you kidding me?
Understandably, I was furious.
So, after a disappointing four months of no
productivity gains, I’d had enough.
I fired his lazy arse, and shut down the business.
Thereafter, I moved home and location.
In other words, I changed direction.
Settling into a studio flat, with enough room for a
small office, I invested in computer hardware and
started designing self-motivational cards.
That was the easy part.

27

Tears Are Not Enough

The feedback was great in small corner shops
around Edmonton and Tottenham, where the deal
with operators was to sell or return.

On the back of a few encouraging sales, I was
convinced I’d broken new grounds.

I was super excited.
In my head, motivational cards were going to be
the next big thing to earn me millions.
I will finally sort out the deepest financial gullies
of my home branch, once the money started rolling
in.
However, the rush to print five thousand units
was naive.
Selling them for a profit soon proved to be
extremely challenging.
Big mistake!
So, let’s just say I had to self believe that my
expected millions were still on its way, coming.
But it was yet another unacceptable setback
recorded.
Things could always be better though, I know.
Nonetheless, the endeavour wasn't over yet.
With two failures still haunting me, the pressures
from the home branch remained unsettled.
With such a mountain of burden on my young
shoulders, I was once again on the lookout for that
business opportunity, which will not delay the flow
of my expected profiteering this time.
So, when an old college friend of mine living out in
the West African coast town of Cotonou reached out

28

C S Duru

to me unexpectedly, I had the fondest feeling of old
times in my stomach.

He propositioned the idea of a partnership.
That is; used clothing sales partnership.
I jumped at the offer line, hook and sinker.
I will arrange the supply of ‘grade one’ type used
clothing from my base in London.
What could ever go wrong?
Ikpan was my best friend at National High.
I knew his family.
He knew mine.
We were like brothers from two different fathers.
Of which mine was monogamous.
His was polygamous.
Sometimes dysfunctional.
Nonetheless, we all thrived in our own ways.
The difference between him and I was the fact
that he already knew what he wanted to do.
Follow in his father’s footsteps.
To Ikpan, engagement in foreign trade was his
certified calling.
The used clothing type, that is.
It was a popular line of business from where he
came from.
As for me, I had no intentions of following in my
father’s footsteps.
Rather, I was obsessed with other fanciful ideas of
who I wanted to be at the time.
One option was the probability of being a soil
scientist.
Just like my uncle, amongst others.

29

Tears Are Not Enough

Like many young people all over the place, I had
the freedom to explore life’s options.

And to make my own choices.
It’s no shame to admit that I’d changed my mind
several times since being a teenager.
This time however, let’s just say, I racked up
fifteen credit card borrowings in order to afford that
investment.
I keenly carried out all the groundwork.
Name it and I’ll take care of it. Sourcing,
inspecting, loading, payment and shipping.
Ikpan cleared customs and took delivery over in
Cotonou.
Materials which were supposed to be fast sellers
needed not to be hard work selling out within days
as was promised.
But no remittance was forthcoming back to me.
It cost me extra fortune in telephone bills just to
get to find out in piecemeal what was actually going
on.
This was the era before any instant messengers.
Or Skype.
And definitely nothing like the WhatsApps of
these days, with their free call and video capabilities.
Nothing was most disheartening, as being
lectured constantly on how the Cotonou market
works.
It didn’t help when suddenly I was being told that
the consignment was anything but 'grade ones'.
Now I found myself wearing the cloak of serious
debt.

30

C S Duru

A lot of debt!
Fifteen credit cards, each with at least a minimum
value of a thousand pounds sterling.
I am sure you must have worked out the sum?
For the first time in my life, I had such huge debts
hanging over me like Damocles sword.
I had no reserves to pay back the debt.
The planet suddenly felt lonely.
Wicked and abandoned!
I sat in a corner of my flat and shed a few tears of
frustrated disappointment.
How could Ikpan do this to me?
His best friend!
Surely, it was no help at all.
The sentiment alone made my predicament even
worse, just thinking about it.
So, it didn’t help one bit.
I had to do whatever was necessary to get my
money back.
This was money I couldn’t afford to lose.
In the meantime, I had to devise some ingenious
debt management plan to keep all my creditors at
bay.
It was like building a house of cards.
You know it was temporary.
Given time, it would surely collapse.
Let’s just say, I got back all my investment money
eventually.
But without any profits once again, I admit.
Failure number three.

