Post by 'The Shine' Brent Alpine on Feb 27, 2016 20:32:25 GMT -5
It's a bittersweet day for Okoro and Chikanma Nnamani. Their baby Emeka is being given up to God and only he and English couple Derek and Rosemary Charlesworth will have a say in his future from this day forth.
We join them in a dusty enclosure in Mbukobe, Nigeria. Oil palm trees stalk over mud huts and cast a sombre shadow on the villagers gathered below. They congregate round a rudimentary wooden altar with a cross fashioned out of rusted tin cans. Standing beside the altar is a priest adorned in extravagant red and gold robes and a matching biretta. His attire clashes markedly with the faded sheets that clothe Okoro and Chikanma, who stand at his side. They hold their child in a thin grey cloth. Their older son, Victor, clings timidly to his mother's left leg while the rest of the impoverished villages watch on.
Priest - Dis young boy leave today to go to England. We have partner church called Blessed Trinity Bromley and he stay with a man and his wife dere. Okoro and Chikanma have no money and, under divine guidance of the Holy Spirit, dey decide to send baby away for better life. Please pray for dem at dis sad time.
Chikanma's eyes coat with thick tears that don't seem to want to fall. She tightens her grip on her baby but Okoro taps her on the arm in part consolation and part instruction.
Priest - Aldough baby go, he ALWAYS be Igbo!
The congregation shout in a harmony of 'Hallelujah!'s and 'Amen's.
Priest - And, most importantly, he always be a child of the Most High God Almighty! Woman, give me baby.
The priest grasps the baby from Chikanma's hands. She resists but an authoritative glare from Okoro softens her hold. The priest takes the baby to a lake several yards away from the commune. He holds Emeka up to the heavens above.
Priest - Emeka Nnamani, I baptise you in de precious name of de Lord Jesus Christ.
He dunks the poor baby fully underwater. On his way back up, he is soaked in grimy sludge and instantly begins crying.
Priest - You will grow in POWER and be mighty man of God. May de licentiousness of London not corrupt you and you be in spirit not in de sin of de flesh. You grow in holiness and be STRONG MAN. Amen!
As the onlookers cheer, a Range Rover drives up to the edge of the lake. A middle aged white couple dismount from the vehicle and gaze longingly at the baby. Chikanma wails and sobs in the realisation that her son will no longer be hers. We leave the scene with a close up on Emeka's newly formed eyes, never to be the same again.
We join them in a dusty enclosure in Mbukobe, Nigeria. Oil palm trees stalk over mud huts and cast a sombre shadow on the villagers gathered below. They congregate round a rudimentary wooden altar with a cross fashioned out of rusted tin cans. Standing beside the altar is a priest adorned in extravagant red and gold robes and a matching biretta. His attire clashes markedly with the faded sheets that clothe Okoro and Chikanma, who stand at his side. They hold their child in a thin grey cloth. Their older son, Victor, clings timidly to his mother's left leg while the rest of the impoverished villages watch on.
Priest - Dis young boy leave today to go to England. We have partner church called Blessed Trinity Bromley and he stay with a man and his wife dere. Okoro and Chikanma have no money and, under divine guidance of the Holy Spirit, dey decide to send baby away for better life. Please pray for dem at dis sad time.
Chikanma's eyes coat with thick tears that don't seem to want to fall. She tightens her grip on her baby but Okoro taps her on the arm in part consolation and part instruction.
Priest - Aldough baby go, he ALWAYS be Igbo!
The congregation shout in a harmony of 'Hallelujah!'s and 'Amen's.
Priest - And, most importantly, he always be a child of the Most High God Almighty! Woman, give me baby.
The priest grasps the baby from Chikanma's hands. She resists but an authoritative glare from Okoro softens her hold. The priest takes the baby to a lake several yards away from the commune. He holds Emeka up to the heavens above.
Priest - Emeka Nnamani, I baptise you in de precious name of de Lord Jesus Christ.
He dunks the poor baby fully underwater. On his way back up, he is soaked in grimy sludge and instantly begins crying.
Priest - You will grow in POWER and be mighty man of God. May de licentiousness of London not corrupt you and you be in spirit not in de sin of de flesh. You grow in holiness and be STRONG MAN. Amen!
As the onlookers cheer, a Range Rover drives up to the edge of the lake. A middle aged white couple dismount from the vehicle and gaze longingly at the baby. Chikanma wails and sobs in the realisation that her son will no longer be hers. We leave the scene with a close up on Emeka's newly formed eyes, never to be the same again.
We are fixated on the same soulful eyes yet they’re now tinged with both wisdom and weariness. The light in them has receded but they retain their otherworldly depth.
Is it worth it, let me work it
I put my thing down, flip it and reverse it
Ti esrever dna ti pilf nwod gniht ym tup I
Ti esrever dna ti pilf nwod gniht ym tup I’
‘If you got a big (ELEPHANT TRUMPET), let me search it
And find out how hard I gotta work ya
Ti esrever dna ti pilf nwod gniht ym tup I
Ti esrever dna ti pilf nwod gniht ym tup I
En route to Terminal 5, Heathrow Airport, the world’s worst karaoke reverberates around a plush London cab. It bellows from the pouting mouth of Emeka Nnamani, sprawled out across the back seats with diamond encrusted cowboy boots pressed up against the window. His absurdly deep voice and sinewy Nigerian frame contrast glaringly with luscious platinum blonde locks and his overall queer elegance.
