Tears Are Not Enough

C S Duru

upon, and doubly robbed in the name of the FATHER
by their own kind.

Why?
All for the lack of knowledge!
This wasn't how I wanted to live my life.
Not exactly on a wing and a prayer from a bunch
of self-serving, deluded, deceitful un-pastoral
charlatans.
So, no! I wasn't going to accept any half measures.
For me, it was all or nothing.
I couldn't have licked a not so pleasurable arse
amongst other things, and then come away still
hanging onto the peripheries of society.
What?
Aha!
Disappointed?
Don't be!
The arse licking bit, if you must know, isn't
necessarily what you may have thought or are
thinking.
Really?
Yuck!
Gotcha!
You must be such a filthy minded little piece of
umbilical cord to have even considered what I
believe just crossed your mind?
Metaphors people!
Think metaphors!
And observe the symbolism!
Life was okay!

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Tears Are Not Enough

Perhaps a little too quiet for this peculiar young
man.

Still, it somehow felt spontaneously
uncomplicated.

I minded my own business with astute recognition
only, because I was working my way steadily
upwards to something bigger, better.

Yes! I did recognise that my solo train was moving
rather slowly.

But definitely headed in the right direction for
progress.

No shortcuts!
I saw the future as weighted in liquid gold.
Better still, it held greater opportunities for me to
explore, achieve and excel.
I visualised where I wanted to be so much that
sometimes in my mind's eye, I could see, feel and
almost reach out to embrace it.
William Voltrenom - my credit broker, he once
told me I was super credit worthy.
Which in modern financial speak literally
translates to; it was okay to borrow funds from any
high street commercial lender dead easy.
Of course, the service wasn't by any means free or
cheap.
Mr Voltrenom would definitely be making a
commissioner's mint, for arranging such, or any
other financial deals, if I wanted to go ahead.
It was alright to feel flattered.
In all honesty, I would admit that I was a bit
encouraged.

46

C S Duru

Only that in my head I wasn't quite ready to go
borrowing.

Not yet!
So, in the beginning, it was safe to positively claim
that I owed no one anything.
Not even a fraction of a dime!
Part of that statement, I must confess, came from
an advice I once heard my father quote from
scripture, the biblical book of Romans 13:8.
Actually, thinking about it now, I do realise I am in
partial breach of the same verse.
Did I not just claim to not owe anyone anything?
Well?
That’s WRONG!
My memory now seems to recall a particular
incident.
I had to borrow one hundred legal tender paper
notes from dear old Margaret.
Undoubtedly as a consequence of a fine for an
overdue TV licence notice.
Who?
Yes!
You read that right!
Margaret Parrotti!
She used to be my Maggie on everything, virtually.
Well!
That was until she committed the unexpectedly
unthinkable.
Urrgh?
Yes!
You probably guessed it.

47

Tears Are Not Enough

She brazenly dumped me for some aching
divorced senior citizen type.

How rude!
Turned out her chosen beau was a taxi driver she
sought comfort with in her second part-time job.
Her reason was absolutely absurd.
I would say so myself.
Wouldn't I?
Nobody likes to be dumped for a reason like this, I
suppose.
She told me she'd figured out I wasn't proudly
singing any midnight lullabies to be seen with her in
public places.
Some part-time lover boy that I'd become.
Well, maybe so.
But, was such an allegation enough reason to do
the dumping?
Really?
How bizarrely inappropriate.
Still, I refuse to accept any responsibility for her
actions.
Her reaction therefore was to have a prohibited
dirty night with mister taxi driver.
She told me afterwards.
Cheeky cow!
Honestly, I don't know why I was so outraged by
such loose behaviour.
One thing was clear though.
To which I hereby shamefully, unreservedly admit
that I was seriously let down.

48

C S Duru

If her intentions were to make me jealous, she
was bang on the money.

Nevertheless, I wasn't putting up any take me
back fight.

Never!
Margaret already had two teenage children.
It wasn't as if she was the previous year’s hottest
summer spring chicken.
Not by a long shot.
Nature’s unemotional hand of regrets was already
beginning to assert timelines on her temple.
There were visible appearances of grey to her
hair.
Besides, the elasticity of her skin was beginning to
look tired and loose.
Distancing herself from her effeminate husband,
and going through what seemed to me like one sided
divorce process, made me realise she was probably
right in her decision.
I never held her hand openly or hugged her with
the kind of affection she so desired.
Was it really what she yearned for at the time?
Perhaps!
The emotional side of affection for her was more
important than my preferred physical rumpy-pumpy.
I'm not so sure looking back now why I was
entangled in such a fragmented relationship in the
first place.
My honest guess would be to believe that it may
have had everything to do with my hormonal surge
of youth.

49

Tears Are Not Enough

I must have been thrilled with the passion fuelled
weekend rendezvous we used to have in private.

She always came over to my place.
It must then be the knowledge that my Maggie
was never going to fall pregnant by any purposeful
accident.
She'd previously had a total hysterectomy, you
see.
I saw her scars.
If not, why wasn't I eagerly proud to slide my
hands cosily beneath her skirts, nor caress her thighs,
while we sat skin to skin at the top deck on the 53
night bus?
Other than the above said, I still have no smart
answers to why I didn't attempt to smooch all over
her in public.
Maybe I was overly conscious of what friends
might say if we weren't a secret.
Maybe I knew I could do a lot better.
Anyway, I don't know where Margaret is as of this
moment.
Personally, I wouldn't think she'd be getting any
refund whatsoever from me anytime soon, even if I
knew where to find her.
Sometimes I do wonder whether she remembers
the loan anyway.
Also, it's been such a long while.
But I do!
Time had passed between us like some
irredeemable volume of water, which flows beneath
an old bridge.

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C S Duru

I now kind of consider the debt as the equivalent
of a cheap payoff, with no strings attached.

A gift, I suppose.
That way, I feel at ease.

**********

August 1997, was indicative of the first sign of any
impending changes in the clouds.

