Another Long Weekend in London: Part II

 5 min. read

Chelsea Flower Show 2022 (courtesy of the RHS website)

Part 1, Part 3

My first proper meet-up is with Letitia, an old friend from my Law School days. As it’s half-term, she’s brought along her tribe of four. The older two girls - in their early teens and close in age- torment the youngest, whom her mother claims is the family informant.

The kids grow restless. Some leave to buy fast-food snacks. Meanwhile, Letitia and I try to summarise all that’s happened in the six months since we last met up, including the latest chapter in the saga of her marital breakdown. As sad as the circumstances are, I can only marvel at how well she seems to be handling it all. Not only the separation itself but it’s aftermath. I’m shocked to learn it’s been going on a decade since her estranged spouse walked out.

By contrast, my meet-up with another friend Dave, proceeds in a cultural direction as is now our habit. It’s not that ours is a superficial friendship or that the conversations are not profound. It’s just of late, we haven't tended to talk in depth about what’s happening on a personal level. He still has no idea of my most recent professional drama and relational struggles.

A photographer by trade, Dave informs me in advance that he’s bringing his camera and would like to take some pictures. Normally, I would veto the proposal but I’m long overdue some new profile shots and have wanted to engage my friend’s services. I just thought I’d have to wait until I was once again gainfully-employed. I warn Dave that the only recompense I can give for now is my gratitude.

At his request, we meet in his neck of the woods in South West London. He wants to show me the vestiges of the Chelsea Flower Show in Sloane Square. We stroll towards Battersea Park. En route, our conversation segues from 90s R&B and Hip-Hop to a recent exposé on DJ Tim Westwood's sexual misconduct, abuse more generally, May to December relationships, public urination (don’t ask) and the various modifications to London Transport (the creation of the Elizabeth Line + the extension of the Northern Line). Dave stops abruptly mid-flow when he spots a good location for the photos.

Have you ever done theatre? he asks. He claims I take pictures like an actor would take headshots; poised and pensive, not jittery like most. I find this ironic, given how uneasy I am. Maybe it helps that I follow his instructions to the letter. 

Whilst hanging out with Dave I realise, and not for the first time, the grating effects of fatigue. I'm having difficulty finding the right turns of phrase; as if English weren't my first language.

I draw Dave's attention to the attractive physique of a woman walking in front of us. I instantly regret it. He wouldn't have noticed. I feel like a traitor.

It’s otherwise a good long walk around an area that I know very little. Dave deposits me at the new Battersea Power Station Underground, where it’s an easy connection to Waterloo and on to Lewisham.

It’ll be another late night for mum and I, as she helps me tidy up my kinky-twists. Tiredness makes her ornery. At the same time, I’m trying not to panic over my laptop keyboard, which has started to malfunction. In my frustration I break off some of the keys trying to clean them. The issue rectifies itself with an update.

The blues I thought I temporarily left behind in Brussels creep up on me the following morning. Although usually transparent, by reflex I am somehow able to conceal my downturn in mood from my mother, or at least I believe. The hustle and bustle of preparing for the day must help. Before I leave, I watch a Catholic devotional video. It centres on the distressing true story of a couple blighted by a succession of tragedies, with the wife eventually losing her life to terminal illness. Theologically, I wrestle with this narrative and the apparent absence of God’s mercy. The message of the video is nevertheless salient. You can’t always ‘choose’ to be joyful during hardships. It's a gift to be received through God’s grace.

The night before, another friend sends me a profusely apologetic message, having to cancel our appointment last minute. She’s feeling poorly. Can’t be helped.

I’m hoping there’ll be no more of these cancellations for the remainder of the trip.

I have a catch-up scheduled in central London with spiritual mentor, Vinoth Ramachandran. We have some sort of travel telepathy. Despite practically living on opposite ends of the globe, our UK visits sometimes overlap by fluke. Or rather, by providence. I appreciate the insights of an older, seasoned saint.

He asks about my work situation and I enquire about his insider’s perspective on the brimming political and economic turbulence in his native Sri Lanka. As usual, we discuss our hopes and frustrations about society, the Church and the Church within society. A lengthy conversation about Vinoth’s concerns over how social media has impoverished public discourse, leads to another epic discussion concerning one of our theological divergences. We put each other through our paces. It’s always a vigorous intellectual workout with Vinoth. Sometimes, I can’t tell if he’s playing devil’s advocate. He says he’s becoming less attached to certainties with age. Even when we disagree, I respect his well-considered arguments (for which I don’t always have ready answers) and above all, his good faith. Being challenged on core beliefs is

(c) David Mensah

helpful for my personal journey, as well as to better understand those with an opposing worldview. I nonetheless find the conversation emotionally exhausting.

Of course, I get carried away and am tardy for my next appointment with Victor. It’s the first time I’ll be meeting with him offline for several years. Even before the arrival of COVID-19 we had grown apart. We’ve had a couple of video calls since the start of the pandemic. It’s been on my mind to reach out to him but I would bottle it. Circumstances lead me to stop procrastinating. When I contact him to arrange a catch-up, he says I also came to mind lately. It’s a sign, I think.

Some friendships need breathing space. The interval might be long but can be ultimately restorative.

 Victor is in a great place; about to start a new job and one year into his second bachelor's degree. He’s reinvigorated. His calmness is reassuring as I synopsise the last year or so since we previously spoke. 

I’m late back for dinner with mum. She’s preparing one of my favourite traditional dishes; a spinach-based stew for which the Efiks of South-East Nigeria are known. It’ll be the first time we’re eating dinner together at mum’s splendid new dining table. We revive a pre-COVID habit of watching the kitsch 70/80’s TV adaptations of Roald Dahl’s Tales of the Unexpected. Far better than the disturbing true crime documentaries of which she’s usually fond.

Soundtrack: Remastered Hits-Vol. 2 by Toots Thielemans