31

Tears Are Not Enough

As a consequence, our friendship became strained
and irredeemable.

Dead or alive, I never again heard from my once
best friend.

That was not all.
Another friend of mine, Theo, who at the time,
was struggling financially, approached me in private.
He also made me a proposition.
His pitch was to export heavy goods vehicle parts
to the huge Nigerian market.
On paper, the numbers made sense.
His connections were ready and waiting; he
claimed.
All he had to do was source what was needed and
deliver.
Again, I had no experience with this sort of
market.
So, I relied on Theo to do what was right.
Hmmm!
I probably just about guessed what you're
thinking!
TRUST!
Yes!
Silly man!
All the above!
Yes, I wrote him a cheque.
Meaning, that I had to sink over twenty thousand
pound sterling into the business.
I willingly ignored the fact that he had no financial
commitment whatsoever.
I offered him a life line, literally.

32

C S Duru

However, the initial return on my investment was
encouraging.

In hindsight, this should have been the point
where I would have taken my money and run.

Unfortunately, I didn't.
I was hooked.
He drew me in like a sucker punch.
Here was an investment winner, I thought - having
considered the disasters of my previous endeavours.
I had very high hopes riding on this venture.
Finally, it seemed like I was stepping forward.
And heading towards doubling my money!
The feeling was ridiculously awesome.
So, I did what most people will do under similar
circumstances.
I recommitted all of my money back into the
project, including any initial profit.
Thereafter, and like the used clothing business
before it, everything else stalled.
Phone calls from me were ignored and messages
not returned.
Here's what I've learned.
Do not ever go into business, with anyone who
was less likely to commit financially to the deal. I
don't care whether their expertise or experience was
wrapped in gold foil.
Next, I heard the rumours. My business partner
was planning to leave town.
He was returning to Nigeria.
But never considered it appropriate to discuss the
move with me.

33

Tears Are Not Enough

What about my money and the business?
Same old story!
Then I heard he'd become part owner of a
microfinance business.
It took piecemeal payments, over a few years to
return my money.
As you can imagine, it set me back tremendously.
Ruining any chances, I may have had to reinvest
into any other worthy cause.
So, once again, I lost.
Today, Theo, assumes the title of an 'honourable
member' of the house of representatives.
Deep down, I know he knows he used me, to set
himself up.
Hey, but that is life! Right?
So, no hard feelings!
I must not fail to stress one fact.
That although my sincere trust in people was
shaken to its core by such experiences, my cup of
ambition wasn’t faltered or waned.
It remained much stronger, I found instead.
I'd always known that one day, I'd be my own
boss.
Then, I’d be doing my own thing, my way, without
so much reliance on anyone.
It was only a matter of time.
For a young man like myself, belief and purposeful
drive on the straight and narrow was everything.
Still is.
Because I'm self-driven.

34

C S Duru

I will confess that I am unashamedly hungry to
self-achieve, regardless of all the setbacks, which
gets thrown upon my path to millionaires’ square.

Sometimes, I do ask myself; seriously!
If the likes of Alan Sugar, Richard Branson, Peter
Jones, JK Rowling, and the rest of the self-made club
of very successful entrepreneurs, have made it this
far, realistically, I couldn't see why not little me.
I needed to determinedly wrestle down any
strongholds WWE style.
Break through whatever boundaries I may have
set up against myself.
And then to crush any attempt by whosoever else
to limit me.
Discipline and knowing what one wanted were
intangible, but good assets to begin with anywhere.
Working out the best modus operandi to get to
that next level was another.
I believed I was raised relatively well.
Okay! Don’t laugh. You have the right to add;
subject to interpretation, if you wish.
What I did know from the onset of my teenage
years was certain.
I strongly believed that regardless of anybody's
opinion.
Or the version of me they eventually noticed, I
had a good head with some common sense
intelligence screwed upon my shoulders.
So, I kept my nose clean.
Never did anything grossly ugly.

35

Tears Are Not Enough

Neither did I venture on the rampage with the
popular flow, as people are wont to say. It’s so
common these days, it’s not even cool.

That said, I could not claim to be any closer to
being a saint.