For me, it was a catalytic year of the cyclone.
Which proceeded eventually to set in motion,
irreversible events in the long run; moving forward.
I did not know it then, though!
If you recall, I told you earlier that I was made in
Africa. But for great things.
You see, for reasons which were certainly obvious
only to me, I had delayed taking any time off work or
considered any vacation across continents as an
option.
However, time seemed to have moved on very
rapidly.
Suddenly, I soon realise it's been up to five long
years and counting, since the date of my historic
arrival.
Up until then, all I ever did was work, work and
more work!
You can therefore understand how eager I was to
go back, when an opportunity arose.
I intended to see my friends, family and maybe
meet up with some relationships I had left behind
without much of a disappearing explanation.

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Tears Are Not Enough

I did not have to explain myself to anyone.
Nevertheless, as with my mindset, I believed they
deserved that much, at least.
Some sort of relationship closure, if you will.
You know. With no hard feelings!
Why complicate matters when you can still
remain friends?
With my mind made up, I then notified my
manager at DTS in writing, stating my reason for an
aggregated four weeks break.
Consequently, he called me into his small office
and we had the following conversation.
"Jamie, Jamie, why now?" he said.
"You're too important for me to let you disappear
for four weeks. You are my top man on this job, and
you know it. Besides, we are getting busy. Everyone
takes two weeks. So, let's shake on it, yeah?"
Alyn stretched forth his right hand, expecting that
I shake in agreement.
"What do you say?"
I stared right at his eyeballs.
Then, lowered my gaze to his outstretched hand.
I have never felt so infamously insulted.
The first thought that ran through my mind was: I
am not everyone. I'm Jamie Kash.
Having noted that I was unconvinced by his
disingenuous flattery, he withdrew his hand and sat
down behind his desk.
I too, pulled up a chair.
"With all due respect, Alyn, I can't do two weeks,"
I told him.

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C S Duru

My tone of voice was emphatic.
"You can't or you won't?"
I left unanswered that part of the conversation.
Can't or won't was neither here nor there.
"Why not? We all do take a one or two-weeks
holiday here and there to unwind."
"I know. But you must understand that my
circumstances are entirely different. I would need
more than two weeks to accomplish what I have
already planned to do. If not, I sincerely do believe it
would be a wasted exercise. I don't know when I'd go
again."
"Where are you going, if I may ask - Alaska?"
I chuckled a bit.
But his obvious presumptuousness wasn't funny
at all.
"Africa! Already booked my flight."
"Oh! Really? I went on Safari to South Africa a few
years ago. My goodness, it was such a blast, getting
to see a pride of Lions at close range. Very hot
though."
I had absolutely nothing further to add to his
comment.
Neither did I plan on cheering.
No!
If one was planning a trip to the ancestral
motherland, at least they should factor in the
weather.
It is baking hot and humid sometimes.
African people are severely at the mercy of the
midday Sun all the time.

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Tears Are Not Enough

It’s part of their DNA.
Complaining wouldn’t change anything.
"I am sure you can always arrange to alter it?"
"Sorry! I didn't think my time away from work
would pose such a problem."
"OK! I am quite happy to grant you the usual two-
week break. The other two, you could always take
whenever you wish. In any case, if you must insist.
Well, just be aware there may not be a job for you on
your return."
Seriously!
Was that a threat?
"I've been saving my vacation for a long time now.
The reason being that I'd rather not take them in bits
like everybody else. If you care to check my records,
you would find that I have never missed a day of
work. Whether it be winter or Indian summer, I am
always here for my shift. And on time too. That must
count for some privilege, doesn't it?"
He looked at me critically, as though I was a
smoked Salmon on display.
Right there in his eyes was my answer!
I rose to my feet.
As I walked out from his office on that particular
afternoon, one thing was certainly clear in my mind,
as far as Jamie Kash was concerned.
I was going to take my four weeks holiday in one
stretch as planned. Unless the earth suddenly caved
in upon me. Which was very unlikely, I hoped!
Those were my annual entitlement.

54

C S Duru

Shallow threatening words from the likes of Alyn
Shepard will not stop me.

Not this time.
Not ever!
I will go away and enjoy my African vacation.
Thereafter and only upon my eventual return, will
I then contemplate on how to deal with any fallout
from my decision, where necessary.
Let’s just say I came back to a pile of paperwork
just waiting to be dealt with.
I don’t know how they did it, but my vision of
events couldn’t have been any clearer at this point.
There was no way I was prepared to accept such
ludicrous behaviour.
Everyone was dispensable at work. Right?
So, how the heck they did not get another able
staff to cover my shift, while I was gone was
absolutely beyond me.
I marched straight into Alyn Shepard’s office with
a face as thin as twiggy.
He took one look at me and screamed heartily
before I could vent my spleen.
“Welcome back Jamie. You’re a career's saver!"
His hands were up in the air.
And his approach as though to hug me.
I stepped back quickly, to avoid any physical
contact with this man.
A lot seemed to have changed in just a month, I
thought.
"I take back my previous statement made before
you left," he continued apologetically.

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Tears Are Not Enough

"Have you seen your desk? As you can imagine,
these people plan on seeing me get fired.”

I felt sorry for the little bastard!
Something must have happened when I was away.
But I didn't care what.
He was forgiven.
It took me two weeks to eventually clear the pile
of paperwork.
Honestly, I wasn’t happy about it.
Months later, as it turned out, I was out on a
leisurely Saturday mid-afternoon window shopping
stroll with my mate Ranada.
We happened to wander into a Maplin store at
Wood Green High Road.
This was an electronics hardware store with a few
books in it.
At first glance, it seemed like an odd combination.
Electronics hardware store and books!
Anyway, Ranada was interested in computer
hardware.
I kind of browsed aimlessly, until I got to a display
of books tagged “how to code in HTML”.
Never heard of Hypertext Markup Language in my
current line of work.
So, what was it?
I guess, it was more out of curiosity than desire,
that I picked it up and flipped back and forth the
pages.
Then I read the blurb.
That was it.
I remember thinking to myself, I could do this.