Emeka - I'd like to get to know ya so I could show ya. Put the pussy on ya like I told ya.
Unbeknownst to his flamboyant passenger, the cabbie has been supressing a fit of rage for the last half an hour, and not just at the inconsiderate traffic. The veins in his leathery forehead are becoming more and more pronounced and he appears to be struggling to hold in some sort of guttural groan.
Cabbie – Urghhh… aaaaah…. tuh… eeeeeh…
Emeka (oblivious) - Gimme all your numbers so I could phone ya. Your girl actin' stank then call me over.
Cabbie – Gahhhhh…… YAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHH!
Emeka stops, sits up and looks quizzically into the rear-view mirror at his portly, skinhead chaperone. The cabbie appears ashamed that his anger manifested into something audible.
Emeka – Sir, are you OK?
Cabbie – Ah sorry mate. Just this Laaaandon traffic like, innit? Well bad this time of evenin’ round ‘ere. It’s pissin’ me right off.
Sympathetic to his driver’s anguish, Emeka leans forward and cuddles the front seat while placing a consoling arm around what he can reach of his shoulder.
Emeka – I like you, mister. Salt of the earth types like you are hard to find these days. Everyone’s so complex and pretentious. Good honest simple man, that’s what you are. Just like me!
Cabbie (insulted) – Oh cheers… I s’pose.
As if to make a hint, the taxi driver turns the song up in spite of his previous disdain for it.
Emeka – Oh yes, a classic from Melissa Arnette Elliott… or Missy to you and I. There’s something so ethereal and misunderstood about this piece. Missyunderstood, one might say.
Cabbie – ‘Ow’s that then?
Emeka – It’s essentially an anguish filled social commentary on racial and gender inequality. She’s just trying to work it like any good African American lady trying to make her way in a world where she’s the furthest down the hegemonic totem pole. She even bravely goes a step further and tries to flip the prejudice, reverse it.
Cabbie – Nah nah, I fink it’s about some bird who wants some geezer with a big nob to bone ‘er.
Emeka – Aha. Wrong. That’s what THEY want you to think.
Cabbie – Who’s THEY? You mean white men?
Emeka – Not white men. The Illuminati are always the ones you least expect. My money’s on a group of little Indian children. THEY are the ones holding Missy and, indeed, the rest of us down.
Cabbie – Bastards. But what about the line about ‘if you’ve got a big (ELEPHANT TRUMPET), let me search it?’.
Emeka – (ELEPHANT TRUMPET) means ‘agenda of oppression’ and ‘search it’ clearly means ‘challenge your preconceptions with civility and nonviolence like Gandhi did’.
Cabbie – Right, well it makes sense now with Gandhi needing to do all that peaceful protesting bollocks with a bunch of bloody Illuminati right under his nose. I mean, he couldn’t really protest unpeacefully because of them being kids and all that.
Emeka – Exactly! Now you’re getting it. Bet it feels so good for your eyes to finally be open to the truth.
Cabbie – Don’t see much of Missy Elliott these days.
Emeka – Hmm suspicious... You want to know something else? The line ‘Ti esrever dna ti pilf nwod gniht ym tup I’ is actually Esperanto for ‘Beware of toddlers that smell of curry because they rule the world’. Missy had to speak in a pretty much obsolete language, you see, so they won’t find her and end her.
Cabbie – I ‘fort it was just a repeat of the line ‘I put my thing down, flip it and reverse it’ but spoken like backwards or summink?
Nnamani’s eyes dart upwards and he softly murmurs the words to himself as if trying to work it out. He grimaces in realisation.
Emeka – No, I told you. Those little Indian monsters want you to believe the lies. Turn that music off. They’re probably using that radio to record us right as we speak.
The driver presses the switch on the radio to bring them to their first uncomfortable silence.
Cabbie – So… err… what ya goin’ to Nigeria for?
Emeka – I’m going to visit my… family.
Cabbie – What?! Are you actually Nigerian? You’re the whitest black geezer I ever met. You seem like you’ve never left Bromley your whole life.
Emeka – Truthfully, I consider myself neither Nigerian nor English.
Cabbie – Then what are ya?
Emeka – I’m me. People like to classify me and try to make sense of me but I’m just me. I’m Emeka. I’m not black or white, rich or poor, Nigerian or English, male or female. People get so scared to really just be, you know, and it’s so heart breaking. Most people get labelled and predicted and all kinda… worked out. Then what do they do? CONFORM. It’s like the naughty kid at school. The dunce in the corner. Who does that kid grow up into? The naughty adult, of course. Or they get prompted and prodded beyond all recognition and then who do they become? That’s right, they become the eunuch. Well I neither want to become condemned nor castrated. You call me a cat, I’ll be a dog. You call me a dog, I’ll be a frog. You hypothesise me… yeah, you might have good data and observable past evidence but I will defy all your science. I am merely a concept. I’m a dream and dreams are never straight forward.
