Juju dog

London, March 2003

The two females in front of me, change direction all of a sudden. Both are tightly clutching their handbags. The short one has hunched her shoulders. She is nervously trying to stop herself from laughing.

"What is going on?"

Quickly they turn back rushing towards me, supporting each other from tripping over. They look worried. Maybe worry is not the right word.

Almost bumping into me, I read horror on their faces. It is as if a storm just came, rains are falling and water is dripping onto their smartly dressed bodies. Very close to me now, I can smell their strong, flagrant, flowery perfume.

This is not the rainy season, though.

At mid-day the sun is shining. After six months of snow, cold and wetness, spring is back in London. The European sun that Africans never quite feel, is giving a false impression of a nice glorious afternoon. The “false sun” is shining on the huge face of the burly animal staring at the females backing and retreating towards me.

The leash holding the fat neck of this huge thing is held by an older lady who is aghast, surprised and flabbergasted by the women’s’ reaction.

“Don’t be afraid. He doesn’t bite! He is alright!”

The two black women don’t hear nor listen to the old lady’s calls of trust and assurance. They pass me fast, cursing and giggling uncomfortably. Behind the dog and it’s owner the tall seven storey building they live in faces us like a massive shadow hovering flamboyantly above the road.

“Grrrr…”

Ten meters away from me, I catch the odour. There seem to be a contest of smells between cars spilling and spluttering smoke, gas, petrol, diesel and the strong mixture of urine and raw meat eddying from the challenging animal. My oppressed nose cannot distinguish nor choose the winner. However, my eyes are aware of the short tail wiggling, struggling to free itself from the leash of the old lady caressing her dear friend.

“Ray won’t bite anyone. He is sweet…” she implores, her eyes almost wet with tears.

It is as if the fear of those two women was unfounded, blasphemous, unfair and violent. How unjust are they to run away and accuse such a sweet mammal? But before we pity this lady with dismal eyes let’s look at what caused those two women, who I later learn are Nigerians, to bolt so fast.

If you just woke up and were faced with sweet Ray your first impression would be a huge goat. Not stray goats feeding on dirty grass and loose twigs around Lagos city.

Huge he-goats.

The late President Nyerere of Tanzania used to call bullies “he-goats.” The Swahili word for Imperialism is “Ubeberu.”

Normally a “beberu” is strong. A “beberu” mounts and bullies the weak. He also fathers and empowers. A “beberu” goes out and invades smaller nations, whatever the excuse, shattering and destroying them.

"Power", said Henry Kissinger the American Foreign Minister in the days of the Vietnam war thirty years ago is “an aphrodisiac” The stronger you are the sexier you get and the more you can do. Historically, most powerful dictators or leaders have had many myriad sexual conquests.

Bullies are feared. And reminding each other: what you just saw as soon as you woke up was not a “huge goat” not a “beberu,” but a “bull-terrier dog.”

The dictionary definition of the “bull –dog” is not a gargantuan goat. But: “a sturdy thickset breed of a dog with an undershot jaw, broad head, and a muscular body” Blend that with a terrier: “an active, short bodied breed of a dog trained to hunt small animals living under ground.” The combination of “bull” and “terrier” is awesome.

Awesome.

So forget your sleep, forget your dreams, throw away your blanket, sheets and “night time” illusions. This is a huge ugly faced dog. Enough to send two grown up Nigerian women terrified and running.

If you have lived in London you know the majority of Africans are Nigerians. Years ago a Brazilian friend of mine was caught playing street music and the police accused him of being “a Nigerian” despite his pleas. Only after he had shown his documents did they believe him. Sometimes you meet a person not used to being around Africans and the first country they name your nationality is usually Nigeria. Simplification is the best friend of accusation.

Nigerians are fearless, “up front”; “fighters” and they don’t mince words nor waste time. Nigerians, to generalise, are “go-getters.” They don’t wait for things and events to happen. Nigerians alongside Ghanaians and South Africans have produced most of contemporary African heroes. The six African Nobel Peace Prize winners come from South Africa (Mandela & De Klerk, Bishop Tutu for politics & Nadine Gordimer for Literature) Egypt (Naguib Mahfouz for Literature) and Nigeria (Wole Soyinka for Literature, too).

Nigeria won the football Olympic World Cup in Atlanta USA, in 1996. Nigeria produced the music giant, Fela Anikulapo Kuti with his Afro-beat style. Nigeria is always on the news. In 1967 Nigeria had a civil war, and one of its provinces on the east, wanted to separate calling itself Biafra. In the 70’s, “ Biafra” was a “funny” Swahili slang which meant “buttocks.” I don’t think some of us realised how serious the Nigerian civil war was.

Nigeria is the first African country to have won the racist Miss World title. No wonder, in November 2002, there were furious riots prior to the Miss World contests in Nigeria and they had to be transferred to London. And as soon as the war in Iraq began Nigerian President Obasanjo stood up and said no to the USA intimidation when threatened with no military support in case Nigeria refused to support the coalition against Saddam Hussein.