56

C S Duru

I bought the book.
It was more practical than theoretical reading.
But you must first read and understand to
practice effectively, obviously.
I was fascinated.
I already had a computer at home.
So, I got unto it, opened up notepad and
practically wrote my first 'Hello World' HTML code,
readable on the two competing computer browsers
at the time - Netscape and Internet Explorer.
Okay! I wasn't programming in Java.
Or C++.
Not yet!
But, for me, it was a purposeful start.
The beginning of my enabling skills acquisition.
Like people are wont to say: the rest is now
history.
It was so much fun that I expanded my knowledge
base very quickly.
Next step forward, was to quit that ludicrous
logistics job at DTS.
It was fun while it lasted.
I also recognised something else.
Each job had its purpose.
In some, you learn people skills.
With others, those skills may be pushed to their
limits.
This old one had run its course.
Now was the right time to move on to new
pastures.
As they say; learn new skills, and grow.

57

Tears Are Not Enough

I knew quite early in life that I wasn't hewed for
servitude.

Whether in the form of work or otherwise.
I'd always believed something.
If I could employ my skills to make money for
somebody else.
Why shouldn't I utilise same to grow myself and
reap the potential benefits?
After all, it's my skills, my time, my efforts.
You see what I mean?
This was it!
I decidedly became a HTML coder for anyone who
would risk taking me on.
And did they hire my services?
Yes, they did!
In the late nineties and early noughties, there was
so much work for raw coders of all sorts.
JavaScripters, VBscript, Cold Fusionists were
adding pizzaz and dynamic content to web
development.
It was brilliant.
Now I could pick and choose.
Quite literally.
Wages were competitively attractive.
My life saw a rapid progressive transformation.
For those six FAT years between millennial 2000
and 2006, I believe, no other phrase would best suit
the description, than a period of plenty.
The commute was excruciating.
Nonetheless, the work environment was bliss at
3Com in Hemel Hempstead.

58

C S Duru

Our collective web team was a united nation of
twelve raw coders.

Which comprised of Gad - an Australian, whose
ego was larger than the size of his big head.

There was the New Zealander.
She looked pretty much like young petite Kylie
Minogue.
Two Nigerians.
One Israeli.
One American.
One German.
Five British nationals.
There was no looking back.
It was boom-time in England.
Opportunities were being snatched with both
hands.
The cost of borrowing was cheap.
In certain areas of London, property prices rose in
double digits.
Probably the best time to invest.
So, I called upon my credit broker - Mr Voltrenom,
remember him?
He delivered.
I bought my first property via an auction sale.
Then another.
Flipped the former.
Invested in a third and rented out the second to a
middle-aged couple and their dog.
This was easy.
I was ready to roll.

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Tears Are Not Enough

It was with this new attitude, that I decided I’ve
had enough of 'dear sir' letters.

Henceforth, I wished to myself never to write any
‘dear sir, I beg to apply’ letters to anyone.

Hopefully, in the future, I would never again have
to write any letter with such bizarre, self-limiting
ending as …’sincerely, your humble servant.’

I told you I was made in Africa. But for great
things!

**********

And so, after my exuberant excitement about my
mother and sister Janet’s arrival, there was so much
to catch up on.

It kind of clouded most of my brain activity for a
day or two.

I mean the euphoria!
I had made Janet a promise a while ago. To bring
her over to London after her university graduation.
Seeing her again after such a long time, all grown-
up, learned and sensible, made me realise that my
promise was finally redeemed.
Shortly though; that is, after all the half-
interesting home stories were exhausted, I then
discovered that Janet had an entirely different set of
plans for herself from the one I'd previously
envisioned.
You could half measure my surprise, I suppose,
when I noted that she didn't want to stay any longer
than was absolutely necessary.

60

C S Duru

What?
Why?
She looked at me ruefully and smiled.
I also understood.
The power of love does wonderful things to
people, doesn't it?
It sure does!
If ever you have doubts about the powerful
emotions of love, pause a little and think.
Ask yourself why Adam never bothered so much
as to query his wife Eve, by whose authority she did
first consume the untouchable fruit in the Garden of
Eden?
I found that Janet was eager to return to her base
in Lagos, to be closest to her new beau.
Clever girl!
It was my understanding that promising young
men were becoming rare gem finds. Like gold dust
hidden amidst desert dunes of the Sahara.
Hence, having found hers by choice, she was
determined not to lose an inch of their blossoming
relationship ground.
She told me in all seriousness, that every
unmarried damsel was potentially a camouflaged
hawk-eyed man snatcher.
Even the very ugly ones with fat backsides and
large booby-trap.
They seemed to lurk about everywhere.
And most would do absolutely anything necessary
to grab full advantage of circumstantial absences.
In other words, my invitation was great.

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Tears Are Not Enough

She was thankful, grateful too and all that.
Absolutely over the moon, no doubt.
Unfortunately, the timing was awfully
inappropriate to being near shambolic.
Later, she confided in me about her obligation to
making sure that Mum got on the right flight.
Even more importantly, that she arrived at the
intended destination in one piece, without any errors
of jetting off into some unplanned sunset by
misadventure.
That was all well and good.
Nevertheless, considering the hoops I had to
manoeuvre, and expenses to make this trip happen, I
was just a shade disappointed.
I cannot deny the fact that a few questions
crossed my mind once or twice.
Naturally, this worried me.
Was she throwing away what I believed was her
golden window of opportunity to see the other side
of the world, and to live a little?
All for love?
Well, the future is what nobody can foretell.
You see, what you didn't know before was the
background gist.
But never mind.
I'll tell you anyway.
Janet's initial application for a two-year working
visa was declined by the British consulate in Lagos.
Understandably, she was furiously offended.
I requested that she emailed over the immigration
officer's refusal declaration.

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C S Duru

When I eventually got the email and read through
the written decision to refuse grant of entry, believe
me, I thought it was the most ludicrously biased
summation I've ever read.

It had absolutely nothing whatsoever to do with
applicable entry visa qualifying rules of the scheme
at the time.

