Every pretension to Africa for Africa Day

Africa Day in Manchester

I had planned nothing for the past Bank Holiday weekend except to catch up on some much-needed rest and sleep when I was offered a ticket to attend the Echoes of Africa event at Aviva Studios/Factory International on Saturday the 24^th.

This was in commemoration of Africa Day, previously known as African Freedom Day or African Liberation Day, initiated by the Organisation of African Unity on the 25^th of May 1963.

Looking at the agenda of events running from 11:00 AM to 6:00 PM, I was unsure if I had the stamina for 7 hours of potential revelry and entertainment, but I was determined to show up, if only out of gratitude for the invitation.

Please, I’m not fooled.

The Live Painting Workshop, which had begun in the early afternoon, was already underway when I arrived. I took a seat on one of the long sofas at the back, and I tempered my cynicism regarding the artistry of the participants, who were pretending to represent some essence of Africa. It easily resembled a messy children’s paint class, yet people of all generations were engaged in it.

We have been led to believe that a certain combination of vibrant colours and abstract shapes is representative of Africa in context or origin; it reflected everything Toto’s Africa was, but not the reality of what Africa is. The inspiration for the song originated from a late-night documentary about Africa and likely the recollections of missionaries to Africa who became teachers for American schoolchildren.

An unrelatable discussion

The next item on the agenda, beyond the over-representation of Nigerians on the discussion panel, focused on a topic likely more suited for those seeking a career in Afrobeats or some contemporary genre of African music. Having first met a lady of Portuguese and Guinea-Bissau descent who knew the lyrics to everything the female disc jockey played; I spent more time with a grandmother of Caribbean heritage tending to her noticeably Caucasian grandson.

Indeed, what is now deemed the music of Africa is quite pervasive; it has a global audience, and collaborations are extending its reach into places one would never have expected such music to resonate.

Yet, in my conversation with the grandmother, I thought a more relevant topic would be how we preserve the significance of our African heritage in the diaspora and provide younger generations a sense of belonging in the various spheres that influence education, experience, and identity.

Music and fashion to the world

Perhaps this was not the forum for such a cerebral debate, and thus far, it had only intensified my scepticism regarding the purpose of this gathering. Each time we were urged to make more noise like Africans, there was a feeling that English reserve had crept upon us unawares.

The live music performances were interesting, but I knew none of the artists or their music, and I was barely connecting until one performer took the stage like the Bobby Caldwell of Afrobeats.

If there were no visuals, one would imagine the performer hailed from a large city in Africa; he had mastered everything and could pass for being as good as the popular Afrobeats artists.

Then came the fashion show; the mispronounced words by the compere regarding atelier to Aso oke were quickly forgiven when it became clear that the distinction between African designer and African fashion meant the latter garnered less attention compared to the former. Some of the items showcased on the catwalk were comical at best, but I am not the target audience for this kind of attire.

Before I knew it, it was almost 6:00 PM—a delightful day out and a reminder that the Echoes of Africa were just that; an echo is a reflection of the original sound and should not be mistaken for the real thing.

Of bigger balls of discomfort

We, the vulnerable

Each visit to the hospital presents an opportunity to observe humanity at its most vulnerable and, at times, a few at their most irascible. It also showcases the society in which we live.

Illness does not selectively affect individuals based on class, race, status, or identity. There may be susceptibilities indicated by certain groups, but these are often ill-defined.

We all visit the hospital because something beyond our control has afflicted us, and we require assistance against whatever the onslaught may be.

Do the shower inspection

In the spirit of Men’s things, while I was in the shower on Saturday, I noticed my left testicle was swollen. Signs of this, the day before, led to the feeling that my underwear was a size too small. However, I ignored that indication throughout Friday until a shower inspection raised cause for concern.

We should all be doing a shower inspection and checking ourselves, examining our intimate parts for anything unusual. Men should check their testicles for swelling, hardness, lumps, redness, or heat, just as women should examine their breasts likewise.

As breast cancer can affect both men and women, we must also be mindful of assessing those parts too.

English as standard

While I acknowledge that during my time in the Netherlands, I never became as Dutch as might have been necessary, English was generally the language of transaction in business and all matters aside from government and politics.

In Dutch hospitals, the professionals, typically multilingual, would switch effortlessly to the preferred language of the patient.

I remember a 91-year-old Englishman in my ward nearly 16 years ago who had lived in the Netherlands for 50 years, and despite his fluency in Dutch, you could still hear that polished English accent from a bygone era.

How do they cope?

However, I was taken aback by the number of ethnic minority couples who visited the Accident and Emergency Department on Tuesday morning, who could barely communicate in Pidgin or broken English. Each relies on their spouses to register and relay their issues to the nurses and, eventually, doctors.

I was left pondering how they navigated society and how isolated some might feel. Whether any would receive a proper or complete diagnosis without the ability to speak for themselves is a concern. Imagine those with a rather stifling conservative background having to speak to strangers about intimate matters affecting their partners. Are the words for those issues the same ones we can comprehend?