But this story is not about the Iraqi war nor politics. It is about two scared women. How could those two Nigerian ladies be scared of a “bull -terrier”? Don’t judge a book by its cover.

My friend, the musician Remmy Ongala sang years ago that an ugly face does not mean an ugly heart. Remmy will be applauded by Ray’s owner who has tried appeasing and asking me what is wrong with the two females. Can’t they “see” how sweet Ray is?

I dare not have a conversation with Ray’s owner. I am in a hurry and have to catch the bus. This is Stoke Newington and I am rushing towards Tottenham. So side to side I pace with the two ladies, towards the bus stop.

“How can she call that ugly thing sweet?” one on my right asks. I say English people love their dogs.

“I have seen dogs, but that one looks like the devil” the shorter one on my left accuses. Remember what I said about simplification. I am thinking, ugly yes, but devil is an extreme description.

“A wala eh! You don’t think so, ma brada? You don’t think that dog look like a devil? A monster? If I had a chicken with me now, the chicken would be fleeing! If my uncle was here and my uncle is a big big big six plus foot tall man, he would think twice before going near that dog! Eh! That is something else! He is so big! King size!”

I cast a quick glance at the dog’s owner. She is now talking to three people. One has a small dog which is trying to mount Ray. The three keep chattering and I can faintly hear her high pitched voice saying:

“How can they react like that to Ray? Gosh! Ray has never bitten anyone. He won’t even hurt a fly. He is a sweet dog, aren’t you Ray?”

Grrrr…. Ray knows.

The shorter African lady is now talking: “You see ma brada! That dog should not even be walking. He scares off everyone. I have seen kids running almost getting knocked down by cars! Isn’t it so Funmi?” Funmi her taller companion nods: “If you meet such a thing, it is bad luck for the whole day! Juju dog!”

“Yes! That is a Juju dog!”

Juju, for readers unfamiliar with African slang means, Witchcraft. The shorter, Lola, who I soon learn has a very strong presence, goes on: “These people love their dogs more than anything else. How can you be in your house and see such a face everyday?”

“They say animals are better than people” explains Funmi.

Lola disagrees: “In Africa dogs were taught to bite blacks…my father used to say!” Childhood memories in Africa slowly saunter in. I recall running scared whenever I walked in European areas in 1960’s Tanzania. Signs saying “Dangerous Dog Keep Off!” warning any venturing black skins. Rumours have always lingered that white people in Africa trained their dogs to hark the natives.

Remmy Ongala’s Swahili song “Upendo Roho” rings faintly in my ears:

“Kipenda roho…

Penzi halina ubaguzi; Penzi lingekuwa na ubaguzi

Sisi wabaya tungelia oh

Sisi wabaya hatungepata kitu…”

Remmy is singing and praising love. Love knows no physical make-up. Love does not discriminate. If love was discriminatory those with ugly faces would end empty handed, argues the musician. It’s culture, you try explaining to the two ladies. Europeans love dogs. He is man’s best friend. They say they know that. They have lived here for fifteen years but “will always be” Nigerians.

“Where are you from?” Lola wonders.

"Tanzania."

“You seemed scared of the dog too, didn’t you?” I laugh.

“Isn’t it the Tanzanian Maasai who kill a lion to become a man? Aren’t you a Maasai? You look like a Maasai!” Before I reply, a policeman stops us.

“Are you waiting for the bus?” We say yes we are going to Tottenham.

“I am afraid the road is closed” What is wrong?

“There is a suspicious packet further down the road at Stamford Hill,” he explains.

In Stamford Hill lives a very large community of traditional orthodox Jews. Most of them moved over here before, during and after the Second World War due to Adolf Hitler’s Nazism in Germany. Six million Jews were exterminated.

Today due to the problems in the Middle East many speculate Jews are definitely targets of extremists. A package in this area is suspicious, even expected.

The policeman advises us to take a different route and catch buses further up the road. We walk. This particular road is usually busy and crowded with vehicles but now it seems abandoned, deserted, still. Crowds of people are milling 200 meters further up watching three police bomb experts walking towards a green dustbin bag which has been left by the road side. Hearts are thumping.

“This Iraqi war is going to cause a lot of problems” Lola charges. Funmi, ever fuming corrects her:

“Don’t say it is going to cause. It has already caused problems. Arabs are dying and we here are not safe either. Nobody is going to be safe. Already they are saying a world recession is coming. We poor are going to suffer even more”

“It is your excuse for not walking” her friend tries a joke.

The three police bomb experts are working gingerly, carefully, around the suspect package. Everyone is quiet. I joke about the bull-terrier we left behind. He is nothing compared to a real bomb.

“My brada, don’t remind me of that thing”

"That thing has a name", I say.

“What name?”

Sweet Ray. We laugh and keep on walking.