The cabbie shakes his head in bewilderment.
Cabbie – So how d’ya get on with your parents then?
Emeka – I haven’t seen them in 20 years.
Cabbie – Ay? 'Ow old are you then?
Emeka – 20.
Cabbie – You wot?!
Emeka – Yes, they gave me up when I was a baby. If you do want to put a label on me, I suppose ‘refugee’ would be one you’d gravitate towards. My parents, the Nnamanis, couldn’t bear another fruit of their womb rotting on the tree of starvation and disease. An English missionary couple adopted me and took me into a safer life.
Cabbie – That’s nice of them.
Emeka – Yeah, they died a few weeks later.
The driver is shocked at his passenger’s nonplussed attitude.
Emeka – Oh don’t worry, my real parents were the warm bosom of the streets. Yes siree, the streets of Bromley shaped me in invaluable ways. You see, I grew up outside the system. Well, mostly. We’re all indoctrinated to some extents but I managed to swerve most of society’s snares of deception.
Cabbie – Bloody ‘ell. How did you cope?
Emeka - Oh, you know - a little bit of this and a little bit of that. Hahahahaha.
Cabbie – I don’t fink I wanna know what ya mean! So anyway, back to Nigeria… how d’ya feel about meeting the fam after all this time? Won’t it be a bit weird and that?
Emeka – It is what it is. I haven’t thought about it. They’re just people in a world full of people. Don’t get me wrong, I love and value people. They’re funny to watch. Like gerbils on treadmills. But I don’t consider this any great big discovery of the soul or something.
Cabbie – How can you even afford this trip? Being ‘omeless?
Emeka – Well, let’s just say I’m starting a new career. I’m going to be on TV. They’ve paid for me to take a trip back to the motherland as a way to introduce me to the audience.
Cabbie – Like a documentary?
Emeka – Yes, hence the cameras in the back. Didn’t you notice?
Cabbie – Yeah but I just fort you woz one of those pervert types. So what’s the show then?
He unbuttons his lime green mink coat and moves his caterpillar broach to the side to reveal a WCF t-shirt underneath.
Cabbie – WCF? What’s that then? West Country Florists? Witches Coven Freakshow? Why Clean Footrot?
Emeka – No, Wrestling Championship Federation! You know – Dune, Jayson Price, Bobby Cairo, Logan…?
Cabbie: Never ‘eard of 'em.
Emeka – Are you sure? Johnny Fly? Oblivion? Torture? What about the old greats like Rick Mad? Skyler Striker? Odin Balfore?
The driver shrugs his shoulders to Emeka’s amazement.
Emeka – Come on, you must at least know some of the comedy jobbers like Biohazard or Tyler Walker?
This seems to spur the cabbie into some sort of memory.
Cabbie – ‘Ang on a minute, do you mean the wrestling company with my hero A.J. Knight in it?
Emeka – Get me out of the cab.
Cabbie – You wot mate?!?! We’re 15 miles away from ‘Eathrow airport!
Emeka – I don’t care, you’re clearly a reprobate.
The cabbie shrieks to a halt on the hard shoulder of the ‘M25’ highway. As Emeka rushes out of the cab, something falls out of his coat pocket. It’s a yellow Power Ranger action figure with her nude breasts sticking out of the costume.
Cabbie – You’re one to talk.
As the cab speeds off, Emeka trudges through the London rain, walking the wrong way on a busy highway. He stops to flag down cars to hitch a ride and mutters something under his breath.
Emeka – A.J. Knight. Really?!
We return 20 years later to the village of Mbukobe. Everything has been updated except for the people. The mud huts are now brick buildings with plush modern finishing. The grounds are tarmac and the trees no longer overhang. The altar is lavish and made of gold. The priest is adorned in the finest silk with gemstones sown into his vestments.
The people, though, are still disadvantaged and seem to be wearing the exact same clothes as they were two decades ago. Okoro and Chikanma are similarly downtrodden. Chikanma especially bears the toll of age and separation from her son. She bounces anxiously on her heels and clasps her garbs. Her eldest, Victor, is now a behemoth of a man and towers over even his father. He looks as though he'd rather be anywhere but here.
Priest - Saints of God, thank you for joining us today as we welcome back Emeka Nnamani for first time since he born. He be here soon. A strong man. Maybe he make wife one of the womans here.
An elderly local drives Emeka in the back of his jeep across the streets of Abakaliki. Instead of taking in the mesmeric sights of the Nigerian countryside, Emeka's moist eyes stare down at his feet. His hands are shaking profusely.
Suddenly, he becomes aware that the camera is filming. His entire demeanour changes and animates. He forces a big smile and dances in his seat.
Emeka - Let every creature go for broke and sing
Let's hear it in the herd and on the wing
It's gonna be King Emeka's finest fling
Oh, I just can't wait to be king!
I just can't wait to be king!
An interviewer off camera poses a question.
Interviewer - 20 years separated from your family. How do you feel as you're about to finally reunite?