Janet had every right to be offended.
She must have felt unjustly penalised.
I too was so pissed off, it was contagious.
I could not have forgiven myself if I was to let
dastardly morons like him, get away with spooning
out bad decisions.
I couldn't let the arrogant, ignorant ‘no entry Jose’
git have his cake and eat it too.
Who knows how many such terrible decisions
he’d made over time?
This rubbish officer was practically denying young
people the opportunity for adventure or
advancement. And potentially ruining their lives.
I had to do something determinedly about it.
If nothing else, this person needed to be stopped.
So, I challenged the little bugger’s decision for its
lack of merit.
Like the applicant, I believed it was biased.
His was a decision based only upon the seen to be
tough UK immigration policy, to generally keep as
many applicants out, especially from sub-Saharan
Africa. It was this bias, rather than genuinely striving
to fish out the clever rule breakers with fraudulent

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Tears Are Not Enough

intent, and then bar them with a bargepole forever
from entry.

Such a level of action I believe would be deemed
justifiable, only if that was the case here.

Wouldn't it?
But it wasn't!
Consequently thereafter, I appeared in court
twice over this matter.
The first hearing was adjourned because the
representing solicitor for the immigration
department wasn't properly briefed.
It was laughably shambolic.
And guess what?
Yes! It was actually my first time too, in any
courtroom anywhere in the world.
Even so, I'd never seen such professional
unpreparedness in my entire adult life.
Yep!
It was that bad.
So much so that I felt sorry for the poor woman.
I really shouldn't have.
And yet I did.
She didn't have the required paperwork relating
to the case she was supposed to be representing.
Didn’t know any details worth knowing about the
matter.
Oh man!
You needed to have been there to witness the
Judge’s red eyed monster of frustration.
If he'd been a young dragon in a Kangaroo court,
he definitely would have unleashed uncontrolled

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C S Duru

fireballs to consume the incompetent representative.
The obvious ground would have been for not
knowing diddly squat.

The second hearing however was more
interesting.

I had my chance to try and convince the judge
that the immigration officer in this matter was
prejudiced and a total arse.

Well, not in those exact sentences, but you know
what I mean.

I had to stand in the dock though to defend
Janet's application. After all, I was her eligible
qualified responsible brotherly sponsor.

The Judge agreed with my explanatory statements
after he’d patiently listened to all that I had to say.

He was understandably kind in his judgement.
Justice, I believe was honourably delivered and
rightly so on that day.
He overruled the immigration officer's lame
decision to deny my sister her legitimate entitlement
to a two-year commonwealth working visa.
Janet was aware of all this palaver.
She was charmingly glad enough when I broke the
fantastic news of sweet victory to her.
That's what good families do.
Don't they?
They go that extra mile to support each other out
of very tight corners wherever practical.
Anyway, that was then.
Now she’s here.
But circumstances have changed.

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Tears Are Not Enough

Love was blossoming on their horizon.
I clearly got it.
It was her life.
Hence, her choices.
The decision was hers to make.
Bless her!
She obviously knew where her life was headed,
better than I or anybody else ever did.
So, once again, this time grudgingly though, I
coughed up on my credit card reserve to pay for her
flight home.
That being said, I decided this wasn't going to be
the usual direct flight to Lagos.
Not at all!
I deliberately chose and paid for the one routed
via Qatar.
And there was a reason for the detour.
At least she could see the different airport
settings over the gulf state on her bon voyage way
home.
But mother remained with me.
After Mum's medical examination and blood test
results were in, I received an urgent call from her
doctor, which sounded like a polite military
summons you really didn't wish to argue with.
It sounded ominous.
They wanted her to return to the practice swiftly.
I tried to pry.
The doctor claimed that my mother was a
potentially walking disaster waiting to happen.
“What?”

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C S Duru

She told me that my Mum was a textbook case of
someone at a higher spectrum of suffering a bad
stroke or worse, heart attack without warning.

I relayed the doctor's exact words.
“Ugbum kwa!” Mum exclaimed determinedly in
Igbo.
“Not on my watch!” I spat.
“Are you kidding me?”
I didn't expect an immediate response to such an
emotional outburst.
Thank goodness though, as none was received.
The reason for concern has been made clear.
I panicked and rushed Mum straight back to the
clinic.
Dr Glo wore a severe look about her.
Her countenance could only be likened to the sad
appearance of someone who'd probably lost a
relative, the minute we walked into her surgery.
“Your mother has an unusually high blood sugar
level,” she declares, no sooner than we were sat
down.
“She has what we medics describe as uncontrolled
type 2 diabetes. It would need to be controlled with
medication without any delay.”
Mum and I both glanced at each other, like two
strangers lost in a park.
Confused?
Absolutely!
For me, it was useless querying when it all began.
So, I didn't.

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Tears Are Not Enough

We both thoughtfully turned to the doctor in
synchronised head move as though pre-rehearsed.

I believe our eyes were sharp, as in seeking more
explanation.

How could this have happened?
Well, it did.
It was happening right in front of me, while Mum
was the patient.
I could tell she had no idea whatsoever.
Rightly or wrongly, I blamed my Dad in absentia,
for his not-so-bothered attitude at least.
Surely, I convinced myself that all this business
with Mum’s diabetes was his fault.
It must be.
He never paid his wife much attention as he
should.
Properly, you know!
As far back as I could remember, he was often
wrapped up with himself.
His excuse?
He had to work very hard to provide for every one
of his seven children, and possibly one or two other
dependent relatives.
Lame excuse, if he dared sought my opinion.
Nobody!
And I mean exactly that, in every way literally
possible.
Nobody had an AK-47 pointed to his skull,
threatening to blow his brains out if he'd dared to
manage better the desire to recreate the whole
house of Jacob.