Much as many of these couples were parents with children who had been schooled in English, exhibiting local and foreign accents confidently and expressively. No one under the age of 16 could act as a chaperone, due to safeguarding regulations. Invariably, it is probably for the best that children are not answering for their parents regarding their sex lives and similar subjects.

Bide your time

From triage through registration, basic checks, blood tests, and consultations that led to an ultrasound scan and ultimately a diagnosis. Everything pointed to inflammation, for which I was prescribed antibiotics.

At A&E departments in UK hospitals, arriving is the easiest part, even if you were blue lighted into resuscitation. Alright, perhaps that’s an exaggeration. One can expect to be there for a conservative estimate of six hours.

Take a book, a bottle of water, a phone charger, or better still, a power bank; let your patience be tested but do not suffer for the privilege of free healthcare at the point of access, regardless of status.

A second fainting spell, fifty years apart

Just a lift too high

He lifted my right leg by the foot towards the back, and I was out. I cannot tell how long I was out for, but I eventually came to, and considering he neither panicked nor called for help, it could not have been that long.

That was fifty years ago, around this time of the year. We had gone cycling together into the wilderness among the tin mines of Jos, near Rayfield. This was both adventurous and dangerous. We once came upon a gathering of menacing men who not only shooed us away, but they were also quite threatening, though it is unlikely that reporting them to the police would have made much difference.

On that day, we had ridden out on an uncharted route around the paddocks, too deep to approach, with standing water that spelled danger and death by drowning, with the possibility that one may not be found at all. However, that was a story of childhood.

Woozy, down and out

What brought back that memory was suddenly standing up, and I had a serious woozy feeling, very much like when I took my eighth COVID-19 booster on Monday. I had willed myself back from the pharmacy to the office and sat down; everything seemed to sort itself out in minutes.

This time, I grabbed onto something, thinking I was holding on until I heard a crashing sound. It was me hitting the floor, and I lapsed into a kind of dreamland, believing I was still holding on and about to get up.

I was out, quite totally out, and I cannot remember how long for; I just realised I was picking myself off the floor and made for the sofa to sit down and gather myself together. What just happened? I had a fainting spell.

A bit delicate, I realise

Until this afternoon, I had handled these sudden drops in blood pressure caused by standing or sitting up quite well. I think it was exacerbated by my medication, which, as an alpha-blocker, could accentuate light-headedness and, in some cases, lead to passing out.

It was not a side effect I had associated with the medication, having only learnt of this usually rare side effect from a YouTube video this morning. [The NHS: About Tamsulosin]

While I have tried not to feel too delicate in my recovery stretch, the reality suggests that I need to be more careful and considerate of the unforeseen events that could put me at great risk and peril. The knowledge is helpful, and I am doing quite well after that episode.

Postscript: The medication for the treatment of benign prostate hyperplasia (an enlarged prostate), also treats high blood pressure.

Photons on the Prostate - XVIV - I Just Can't Wait

Whither the weather

As we reach the end of spring with the impending arrival of summer, the little sunshine that offers a sense of warmth might lead you to do silly things.

That is how I left home yesterday evening in shorts and a shirt without a vest or singlet. It felt warm enough to be daring. And since I wanted to make up my steps for the day, the exercise would serve as protection against the elements.

On the first leg of my outing, everything felt fine until dusk crept upon us unawares. The first supermarket I visited had the lamb I sought to buy, but I was not particularly enamoured with the brands of tomato puree.

Getting across town

I knew I had to get to the other side of town to a shop that carried the brand I needed. With barely 70 minutes to spare before the shop closed, I boarded a bus back into town and then another out to the shop. The bus traversing the route directly from the supermarket to the shop was not expected for another 24 minutes.

By the time I boarded the bus from the city centre to the shop, a cooler breeze was blowing, and I could feel it on my legs and through my flimsy clothes. The added discomfort meant I had to find conveniences when I alighted at my intended bus stop.

I just can’t wait

The shopping centre was closed; I walked into the nearest public establishment, a casino, and asked to use their toilets. The receptionist was about to tell me the toilets were only for customers, but I showed her my Just Can’t Wait card on my mobile phone.

The Just Can't Wait card in the Bladder & Bowel Community app.

She quickly retrieved a key from her desk drawer and directed me to the toilet. What a relief that was. As I handed back the key, I thanked her for her understanding. This is the second time I have had to brandish the card. When you are pressed, you can only press for the conveniences, to handle that pressing need.

Blog - Men's things - XXIV

Blog - Photons on the Prostate - XVIII

Dreamscape: I said hire me

Untouched by Touch

It was one of those contactless payment nightmares, and it truly was a nightmare. I was with a close family friend, and we had boarded a train within the city to travel from one location to another.

Upon arrival at my destination, my mobile phone simply refused to provide the NFC-related information and contactless payment interaction to let me through the exit barriers.

Despite my efforts, my friend easily exited and waited for me as I began to look like a fare dodger. However, I had indeed touched in where my journey began and was struggling to touch out.

A Free Pass Granted

One of the staff came to help, first directing attention away from us before moving us outside the perimeter of the checking system. Effectively, I was beyond the exit barriers and could go on my way.