Emeka - I feel like a Kinder Bueno bar. Can't find one anywhere in this country. But I suppose you're asking about how I feel emotionally? Emotions are so mundane. How do you feel? Who cares how I feel? I'm happy. No, I'm sad. I'm angry, tired, hungry, confused, rejected, surprised, grateful. Blah blah blah. Emotions were only invented so idiots could go on Facebook and give regular updates of their narcissism. As you can tell, thoughts are more my piece of steak. If emotions are colours, thoughts are shades. If emotions are Warbird, thoughts are Emeka Nnamani. Thoughts are so much more diverse and dynamic... unless, of course, you're in the system. In which case, your thoughts are only the thoughts that Apple or Google or Starbucks or those sneaky Indian children let you think. My thoughts are like wild animals. The chains are off my brain and I'm having a party up there!
Interviewer - OK, so what do you THINK about the prospect of seeing your family again?
Emeka - Two words... wombat. Neptune. You work it out.
The Nnamani family grow in expectation as a jeep approaches their enclosure. Chikanma dashes towards it in emotional abandon. The car stops and Emeka shakily gets out. As the villagers gasp and whisper, Chikanma embraces her son, her tears flowing freely.
Chikanma - Emeka! Glory be!
Emeka stands silently and peers over his mother's shoulder at the glances of disapproval that the village stab at him. Their gossiping loudens and an atmosphere of persecution rises. His burly brother Victor is first to confront the elephant in the room.
Victor - He look like a gay! What have the English done to him?
Priest - I think he EAT DA POO POO! I've taken time to do a little research. Dese homosexuals, dey do something called 'Anal Licking'. It where one man put his head in one man's anus and he lick like dis.
To the horror of his congregation, the priest holds an imaginary ass and circles his tongue into it.
Priest - He EAT DA POO POO. I know. I have lots of de videos on my computer. Me done lots of research on dese deviants. Let me show you fisting video.
A couple of men gather round in disgusted intrigue as if they're stopping to watch a car crash. The priest is way too excited.
Victor - STOP! My brother is no longer my brother. These English have made Emeka my sister. Let's beat her back to being my brother.
The residents follow Victor towards Emeka like a lynch mob. His mother tries to shield him but Emeka gently moves her to the side. Okoro stands back in disappointment and helplessness.
Victor - I cast out the demon of WOMAN in you. Spirit of Immorality, BE GONE!
The huge Victor grabs Emeka by the throat and shakes him with his powerful arms. Emeka doesn't react. Suddenly, Emeka swipes him away and overpowers the giant with an arm bar takedown. He drives his knee into Victor's back and holds it there to keep his brother grounded. The villagers gasp and step back in fear. Emeka steps off and picks his brother up.
Victor - I was wrong. This is not my sister. This is my brother, in whom I am most proud.
The villagers cheer and Okoro finally joins his wife in embracing their son. They all have a festival and sing Hakuna Matata together. And they all lived happily ever after... Well, for a few minutes anyway.
Emeka lies casually on a leather couch in a luxurious apartment. He holds a Cuban cigar which never touches his lips the entire interview. As questions are addressed to him from off screen, he looks nonchalantly into the camera.
Interviewer - Well, that was quite an experience.
Emeka - An experience? With all due respect, I can tell you don't get out much. How exactly can crossing to the other side of the world to see family for the first time since I was a baby and being attacked by my long lost brother be considered quite an experience? You want to see experience... tune into Timebomb and witness my match with Warbird and B.J. Night.
Interviewer - A.J. Knight.
Emeka - Him too. Apparently an icon to fat London cabbies. Who knew?
Interviewer - He's a newcomer here in WCF who, like you, is making his in ring debut. He hasn't been seen on TV yet and little is known of him. How do you approach a match against someone you've not seen before?
Emeka - I don't need to see him. Any research I do on him is purely for entertainment purposes only. Which is why I felt so disappointed when I read his bio on the WCF website. They say he's arrogant. Ooh great, another arrogant WCF wrestler. There was clearly a need for such a quality as obviously the roster is so steeped in humility. I also read that he's willing to cheat but refuses outside assistance from anyone. Noble. In fact, the most interesting thing about him is his theme music. Did you hear it?
Interviewer - No.
Emeka - Put me to sleeeeeeeep eeeeeeevilllll angeeeelllllll
Open your wingggggggs eeeeevilllll angeeeellllll
ARRRRRRGH
Great stuff, what a tune. I tell you what, I've been waiting since 1998 for Nu Metal to become fashionable again but it just never quite happens. But one of these days it'll be BACK en vogue along with bowl haircuts, dungarees, minstrel shows and Benjamin Atreyu.
Interviewer - A little more is known of Warbird following his compelling promo and commanding victory over Travis Tusk last week.
Emeka - Compelling and commanding? You're either easily impressed or you're a company boy shilling the latest 5 minutes of fame. Warbird is quite possibly the most generic and uninteresting wrestler in the whole of the planet. His big thing is that he 'doesn't give a fuck'. Well I do. I give loads of fucks. The fact that he doesn't isn't really something to brag about. Having said that, it's not unexpected. I see him and I see a man who is sloppy in everything he does. He's ruled by his penis and his other unwashed appendices. Where's the excellence? Where's the je ne sais quoi?
Interviewer - Yes but he did randomly attack several stars of the WCF. That's hardly predictable.