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That's right!
Of course, he could have stopped at three babies
after I came along, if he ever considered the
beneficial application of controlled family planning.
But obviously not!
He left things to chance.
Now hold on!
That would be selfish of me to think so.
Wouldn't it?
Because, I would definitely have lost out on
getting to know the rest of my beautiful, lovely
brothers and sisters, who came after me.
No?
Wait!
Not really!
They wouldn't have happened, you see.
Not in the union which now forms our family.
You don't usually miss what you never had in the
first place.
Or do you?
Anyway, Mum was put on prescription medication
immediately, to counter any potential sudden effect.
I on the other hand, as son and next of kin, was
handed a bunch of informative literature to read,
and educate myself on the unpleasant possible
effects of uncontrolled diabetes.
So, in the preceding weeks thereafter, I read
anything and everything I could lay my hands on
about this awful creepy disease that is often called
the silent killer.

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Most came from authoritative medical sources
with alarmist associated empirical data I never knew.

I also came across personal testimonies of how
this disease had robbed families of their loved ones
unexpectedly.

Those materials, I must admit, did provide a
shocking eye-opener for me.

That said, there were also numerous outlandish
claims, comments and opinions posted on the
internet too.

Some at best read like tales from the hopelessly
irresponsible.

I was furious.
This isn't a joke for me, pal!
This is real life.
My mother's life for that matter.
And possibly others like her who were unaware of
the silent devastation this disease could cause.
Bloody fluckers!
Until notified, I had no idea that my poor long-
suffering and ageing mother had anything
whatsoever wrong with her.
Just age.
Which is not a disease.
Only the gradual deterioration of the physical
being. It happens to all.
But she never complained.
Because she didn't know.
I did however note that prior to the doctor and us
consultation, taking Mum out to any social gathering
away from our home, was any driver's nightmare.

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C S Duru

She'd suddenly develop what I could only describe
as a recurring urgency to use the bathroom, at the
most awkwardly shortest notice.

It didn't matter whether we were on the M25
strip with no hard shoulder to park on.

Or stuck in traffic while returning from an evening
visit to St Michaels with no public loo in-site.

Those were moments I'd like to forget in a hurry.
Very awkward!
But even then, there was no way I could have
suggested to the poor woman, that she couldn't use
the bathroom if she was so pressed.
That would have been rude.
Instead, I would rather swerve and risk being
caught out and fined for parking offences, on the
forbidden double yellow lines for five minutes, in
order to find a free public urinary.
Because she was desperate.
That's why!
I could laugh about it now.
But the experience at the time was anything but
funny.
It was like, I need to go now.
I have to!
I dreaded any journey with her in the car like a
urinary plague, because I was totally ignorant of
what was happening to her.
It got so bad that I considered keeping an
emergency urinary bucket in my car booth, just in
case the need ever arose.
Thankfully it didn't.

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Tears Are Not Enough

Ignorance is such a blinder.
I had no idea.
Her pissing urge was a result of her diabetic
condition at worse.
This took a while.
But with all the information I had diligently
gathered over time on this awful disease, I became
an unqualified expert on the subject.
It drove my decision to devise, cook and
implement Mum's new food regime.
I kept a diligent diary of her daily blood sugar
levels, morning, noon and before bedtime.
I even showed her how to work the digital blood
pressure monitor, when I'm at work or unavailable.
We developed a sensible mutual arrangement
that worked perfectly for both of us.
Hers was to do the test at appropriate time
intervals, and jot down the results in a small piece of
paper.
Mine was to transfer such data into my diary upon
return or on my work free weekends.
I promised myself that I would do whatever it
takes to give her the attention and care she needed
to manage her condition properly.
This labour of love was carried on steadfastly.
It so happened to be a great combination.
And so, with her prescribed medication, change of
diet, small walking exercises (she hated doing those)
here and there, we began to see improved
consistency in the management of her daily blood
sugar levels.

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C S Duru

Awesome!
It was a great joy to see my mother glowing again.
We could drive to St Michaels, and back without
me, as unpaid chauffeur worrying about when the
next bathroom call may happen.
Amara Kash was by this time looking like vintage
wine.
Aged. But grandly refined.
With a combined touch of light lipstick to her lips
and pencilled eyeliner, she'd literally transform her
face into matured beauty.
However, amidst this bundle of joy and gladness
bubbling within me, also hung about this awful mix
of sorrow like a stream of devil’s water, in scorching
heat wave.
No matter how hard I wished it hadn't been, yet
at the back of my mind, I knew that Mum may never
fully recover from the debilitating ravages of
diabetes, to her nerves and muscle tissues.
Of course, by this time the disease was effectively
controlled.
Sadly, all the past years of cumulative damage
was deemed to have become irreversible.
Certain examples of this were already being
manifested.
Muscle tissues in her right palm were gradually in
degenerative stage.
The needles and pins sensation she'd talked to me
about in the past was constant.

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Tears Are Not Enough

This conversational telling wouldn't be accurate
without mentioning the dead nerve endings to the
tips of her fingers.

She feels nothing with them, even when pricked
with a needle, she says.

I believe my mother had an above average
tolerance for pain.

Of course, she had eight children, didn't she?
All of which were natural births.
No epidurals.
And for one who'd always used her hands
effectively, I guess it hurt her most to discover that
she was steadily losing the power grip in those same
hands.
She prided herself as a mother and competent
home manager, who did things with her hands.
Losing such independent ability to administer, and
perform minor chores for herself and others, was
potentially devastating.
So, it wasn't okay by any standards.
Mum had a catalogue of subdued health related
problems which needed seeing to.
There was still work to be done.
Next in line was to fix that right bended-knee.
The process took a little longer than was
expected.
Hospital authorities blamed delays on everything
to do with the various assessment and consultative
procedures in place to ensure patients safety, they
told us.

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C S Duru

Independent questions were raised and answers
provided as to its conclusive necessity.

And whether the procedure in question was the
best solution applicable for her wellbeing.

In the end, all paperwork was appropriately
signed off, and the surgeons finally had their day to
have it corrected.