However, having touched in, if I did not get a legal touch out, I could potentially be fined almost 10 times the cost of travel. I needed this resolved before I was subject to a cash grab from my account.

Finding a Solution

Upon reviewing transactions on my phone, I found that the entry contactless system had failed to register my touch-in properly, posting an Error 21, indicative of a fault with the system rather than a mistake of my own making.

I approached the staff who called in a technical architect to review the error. While acknowledging the error was not my fault, he opted to do nothing about it as he prepared to take his dogs out for a walk. As far as he was concerned, the cost was too minuscule to warrant concern.

Meanwhile, in my examination of the information related to the error, the company admitted fault and offered compensation for the inconvenience. As the architect was walking away, I inquired about the compensation, and he promptly signed off a few free tickets for daytime and nighttime travel.

Fighting My Corner

It was his attitude that was grating, inconsiderate, and failed to recognize the needs of the customer. To which I vocally stated, for all to hear, “If your company needs a technical architect with an eye for detail and solutions to help the customer, please immediately hire me.”

That was completely out of character for me; I am not typically one to express myself in that manner. However, I felt irked and disrespected; it needed to be said. All that agitation, and it was only a dream.

Men's things - XXIV - A presentation

Sharing my prostate cancer story

Within the last fortnight, I attended a gathering of black men in Manchester and Liverpool, where I was invited to tell my story about my experience with prostate cancer.

The story on its own could be compelling, as I do have friends and acquaintances, even strangers asking for advice and direction about how to navigate these issues, that I term, "Men’s things".

However, in such a semi-formal setting under the auspices of a registered charity, I felt it should not be a typical story-telling setting, but one where whoever listened learnt something and could act on it.

What the prostate gland does

To that end, I created slides with some images, because in all previous presentations I have attended on the topic of prostate cancer, the issue of the function of the prostate gland as a muscular switch between urination and ejaculation was not clear. For instance, I learnt this long after I had commenced radiotherapy treatment for prostate cancer.

Secondly, I had only found one image that gave a close-up view of how an enlarged prostate gland can present symptoms of difficulty or discomfort with the ease of urination. That visual image alone seemed to get men thinking about having checks on their prostate health.

Courtesy of NHS Overview of Benign Prostate Enlargement

Your active participation in your health, matters

On this perspective, I wove a story around my curiosity about some unusual blood test results outside normal ranges, through insistence to my GP for tests, the referral for further investigation, leading to a cancer diagnosis, then the treatment of prostate cancer, and the post-treatment side effects.

Beyond that is the need for black men to participate in surveys, especially when invited for bowel cancer screening, why men’s things should be more widely and openly discussed, and how early detection saves lives.

What I hoped men would take away from my presentation was that, “All prostate issues are not indicative of cancer, but every prostate enlargement should be investigated for cause and possible treatment.”

My presentation slides

Blog - Men's things - Prostate Cancer blogs

Blog - Photons on the Prostate - XIII

References

MedScape: International Prostate Symptom Score (IPSS) Calculator

Prostate Cancer UK: Risk Checker

Home as you left it

Strewn yet hewn

When I returned home late in the night a week ago, it never occurred to me how if anyone had seen a dog in the window of my apartment over the weekend, they could come back on my return, point to the dog and ask how much it was.

In fact, I could have left my bathroom scales in my wine rack (I did not do that, someone else did) and expected to still find it there or carelessly left the fridge door open and met it undefeated by gravity or the rotational forces of the earth in the same position I had in my forgetfulness abandoned things.

That lack of trepidation as to the condition of my home that always seemed to leave me a total stranger in my own home after any sojourn away, was bliss. None of the disorderliness which to the mind of another was their order, or apparent disarray was due to poltergeist activity, I simply had a trusted house sitter.

Behold an earthquake

Trusted is being generous to a fault, because except for the entirely immovable things, everything moved, changed places, or just disappeared. The lack of care for the very basic things even though to his thinking he was keeping the place tidy, robbed me too many times of the enjoyment of home, yet overwhelmed to a masochist trait, I submitted myself to more abuse.

However, after a 16-hour journey back from Cape Town, still barely at 60% of my strength, I stepped into my home and though he was present, I found myself running the vacuum cleaner through my apartment before I even took my jacket off. When I opened the fridge, a hurricane had swept through it with pieces anywhere but where they should be.

That I was still finding things out of place five months later is testament to his genius that has a madness to its method, but the day after I returned, I asked him to give me back the keys to my apartment and I bought myself the unimaginable treasure of space, independence, and wallowing in the mess of my own making. I could live with that.

Peace with my pieces

The next time we saw each other, it was at a waving distance attending a funeral, I bear no animosity toward him, I consider him a friend, even if he thinks otherwise. It was a necessary intervention, rescuing myself from the throes of the unmentionable trying to articulate the indescribable.

Just to have your home unspoiled and be able to suggest the best price for the dog in the window the stranger saw the other day and get a good exchange without rummaging through the depths of Hades for the upper set of your false teeth and the missing tail of the dog. You do not want to know what I still cannot find in my own home.