Emeka - Meh. It's all base instincts with him. Fuck. Fight. Fart. Those things don't take much sophistication or advancement. Even babies can do them.
Interviewer - Errrm...
Emeka - Well I could. And did. Regularly. Sometimes at the same time. And I did those things in style and grace.
Interviewer - So you seem confident of a win at Timebomb?
Emeka - No, I don't make predictions. Every match for me is a piece de resistance. I only seek mastery, invention and synergy with my opponents. My matches are a dance, a rich tapestry of movement. I labour in love and tend to my craft. It just so happens that I am inevitably victorious along the way. My only concern at Timebomb is the ineptitude of my opponents. If Warbird is characteristically clunky and operating from his animal instincts, what hope do we have of making melodies in the ring? Speaking of sloppiness, if B.J. doesn't take me all in and let me drive, it'll be hard to swallow. I will win, of course, but I fear that my debut will be underwhelming simply due to the poor quality of those I face.
Interviewer - So how do you feel about Warbird popping your WCF cherry? Would you rather it be someone else?
Emeka - He pops cherries because that's all he'll ever do. A first time thing, a curtain jerker. He'll be here for a few weeks, talk unoriginal smack and be filmed doing something oh so 'controversial'. He'll beat a few lame newcomers, lose to people with talent and then serve me popcorn chicken at KFC. There's no depth or substance to him. I at least have a little higher regard for our friend P.J. Knight. He has the decency to be what he is. A faceless jobber. Guaranteed he won't even show up on WCF television. It'll be Pay Per View and done for him. He'll be a fly-by-night... or should I say fly-by-Knight? Like countless others before him and countless others after him. There's a certain honour in that. Every entity needs bottom feeders that take a shameless suck on the teat but don't tug on the whole udder.
Emeka's mother walks into the room with a beaming smile from ear to ear. She's carrying a plate of coconut balls.
Chikanma - Emeka, I made you some nice shuku shuku.
Emeka snatches them off her and immediately tucks in.
Emeka - Thanks Mummy... I mean thanks Chikanma.
Meanwhile, somewhere scary and top secret...
This scene is dedicated to the memory of Missy Elliott. She tried to work it but she couldn't reverse it
DISCLAIMER – All characters appearing in this scene are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. Missy Elliott hasn't really been captured and five Indian children do not secretly rule the world.
… is what THEY want you to think
Is it worth it, let me work it
I put my thing down, flip it and reverse it
Ti esrever dna ti pilf nwod gniht ym tup I
Ti esrever dna ti pilf nwod gniht ym tup I’
‘If you got a big (ELEPHANT TRUMPET), let me search it
And find out how hard I gotta work ya
Ti esrever dna ti pilf nwod gniht ym tup I
Ti esrever dna ti pilf nwod gniht ym tup I
En route to Terminal 5, Heathrow Airport, the world’s worst karaoke reverberates around a plush London cab. It bellows from the pouting mouth of Emeka Nnamani, sprawled out across the back seats with diamond encrusted cowboy boots pressed up against the window. His absurdly deep voice and sinewy Nigerian frame contrast glaringly with luscious platinum blonde locks and his overall queer elegance.
Emeka - I'd like to get to know ya so I could show ya. Put the pussy on ya like I told ya.
Unbeknownst to his flamboyant passenger, the cabbie has been supressing a fit of rage for the last half an hour, and not just at the inconsiderate traffic. The veins in his leathery forehead are becoming more and more pronounced and he appears to be struggling to hold in some sort of guttural groan.
Cabbie – Urghhh… aaaaah…. tuh… eeeeeh…
Emeka (oblivious) - Gimme all your numbers so I could phone ya. Your girl actin' stank then call me over.
Cabbie – Gahhhhh…… YAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHH!
Emeka stops, sits up and looks quizzically into the rear-view mirror at his portly, skinhead chaperone. The cabbie appears ashamed that his anger manifested into something audible.
Emeka – Sir, are you OK?
Cabbie – Ah sorry mate. Just this Laaaandon traffic like, innit? Well bad this time of evenin’ round ‘ere. It’s pissin’ me right off.
Sympathetic to his driver’s anguish, Emeka leans forward and cuddles the front seat while placing a consoling arm around what he can reach of his shoulder.
Emeka – I like you, mister. Salt of the earth types like you are hard to find these days. Everyone’s so complex and pretentious. Good honest simple man, that’s what you are. Just like me!
Cabbie (insulted) – Oh cheers… I s’pose.
As if to make a hint, the taxi driver turns the song up in spite of his previous disdain for it.
Emeka – Oh yes, a classic from Melissa Arnette Elliott… or Missy to you and I. There’s something so ethereal and misunderstood about this piece. Missyunderstood, one might say.
Cabbie – ‘Ow’s that then?
Emeka – It’s essentially an anguish filled social commentary on racial and gender inequality. She’s just trying to work it like any good African American lady trying to make her way in a world where she’s the furthest down the hegemonic totem pole. She even bravely goes a step further and tries to flip the prejudice, reverse it.
Cabbie – Nah nah, I fink it’s about some bird who wants some geezer with a big nob to bone ‘er.
Emeka – Aha. Wrong. That’s what THEY want you to think.