The operation went smoothly at first.
Afterwards, when no one least expected,
something went horribly wrong.
Mum had developed sudden blood clot
complications arising from the operation.
I must however commend the tireless doctors
who acted so quickly getting Mum onto warfarin.
So, for the preceding two weeks, I acted like the
official hospital yo-yo.
I drove forth and back to check up on my mother.
Firstly, each morning on my way to work.
And then later, after the close of business.
They even made her eat basic hospital food.
The smell of which reminded me of four years of
boarding school meals.
She got me worried at one point.
Nwa chi na emere!
Mum pulled through against all odds.
Then there was the tiny problem with a
developing cataract in her left eye.
“Easy-peasy,” said the consultant eye surgeon
confidently.

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Tears Are Not Enough

“These days, it’s as routine as removing an
appendix. Nothing to worry about. You’d be home in
no time.”

He was right.
Mum was patched up very quickly.
We were home in less than three hours with
instructions on how to wash and care for the
affected part.
At the opticians, a week or so later, I was
convinced that Mum would be selecting a pair of
bifocal glasses.
You know. Having two was always better than
one.
Surprisingly, she didn't take any notice.
She opted for a single varifocal instead.
“Why?”
“They’re fashionably modern and look good on
me.”
I was so floored by her answer, I laughed out loud.
Something as small as choosing a lens made my
heart leap with joy. I could easily include such as one
of my proudest moments.
Being there every step of the way, witnessing
Mum gracefully being properly patched up.
One illness after another.
It gave me a different perspective on things.
To never take anything for granted.
Anytime I recall one of her favourite sages, it
usually brings a dry smile to my lips, with an
emotional choke rising up inside my throat.

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C S Duru
“A patched roof which continually leaks when it

rains isn't a very good sign of progressive
workmanship.”

Or “what benefit is the beauty of a pair of
bountiful breasts, full of milk, if one hungry infant is
reserved to suckling stump?”

It all made perfect sense when you think about
those words.

77

3

So, we'd had dinner as usual.
Mum and I.
My love life was temporarily arrested.
I mean, suspended.
I might even go a little bit further to suggest it was
frozen on ice.
I knew I had needs.
You know. Relationship needs, which I'm sure you
can understand.
Undoubtedly, for a young man like myself, it could
be a little depressing sometimes.

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C S Duru

But with Mum being around, her welfare was
nothing less than top priority for me.

Above all else, she’d become my numero uno!
It was a decision which practically influenced
everything I did.
Not thought!
Honestly, I didn't mind.
However, very quickly, I suddenly realised
something else.
Looking after someone, who'd been so neglected
for far too long by everybody else, isn't just about
putting food on the table, and shoving it down their
throat, until they couldn't eat no more.
The thing is, I found: they may be filled, but not
satisfied.
Warm, and yet probably cold as ice on the inside.
People may sometimes look remarkably
comfortable.
But still are deeply haunted with emptiness.
To the outside world, some may seemingly look
like they were surrounded by people at their beck
and call. And yet, may struggle to escape the
irrepressible feeling of misery, for being invisibly
lonesome.
Sometimes, the truth, which may seem so
blatantly obvious, is the hardest to acknowledge.
Fact is: it actually takes a lot more than food, to
really take very good care of anyone.
It doesn't matter too much if the person being
looked after was an infant, some stranger's children,
the infirm or the aged.

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Tears Are Not Enough

In most instances, such a simple act of genuine
caring, would involve a whole heap of patience.

And that's just for beginners.
In addition, the person who’s looking after
another must be dedicated.
Must show empathy and be ready to make
emotional and physical sacrifices. Apply self-denials.
Those sorts of things, where appropriate.
If not, caring would suddenly become just another
unpleasantly boring tasking chore.
Worse off when the carer isn't even in
consideration whatsoever for any remuneration for
their services, time or efforts.
I figured it was my naturally imposed upon duty as
a son, to ensure that my mother had some sort of
respite.
She deserved full-time retirement from her many
years of diligent services spent over two husbands.
What an amazing woman.
She raised seven children to create our own
unique nuclear family.
No! Actually, eight in total.
Eight?
How does seven suddenly become eight? I hear
you wonder!
Well, I'll tell you!
When Mum married my father - James Cappacius
Kash Snr, she also came along with a small human
baggage.
Herself and a half.
She already had little Jessie.

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C S Duru

Who happened to be the only evident product
from the consummation of her first union.

So, Dad was her second husband, after she’d
turned down a handful of unsuitable propositions,
apparently.

Mum’s marriage to Jessie's biological father was
understood to have had a different kind of unspoken
twist in their story.

Which my eldest half-brother - Jessie, I believe,
may well tell to the world at another time, if he so
wished.

Nevertheless, I had watched a bit of TV.
Then, listened to Mr Trevor McDonald read the
news at 10.
Nothing much else interesting was on, to hold my
attention.
So, I arose.
Said goodnight to Mum.
And dragged my tired body up the carpeted stairs
to my bedroom.
Upon seeing me go, she also slowly got up in her
usual manner, and retired to her ground floor
bedroom.
But no sooner had I laid down my weary head
upon the soft comfort of my waiting pillow, than I
heard the handle to the closed kitchen door turn to
open.
Naturally, I assumed she was probably going to
use the toilet.
Or to raid the kitchen fridge again for the last
remaining cup of Greek yogurt.

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Tears Are Not Enough

On a second thought about that yogurt, I shook
my head and grinned quietly to myself.

Maybe not!
She never really liked its sour taste.
Banishing such a notion from my mind, I reached
out and picked up the unfinished novel I'd been
reading for the past few nights.
Lately, I had made a conscious decision to engage
my mind with a book.
In other words, to have a good read about
something, each night just before bedtime.
For me, I found it was a much better way to relax.
And to unwind.
Such routine helps sanitise my mind from the
day's activities.
I also discovered on several occasions, that my
eyes would normally get so tired and heavy.
And after only a few pages, it was certain that I
could hardly hold firmly onto whatever I was reading.
Some nights too, I could hardly comprehend
clearly the next line of sentence I was at.
That's when I'd usually easily drop off to sleep.
So, this night was no different from any other in
my established routine.
I had barely turned to the page I had creased out
the night before, when I heard Mum’s sharp scream
downstairs.
She yelled out my name, as though the earth had
suddenly caved in beneath her feet.
What my ears picked up in that one motherly
scream was fear and desperation intertwined.