Like you, I’m only human, with a bagful of flaws.
Thrifty was my second nickname by default.
Narrowly bland as this may sound, I did not desire
to spend my hard-earned pennies on anything that
wasn't an absolute necessity.
Hence, was in no manner frivolous with my
wages, ever.
One early acquaintance of mine took this same
principle to its extremes.
With a calculator in hand always, he would
proceed to convert every potential purchasable item
value, to its comparable Naira equivalent.
Only then would he expend on those things he
believed were of similar value or cheaper.
I was careful with money.
But this guy was ridiculously absurd.
His style actually put me to shame.
I couldn't live like that.
Nobody should!
However, to remain robustly comfortable, I
deliberately ensured that I saved even before I spent
a penny.
Not the other way around.
Besides, I refused to adopt the type of living,
which could be overcast by the rise and fall of
exchange rate.

36

C S Duru

Surely, I didn't have any pop idols whom I cared so
much about to imitate whichever way they moved or
dressed.

To my few core friends, it may have seemed
peculiar not to follow every trend.

But they understood.
Which I now admit is a good thing, worthy of
copying by today's generation of young people.
These days, they all seem more into liking,
following and unfollowing each other like herds on
social media platforms.
Doing the same things!
For me at the time, it meant I wasn't going to
allow myself to be influenced by any vain glorifying
twat in the media cloud.
This young version of me wasn't drinking, smoking
or partying away his youth.
Neither was I fooling around with always willing
Huda Smith, Jo-jo Jules and Sandie Malika.
Or the many others with loose disposition, as
some of my friends were happily busy falling over
themselves.
Instead, I truly considered myself a comfortably
focused, level headed, British citizen by
naturalization.
And hopefully, without forgetting my bag of
aspirational ambition.
Yeaaaah!
So, for the first five years of my sojourn, I
patiently kept my head down.
Wintry conditions were great for unbroken sleep.

37

Tears Are Not Enough

Sometimes, I covered many night shifts.
But for one reason only.
The money!
The temping recruitment agency, from time to
time, offered their seriously reliable workers,
piecemeal carrots, although they were getting twice
as much.
So, for a measly higher rate of fifty-pence extra
per person per hour, some of the economic
immigrants couldn't resist the offer.
That includes me.
The hours were ludicrous and unsocial.
We all carried out bottling and warehousing
duties at Coca-Cola enterprises plant in Edmonton.
Regardless of the non-socialising hours we had to
put in, there was one good thing though, with
working in such soft drinks company I found.
You could literally drown your sorrows for free in
liquid cola if you so desired.
That being said, payment rates were better and
consistent, when I finally landed my permanent
status as a regular staff at DTS logistics in
Brimsdown.
I didn’t have to wait anymore for a phone call to
note what job I would be doing, and which part of
town that would be.
Thereafter, I subjected myself in all manner of
ways to earn my right of passage. All endeavours
were a means to an end.
The price in sight was full integration into British
life, if you know what I mean.

38

C S Duru

Hence, claiming whatever privileges that came
with such affiliations along the way.

I even licked an arse.
I beg your pardon?
Yes, you read that right.
No half measures!
It was the kind of arse I wouldn't have given a
second look over, if I wasn't so bloody determined,
to be part of the operating system to be better.
I had no burning desire whatsoever, to be any one
of the invisible population of illegal migrants.
Who coincidentally and continually ducked and
dived from the outside looking in.
Some of these people, I must admit, were really
the brave ones.
They all seemed to carry on with their daily
routine on a revolving game of chance.
Unfortunately, nobody ever moved forward on
any borrowed time of uncertainty in a foreign land.
Funny thing is; these people found a way to make
their situation seem perfectly normal.
But unless their circumstances changed positively,
one thing was certain.
Little grey England may present opportunities for
the ambitious immigrant. However, only the ones
determined enough to seek and find their anchorage
will succeed.
That being said, it was also imperative to note
something else.
In order to thrive in this land, full settlement
status was just the beginning.

39

Tears Are Not Enough

It allows the bearer full confidence to wake up
each morning, and not panic at the sound of sirens
whizzing by.

Sometimes, it wasn’t the authorities coming in
from the cold to get the rule breaker.

It could possibly be the ambulance services
speedily getting on to attend to the very poorly.

And then, a place to call home, with the legitimate
right to gainful employment.

Or engage in lawful business.
For some of these pretenders, it's heart-breaking
to note what bountiful talent each could bring to the
table.
No doubt, many would never rise to the surface to
shine.
They are like shadows!
Knowing they may never actively pursue those
dreams which brought them over to this supposed
colonial motherland in the first place, adds to
mounting daily mental pressures.
It's no wonder why many immigrant young black
men within this society feel stripped bare of needed
economic balance.
And the fact that this group were more likely to
suffer with mental health issues than any other racial
demographics.
Like all who'd overstayed their initial welcome
visa and gone underground would know, these
people could never protest in any public gallery.
Always be on guard. Fearful of the likelihood of
being found out.