Cabbie – Who’s THEY? You mean white men?
Emeka – Not white men. The Illuminati are always the ones you least expect. My money’s on a group of little Indian children. THEY are the ones holding Missy and, indeed, the rest of us down.
Cabbie – Bastards. But what about the line about ‘if you’ve got a big (ELEPHANT TRUMPET), let me search it?’.
Emeka – (ELEPHANT TRUMPET) means ‘agenda of oppression’ and ‘search it’ clearly means ‘challenge your preconceptions with civility and nonviolence like Gandhi did’.
Cabbie – Right, well it makes sense now with Gandhi needing to do all that peaceful protesting bollocks with a bunch of bloody Illuminati right under his nose. I mean, he couldn’t really protest unpeacefully because of them being kids and all that.
Emeka – Exactly! Now you’re getting it. Bet it feels so good for your eyes to finally be open to the truth.
Cabbie – Don’t see much of Missy Elliott these days.
Emeka – Hmm suspicious... You want to know something else? The line ‘Ti esrever dna ti pilf nwod gniht ym tup I’ is actually Esperanto for ‘Beware of toddlers that smell of curry because they rule the world’. Missy had to speak in a pretty much obsolete language, you see, so they won’t find her and end her.
Cabbie – I ‘fort it was just a repeat of the line ‘I put my thing down, flip it and reverse it’ but spoken like backwards or summink?
Nnamani’s eyes dart upwards and he softly murmurs the words to himself as if trying to work it out. He grimaces in realisation.
Emeka – No, I told you. Those little Indian monsters want you to believe the lies. Turn that music off. They’re probably using that radio to record us right as we speak.
The driver presses the switch on the radio to bring them to their first uncomfortable silence.
Cabbie – So… err… what ya goin’ to Nigeria for?
Emeka – I’m going to visit my… family.
Cabbie – What?! Are you actually Nigerian? You’re the whitest black geezer I ever met. You seem like you’ve never left Bromley your whole life.
Emeka – Truthfully, I consider myself neither Nigerian nor English.
Cabbie – Then what are ya?
Emeka – I’m me. People like to classify me and try to make sense of me but I’m just me. I’m Emeka. I’m not black or white, rich or poor, Nigerian or English, male or female. People get so scared to really just be, you know, and it’s so heart breaking. Most people get labelled and predicted and all kinda… worked out. Then what do they do? CONFORM. It’s like the naughty kid at school. The dunce in the corner. Who does that kid grow up into? The naughty adult, of course. Or they get prompted and prodded beyond all recognition and then who do they become? That’s right, they become the eunuch. Well I neither want to become condemned nor castrated. You call me a cat, I’ll be a dog. You call me a dog, I’ll be a frog. You hypothesise me… yeah, you might have good data and observable past evidence but I will defy all your science. I am merely a concept. I’m a dream and dreams are never straight forward.
The cabbie shakes his head in bewilderment.
Cabbie – So how d’ya get on with your parents then?
Emeka – I haven’t seen them in 20 years.
Cabbie – Ay? 'Ow old are you then?
Emeka – 20.
Cabbie – You wot?!
Emeka – Yes, they gave me up when I was a baby. If you do want to put a label on me, I suppose ‘refugee’ would be one you’d gravitate towards. My parents, the Nnamanis, couldn’t bear another fruit of their womb rotting on the tree of starvation and disease. An English missionary couple adopted me and took me into a safer life.
Cabbie – That’s nice of them.
Emeka – Yeah, they died a few weeks later.
The driver is shocked at his passenger’s nonplussed attitude.
Emeka – Oh don’t worry, my real parents were the warm bosom of the streets. Yes siree, the streets of Bromley shaped me in invaluable ways. You see, I grew up outside the system. Well, mostly. We’re all indoctrinated to some extents but I managed to swerve most of society’s snares of deception.
Cabbie – Bloody ‘ell. How did you cope?
Emeka - Oh, you know - a little bit of this and a little bit of that. Hahahahaha.
Cabbie – I don’t fink I wanna know what ya mean! So anyway, back to Nigeria… how d’ya feel about meeting the fam after all this time? Won’t it be a bit weird and that?
Emeka – It is what it is. I haven’t thought about it. They’re just people in a world full of people. Don’t get me wrong, I love and value people. They’re funny to watch. Like gerbils on treadmills. But I don’t consider this any great big discovery of the soul or something.
Cabbie – How can you even afford this trip? Being ‘omeless?
Emeka – Well, let’s just say I’m starting a new career. I’m going to be on TV. They’ve paid for me to take a trip back to the motherland as a way to introduce me to the audience.
Cabbie – Like a documentary?
Emeka – Yes, hence the cameras in the back. Didn’t you notice?
Cabbie – Yeah but I just fort you woz one of those pervert types. So what’s the show then?
He unbuttons his lime green mink coat and moves his caterpillar broach to the side to reveal a WCF t-shirt underneath.
Cabbie – WCF? What’s that then? West Country Florists? Witches Coven Freakshow? Why Clean Footrot?
Emeka – No, Wrestling Championship Federation! You know – Dune, Jayson Price, Bobby Cairo, Logan…?