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C S Duru

So, very hurriedly, I dropped off the book onto the
bed and dashed down the stairs in less than three
seconds.

I had barely hit the landing when Mum's knees
wobbled and gave way.

It was pure luck that I happened to have gotten
there fast enough.

Mum fell backwards.
I grabbed onto her limp body and lowered her
onto the laminate floor as gently as I could.
What I didn't know before then, was how much
Mum actually weighed.
Let's just say she was heavy for her height of
about 5’4”.
I believe that's what people mean by dead weight.
Perhaps!
She was drenched in her own sweat.
I didn't think she was breathing.
So, I called her out twice: “Mum, Mum!”
Three times, maybe.
I can’t remember exactly for sure.
There was no answer!
She lay right in front of me, with her eyes closed
and looking lifeless.
Strange as this may sound, it occurred to me that
this isn't how my mother's sunlight was supposed to
come to an undignified end.
Mum’s light needed not to be switched off.
Not so abruptly!
Not now!
This wasn't a good night for anything.

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Tears Are Not Enough

Not even to die.
It wasn't as if I had any control over such a matter.
Anyway, it was such a bizarre but robustly weird
thought that raced through my mind at the time.
Somehow, I'd vehemently decided that my dearly
beloved mother wasn't going to slip away into the
colder depths of darkness in my house.
Not in my arms and not on my watch.
Just like that!
I don't know what came over me or how it
happened.
But I seem to remember every little detail in all
the years of the never-ending TV promotional ad,
about acting fast in such-like life-threatening
emergency situation.
It couldn't have been any more surreal.
I was having an episode right in front of me.
The advice given was always to first check for
pulses, breathing.
Where none was present, to then advance the
patient into the recovery position and possibly
initiate resuscitation procedure.
I checked her pulse.
Nothing!
Then, I lowered my face against her nostrils to
double check for the faintest sign of breathing.
The floor was cold.
But I didn't feel a breath.
Not even a whiff!

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C S Duru

Moving on swiftly, I began the resuscitation
process with both my hands placed appropriately at
the centre of her chest.

My compression technique was as directed in
those TV ads.

Mum still wasn't moving.
The gravity of what was unfolding before me
finally hit home.
So, I called the emergency service.
It may have been a few short seconds or more, I
really can't remember.
But every one of those seconds mattered.
All I could think about was my mother wasn't
breathing.
That meant she was technically lifeless.
This stuff was humongous.
And with such realisation setting in, I panicked.
Suddenly, everything seemed as though they were
all moving at a very fast pace.
Faster than the speed of sound.
But weirdly in reverse.
I don't know why or how.
Neither could I even begin to explain to you how it
felt to think that time had stood still.
All of this may seem a bit far-fetched.
Like an impossibility.
But under my own very eyes, at that critical
moment, something of a miracle did happen,
apparently.
The lady on the phone from the emergency
services unit was asking all manner of questions.

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Tears Are Not Enough

Most of which I considered inappropriately
irrelevant under such highly charged circumstance.

“I understandably appreciate that you're
emotionally distraught Mr Kash. But I can't advise
you on how we could both assist the patient better if
you're unwilling to answer my questions! Let's try
once again. Shall we? What's the patient's address?”

She was right, I reasoned.
Surely, it was needless wasting any more time.
So, I obliged her and gave my door number with
location postcode.
“What's wrong with the patient?”
“I don't know. She's passed out on the floor and
not breathing.”
“How long for?”
“Few seconds, minutes, I guess. I wasn't running
the clock to know for sure.”
“OK. I understand! An ambulance is on its way.
They'd get to you as quickly as they can, ok? Try not
to panic!”
“OK!” I crowed, in as polite a voice as I could
manage.
Don't panic!
That's what she said.
Really?
At this time?
Try imagining having a technically dead body,
lying in front of you. But have no idea how to handle
yourself.
Done that?

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C S Duru

Thereafter, then decide whether you’d be passing
wind loosely upon yourself. Or holding in your arse
tightly enough as not to panic.

For the lady on the phone, it would have sounded
unprofessional to have advised otherwise.

It wasn't her fault.
I'm positively inclined to believe she's a very
lovely person.
I also recognise that she was only doing her job.
Part of which is fraught with difficulty.
That is, in trying to calm down people like myself.
Who were literally not coping well with an
upsurge in stress levels, brought about by the likes of
an unexpected emergency situation.
“What's your relationship with the patient?”
“She's my mother.”
“Did she fall?”
“In a way, yes! I mean No! She passed out.”
“How did she pass out? Was she drinking?”
“What?”
My intended response thereafter would have
been unprintable on paper. But I had to gather
myself together very quickly before I said something
on tape I may have to regret afterwards.
Actually, there was no need to be rude.
Or attempt to take out the frustration of this
sudden crisis upon the poor lady, about whom I
knew absolutely nothing.
I may have unfairly considered her as just another
voice over the telephone understandably trying to
get rid of me to get through the next call.

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Tears Are Not Enough

But she was also doing her job.
Best of which was to sound ever so helpful in any
way she could.
“No! She's teetotal. I believe she must have been
coming back out from the bathroom. I'm not sure. I
heard her yell out my name and happened to arrive
at the nick of time to stop her from crashing
backwards onto the floor.”
“So, she didn't fall down. In summary, you said?”
“No!”
I was beginning to tire with the questioning.
At the same time, I listened to her fingers, as they
hastily typed every word that I'd spoken, onto her
computer keyboard.
Truth is: I couldn't have cared any less if she’d
asked ten thousand questions and keyed them all in.
Same if she'd written my answers in quick strokes
of Pitman's shorthand.
My concern was solely anchored on the one and
only mother I'll ever have.
No duplicates!
As things were at the moment, she was lying on
the barren cold floor. With no breath of life.
And this person’s interest was on wanting to know
whether my mother had been having a tipsy party.
I felt cheated.
That my mother was just about being snatched
away from me, when my plan was to see her enjoy
whatever time she has left with us in her twilight
years.
Why is this life so faceless?