40

C S Duru

Or apprehended.
They are in chains without being criminally
charged or in prison.
Or disgracefully booted out by the authorities
through coincidence of chanced events or by design.
When you think about it, none of these people
would wish to be returned to their native homeland
empty handed by choice, if where they'd left behind
was worse.
Nevertheless, with each new day, I see them
reconstruct their smile to the world with faces of
courage, wishing that their circumstances were a
little different.
Still, would carry on pretending to themselves and
others that all was super swell.
Sadly not!
Saturdays are for night vigils.
I never quite understood what exactly they hoped
to see with weary eyes.
Then on Sundays, the same will flock to specialist
prayer sessions, hopeful perhaps, for some miracle
of sorts.
A good friend of mine once invited me to one such
place of silent prayers.
It was anything but silent.
Honestly, you wouldn't believe what was being
asked of these people.
If I hadn't been there, I wouldn't have believed it
myself.

41

Tears Are Not Enough

In a supposed house of worship, I heard the most
disturbing, deceitful statement from the tongue of a
religious con-man.

Skinny as a dipstick.
He stood tall at about 5 foot 11 inches.
A vertical tribal facial scarring ran down the full
length of his left cheek. I secretly wished it wasn't so
obviously disengaging.
He glanced purposefully across the densely seated
congregation.
I'm sure he'd been fully briefed.
Hence, was secretly aware of their general
predicament.
This man raised his right hand as though he was a
self-proclaimed Moshe - aka Moses of biblical
Israelites.
I'd figured he already knew he was on to a
windfall.
As I watched, with incredulous fascination, this
pastoral con artist closed his eyes.
And with a dry husky voice, probably acquired
through several bouts of continuous shouting, to
fleece his desperate listeners of the little they had,
he declares: “To all those of you in need, be faithfully
diligent like your father Abraham. Why? Because I
see a vision of plenty in your path. To any of you
here who seek to have their application for leave to
remain granted; I see new seals of approval stamped
upon your expired passports. And to whomsoever
might be seeking the opportunity of a better job and
good wages…”

42

C S Duru

He paused.
I mentally counted up to ten.
His eyes were wide open.
I believe to gauge the impact of his words upon
this captive but very naive audience.
There was little doubt in my mind that this
charlatan was actually winning over their wallets.
“...please listen carefully and do what the man of
God says. I want each one of you to write down your
specific request upon a piece of paper. Enclose your
generous donation therewith our special envelope,
which will be coming your way shortly. As you do so,
you must believe that our heavenly father of
miraculous wonders, will do the same for you! Grant
your wishes.”
I expected choruses of amen and amen! This is
the day the Lord has made…!
It never happened.
Instead, there was an unexpected air of
pandemonium.
Even for me, this was a first.
Up until that moment in my entire adult life, I'd
never been in the midst of any congregation of
believers with such a deluge of problems.
I couldn't believe what I was witnessing.
Seriously?
These people began writing down their forever
long list of commanding demands.
Cheques began to flow into envelopes.
I know it was naughty, but I couldn’t resist the
temptation.

43

Tears Are Not Enough

I stole a quick glance into the scribbling of a young
woman seated next to me.

Her first line of request nearly made me chuckle
out loud.

"O God, I really need a rich man in my life right
now. Could you do this one thing for me?"

Wow!
I'd never seen anything quite like it.
For me, it really was an eye opener.
For the preacher who manipulates those in
desperate situations, it was more of a monetary
harvest.
Ushers broke sweat doing the rounds of
distributing the 'special' envelopes.
Thereafter, they returned with baskets for
collections of cheques.
I saw it all and more.
As the man began to chant some
incomprehensible, repetitive, meaningless nonsense,
the cynic in me couldn't help but laugh inwardly.
I wondered which postal service was being
contracted to handle direct deliveries to Zion's gate.
And whether those smartly suited ushers were
part of this unholy scam.
As much as I was amazed to watch proceedings as
they unfolded before my very eyes, it was so
disheartening for me to witness.
The same minority group who already have been
marginalized by the operating system in a foreign
land, were once again being systematically preyed

44