Cabbie: Never ‘eard of 'em.
Emeka – Are you sure? Johnny Fly? Oblivion? Torture? What about the old greats like Rick Mad? Skyler Striker? Odin Balfore?
The driver shrugs his shoulders to Emeka’s amazement.
Emeka – Come on, you must at least know some of the comedy jobbers like Biohazard or Tyler Walker?
This seems to spur the cabbie into some sort of memory.
Cabbie – ‘Ang on a minute, do you mean the wrestling company with my hero A.J. Knight in it?
Emeka – Get me out of the cab.
Cabbie – You wot mate?!?! We’re 15 miles away from ‘Eathrow airport!
Emeka – I don’t care, you’re clearly a reprobate.
The cabbie shrieks to a halt on the hard shoulder of the ‘M25’ highway. As Emeka rushes out of the cab, something falls out of his coat pocket. It’s a yellow Power Ranger action figure with her nude breasts sticking out of the costume.
Cabbie – You’re one to talk.
As the cab speeds off, Emeka trudges through the London rain, walking the wrong way on a busy highway. He stops to flag down cars to hitch a ride and mutters something under his breath.
Emeka – A.J. Knight. Really?!
We return 20 years later to the village of Mbukobe. Everything has been updated except for the people. The mud huts are now brick buildings with plush modern finishing. The grounds are tarmac and the trees no longer overhang. The altar is lavish and made of gold. The priest is adorned in the finest silk with gemstones sown into his vestments.
The people, though, are still disadvantaged and seem to be wearing the exact same clothes as they were two decades ago. Okoro and Chikanma are similarly downtrodden. Chikanma especially bears the toll of age and separation from her son. She bounces anxiously on her heels and clasps her garbs. Her eldest, Victor, is now a behemoth of a man and towers over even his father. He looks as though he'd rather be anywhere but here.
Priest - Saints of God, thank you for joining us today as we welcome back Emeka Nnamani for first time since he born. He be here soon. A strong man. Maybe he make wife one of the womans here.
An elderly local drives Emeka in the back of his jeep across the streets of Abakaliki. Instead of taking in the mesmeric sights of the Nigerian countryside, Emeka's moist eyes stare down at his feet. His hands are shaking profusely.
Suddenly, he becomes aware that the camera is filming. His entire demeanour changes and animates. He forces a big smile and dances in his seat.
Emeka - Let every creature go for broke and sing
Let's hear it in the herd and on the wing
It's gonna be King Emeka's finest fling
Oh, I just can't wait to be king!
I just can't wait to be king!
An interviewer off camera poses a question.
Interviewer - 20 years separated from your family. How do you feel as you're about to finally reunite?
Emeka - I feel like a Kinder Bueno bar. Can't find one anywhere in this country. But I suppose you're asking about how I feel emotionally? Emotions are so mundane. How do you feel? Who cares how I feel? I'm happy. No, I'm sad. I'm angry, tired, hungry, confused, rejected, surprised, grateful. Blah blah blah. Emotions were only invented so idiots could go on Facebook and give regular updates of their narcissism. As you can tell, thoughts are more my piece of steak. If emotions are colours, thoughts are shades. If emotions are Warbird, thoughts are Emeka Nnamani. Thoughts are so much more diverse and dynamic... unless, of course, you're in the system. In which case, your thoughts are only the thoughts that Apple or Google or Starbucks or those sneaky Indian children let you think. My thoughts are like wild animals. The chains are off my brain and I'm having a party up there!
Interviewer - OK, so what do you THINK about the prospect of seeing your family again?
Emeka - Two words... wombat. Neptune. You work it out.
The Nnamani family grow in expectation as a jeep approaches their enclosure. Chikanma dashes towards it in emotional abandon. The car stops and Emeka shakily gets out. As the villagers gasp and whisper, Chikanma embraces her son, her tears flowing freely.
Chikanma - Emeka! Glory be!
Emeka stands silently and peers over his mother's shoulder at the glances of disapproval that the village stab at him. Their gossiping loudens and an atmosphere of persecution rises. His burly brother Victor is first to confront the elephant in the room.
Victor - He look like a gay! What have the English done to him?
Priest - I think he EAT DA POO POO! I've taken time to do a little research. Dese homosexuals, dey do something called 'Anal Licking'. It where one man put his head in one man's anus and he lick like dis.
To the horror of his congregation, the priest holds an imaginary ass and circles his tongue into it.
Priest - He EAT DA POO POO. I know. I have lots of de videos on my computer. Me done lots of research on dese deviants. Let me show you fisting video.
A couple of men gather round in disgusted intrigue as if they're stopping to watch a car crash. The priest is way too excited.
Victor - STOP! My brother is no longer my brother. These English have made Emeka my sister. Let's beat her back to being my brother.
The residents follow Victor towards Emeka like a lynch mob. His mother tries to shield him but Emeka gently moves her to the side. Okoro stands back in disappointment and helplessness.
Victor - I cast out the demon of WOMAN in you. Spirit of Immorality, BE GONE!