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C S Duru

And cruelly disappointing to those who don't
deserve it, apparently?

Maybe life itself doesn't play fair either after all.
Not while those who continually hurt humanity;
right, left and centre seemingly walk away
unscathed.
Even when they arrogantly trespass frequently
upon the charred coals of fire.
But right now, such sentiment could keep.
All I desired more than anything else was the
bloody ambulance turning up quickly.
Sometimes, it is such a weird moment like this
that challenges long held beliefs and tramples upon
perceptions.
I realised how unfunny it is for anyone in such a
precarious state of mind as me, could suddenly wish
for things which were commonly impractical to
actually happen.
Call it the magical thought of my spirited self, if
you will.
Because, at that critical moment of unexpected
crisis, my vigorous state of mind somehow wished
for something else.
That this ambulance was adapted with chariots of
fire and wings to fly, even only for once.
Why?
Because time was of the bloody essence!
Yet, between me and the body on the floor, it still
felt as though that was the only relative thing we
actually didn’t have.
Time!

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Tears Are Not Enough

I shook my head in despair.
Utterly discombobulated.
But hugely desperate.
Waiting for the ambulance to arrive felt like the
longest night ever.
And as much as I felt like time had paused in my
awful moment of hopelessness, I remained acutely
aware that each nanosecond stroke of the clock, was
actually doing what they normally do since time
began.
Tick-tuck was ticking away.
For a brief moment beside myself, I thought.
What else could I do that would make any
difference!
It really didn't matter what.
As long as it was helpful.
Mum hadn't moved.
Still laid on her back upon the cold laminate floor.
So, I managed to pull her over into the suggested
recovery position.
Finally, I heard sirens blaring in the distance.
Shortly thereafter, I noticed flashing blue lights.
It was the surest indication that the overdue
ambulance was approaching my domain.
I gasped!
Oh, what a feeling!
Such a huge relief, in the knowledge that trained
personnel had arrived.
I rushed to the front door.
And threw it wide open, to let them in.

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C S Duru

Fresh cold air surged through me like some
invisible waves without permission.

I'll tell you something else.
Seeing those men in green somehow helped
loosen the tight compression that was girded around
my chest.
My tense shoulders relaxed.
No sooner had the two paramedic heroes walked
in, than I hastily pointed down to the body on the
corridor floor.
The lanky one of the two with very thin hands
knelt beside Mum.
I stepped aside.
He pulled back her right eyelid and shone a small
touch light directly into her pupil.
It was the first time that I stared right into my
mother's pupil, literally.
Surprisingly smallish; I thought!
It's not every day you look into the small of your
mother's eyes.
Not for me anyway.
“Hello! Hello!”
He turned to me and said calmly: “Is the patient
your mother?”
“Yes!"
“What's her name?”
“Amara.”
He shone the bright light into her left eye.
“Amara! What a lovely name. Mine’s Rabadachi
Umbrusalli. Can you hear me?”
Mum stirred.

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Tears Are Not Enough

Suddenly, she was breathing again.
For the first time in my moment of distress, I
doubted myself.
I questioned my very own power of observation
and consequent reaction.
Amidst the shock and confusion of the last few
minutes, did I actually imagine all of this?
Or did my mind play an awful trick on my
consciousness?
Was my mother ever lifeless at any point in this
scenario even for one second?
No! I was sure she wasn't breathing when I
previously checked.
Anyhow, it didn’t matter anymore.
The brilliant news for me was that my poor old
mother was back in the land of the living and
breathing.
She came around and hastened to get up. Like
she'd suddenly realised she was lying on the bare
floor having woken up from a deep sleep she
probably had no control over.
The lean paramedic gently held her down by both
shoulders without strain.
“Are you alright Amara?”
His voice was warm and calm.
None commanding in his asking.
Mum looked up straight at him and nodded
suspiciously.
Rabadachi held out two fingers away from her
face.
“How many fingers do you see, Amara?”

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C S Duru

“Two!”
Mum gazed at the man in front of her for a
second or so.
Her eyes hovered across to his other accomplice
and then to me, as though questioning what the heck
two strange looking men in green uniform were
doing in her home.
Poor guys, they too were equally lost for words.
Both exchanged bizarre eye contact, as I searched
their faces with my querying stare.
What was the meaning of all this?
Why did my mother suddenly pass out?
Why was it that one minute she wasn't breathing,
and the next, she was in such haste to get up?
I needed answers they couldn't provide.
Or rather didn't know.
I knelt beside Mum, holding her hand softly.
While I comforted her, Rabadachi stood to have a
chat with his colleague.
She stared intently at me for a second or so.
I felt like her small pupils were piercing into me,
down into the depths of my very being.
“Jamie my son,” she said, as she threw a suspect
glance over to the boys in green.
I got the impression that whatever she had to say
wasn't intended for the ears of the other two.
Just mine.
I kneeled closer with my left ear closest to her
face.
“I nearly almost died,” she whispered.
“Really?”

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Tears Are Not Enough

She nodded.
“So, which is it: nearly or almost?”
“Same thing, I think!”
Again, she stared at the two paramedics.
This time, as though she had something else to
add.
But whatever it was she had in mind remained
unsaid.
“Well, you didn't. And that's all that matters. Right
now, you're awake, breathing and talking to me.
Thank God for that!”
Minutes passed before I suddenly considered
thoughtfully the meaning of what my mother had
told me.
I guess the question uppermost in my mind was;
how the heck did she know she almost nearly died?
Isn't dying just like going into an overpowering
deep sleep, which couldn't be postponed even if you
wanted to?
Only that the actually demised never quite
manage to wake up with the rest of the living in the
morning after.
It made me wonder though!
Does anyone ever really know the exact moment
they finally drop off to sleep?
Or do they?
It's likely you may have heard or read stories
about people who claim to have had near-death
experiences.

94