The huge Victor grabs Emeka by the throat and shakes him with his powerful arms. Emeka doesn't react. Suddenly, Emeka swipes him away and overpowers the giant with an arm bar takedown. He drives his knee into Victor's back and holds it there to keep his brother grounded. The villagers gasp and step back in fear. Emeka steps off and picks his brother up.
Victor - I was wrong. This is not my sister. This is my brother, in whom I am most proud.
The villagers cheer and Okoro finally joins his wife in embracing their son. They all have a festival and sing Hakuna Matata together. And they all lived happily ever after... Well, for a few minutes anyway.
Emeka lies casually on a leather couch in a luxurious apartment. He holds a Cuban cigar which never touches his lips the entire interview. As questions are addressed to him from off screen, he looks nonchalantly into the camera.
Interviewer - Well, that was quite an experience.
Emeka - An experience? With all due respect, I can tell you don't get out much. How exactly can crossing to the other side of the world to see family for the first time since I was a baby and being attacked by my long lost brother be considered quite an experience? You want to see experience... tune into Timebomb and witness my match with Warbird and B.J. Night.
Interviewer - A.J. Knight.
Emeka - Him too. Apparently an icon to fat London cabbies. Who knew?
Interviewer - He's a newcomer here in WCF who, like you, is making his in ring debut. He hasn't been seen on TV yet and little is known of him. How do you approach a match against someone you've not seen before?
Emeka - I don't need to see him. Any research I do on him is purely for entertainment purposes only. Which is why I felt so disappointed when I read his bio on the WCF website. They say he's arrogant. Ooh great, another arrogant WCF wrestler. There was clearly a need for such a quality as obviously the roster is so steeped in humility. I also read that he's willing to cheat but refuses outside assistance from anyone. Noble. In fact, the most interesting thing about him is his theme music. Did you hear it?
Interviewer - No.
Emeka - Put me to sleeeeeeeep eeeeeeevilllll angeeeelllllll
Open your wingggggggs eeeeevilllll angeeeellllll
ARRRRRRGH
Great stuff, what a tune. I tell you what, I've been waiting since 1998 for Nu Metal to become fashionable again but it just never quite happens. But one of these days it'll be BACK en vogue along with bowl haircuts, dungarees, minstrel shows and Benjamin Atreyu.
Interviewer - A little more is known of Warbird following his compelling promo and commanding victory over Travis Tusk last week.
Emeka - Compelling and commanding? You're either easily impressed or you're a company boy shilling the latest 5 minutes of fame. Warbird is quite possibly the most generic and uninteresting wrestler in the whole of the planet. His big thing is that he 'doesn't give a fuck'. Well I do. I give loads of fucks. The fact that he doesn't isn't really something to brag about. Having said that, it's not unexpected. I see him and I see a man who is sloppy in everything he does. He's ruled by his penis and his other unwashed appendices. Where's the excellence? Where's the je ne sais quoi?
Interviewer - Yes but he did randomly attack several stars of the WCF. That's hardly predictable.
Emeka - Meh. It's all base instincts with him. Fuck. Fight. Fart. Those things don't take much sophistication or advancement. Even babies can do them.
Interviewer - Errrm...
Emeka - Well I could. And did. Regularly. Sometimes at the same time. And I did those things in style and grace.
Interviewer - So you seem confident of a win at Timebomb?
Emeka - No, I don't make predictions. Every match for me is a piece de resistance. I only seek mastery, invention and synergy with my opponents. My matches are a dance, a rich tapestry of movement. I labour in love and tend to my craft. It just so happens that I am inevitably victorious along the way. My only concern at Timebomb is the ineptitude of my opponents. If Warbird is characteristically clunky and operating from his animal instincts, what hope do we have of making melodies in the ring? Speaking of sloppiness, if B.J. doesn't take me all in and let me drive, it'll be hard to swallow. I will win, of course, but I fear that my debut will be underwhelming simply due to the poor quality of those I face.
Interviewer - So how do you feel about Warbird popping your WCF cherry? Would you rather it be someone else?
Emeka - He pops cherries because that's all he'll ever do. A first time thing, a curtain jerker. He'll be here for a few weeks, talk unoriginal smack and be filmed doing something oh so 'controversial'. He'll beat a few lame newcomers, lose to people with talent and then serve me popcorn chicken at KFC. There's no depth or substance to him. I at least have a little higher regard for our friend P.J. Knight. He has the decency to be what he is. A faceless jobber. Guaranteed he won't even show up on WCF television. It'll be Pay Per View and done for him. He'll be a fly-by-night... or should I say fly-by-Knight? Like countless others before him and countless others after him. There's a certain honour in that. Every entity needs bottom feeders that take a shameless suck on the teat but don't tug on the whole udder.
Emeka's mother walks into the room with a beaming smile from ear to ear. She's carrying a plate of coconut balls.
Chikanma - Emeka, I made you some nice shuku shuku.
Emeka snatches them off her and immediately tucks in.
Emeka - Thanks Mummy... I mean thanks Chikanma.
Meanwhile, somewhere scary and top secret...
This scene is dedicated to the memory of Missy Elliott. She tried to work it but she couldn't reverse it
DISCLAIMER – All characters appearing in this scene are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. Missy Elliott hasn't really been captured and five Indian children do not secretly rule the world.
… is what THEY want you to think
