A Meditation on Love

By Roland Nwankwo

-a genius of the stars
Like Nina Simone- Born of the stars- I too a star child I forgive- white
Men their slavery- had I been white – I too a slaver
And in my time the Pharaoh was black –
Where I hardened my heart – it was to let in light – the darker –
The more persuasive.
And in these streets modern – these streets I drive insane-
I wish to sculpture – expression- to harness haste –and patience-
Love even prejudice- so that I- may –imprison it- in conscience
And forgive.
Lacerated- and now I pity myself- I have not gone far- before I infant
Wail and so many white- and so many images- and so much pain.
I state – universal nation – I come late to fascism – I spent long hours
Masturbating- but eventually I was chosen- to find psychic lust-
And I have raped- and I have killed- and I have devoured- immortal
Flesh I have whined on piss and sentiments- belched ego to the heart-
All this- hunted gathering – I hounded a self- made savage- by fearing
Not to know and loathing to be schooled- partially- of affected to go low
To a medium height-
Humility it was a failing- and in Liberal eyes- I see that-
Blue eyes- that forgave me- my hate- I could not forgive their failing-
For fifty million souls lost to the oceans of slavery- I no longer wish
Revenge I dictate from my mogul power
All blacks- I stand a prince- I come above- I shower the light of my
Heart and terrible – I command forgive- It is a prince- not a Pharaoh-
There shall be no more kings- that commands you- forgive-
For the end- there shall be no power- and no high and no low- I go

Human.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris UK
• Release date: Jun 15, 2020
• ISBN: 9781984594822

Roland Nwankwo

At Liverpool University, Nwankwo studied African American literature. He left his hometown for London at nineteen the year he went to Nigeria and returned to study in London, where he earned degrees in consumer behavior and economics. Nwankwo worked and performed spoken word poetry throughout England including in Bristol, Bath, Carlisle in Wordworth’s Cumbria, and Manchester. Nwankwo attended the Cyprus school of art as well as arts schools in England. Nwankwo has published in pamphlet form and in council magazines for over twenty three years, he is now 47, and hopes to build a relationship with readers across Europe. Nwankwo has socialized in intellectual and artistic circles in London and have built bridges to many men and women representing their own spirituality, politics, consciences and independence. Nwankwo has been painstaking in his research for the correct path to take with the literature he has produced and who to approach. Since leaving Bath Spa University in 1996 with an MA in creative writing, he has completed four novels, all edited with Becca Hayman of the Langton Agency in New York and an associate professor at City University of New York.

Book preview

PART 1

Lazy Afternoon

CHAPTER 1

Eric was an internet salesman. He worked in an office with twenty-three people; fifteen salesman; one accountant; five secretaries; and four managerial staff. There was also a security guard on the door employed by the owners of the building; and the cleaners.

During the day a sandwich lady came in sometimes with her son. Though Eric preferred the American style diner that served some great Italian meals.

Most of the business was done by telephone and on the internet. Though occasionally a salesman would go and see a client. Most preferred not to do this. It was a waste of time, and was only worth it for a big sale.

When Eric recalled some of the calls he had made, it gave him the urge to travel. At twenty four he had never left the Great British Islands: he had travelled to Wales, and Scotland; and spent time on the former Christian Isles of Iona and Lindisfarne; but had never gone over seas. A week ago he had spoke to a client running a small brewery, which was family owned in Wyoming; as he spoke to the American over the phone, he could hear a freight train, passing along the tracks through the Midwest countryside, over the phone line. Concentrating on business, another part of his mind, or was it his spirit, longed; and he was taken away from the sales floor to another part of the world, thousands of miles from these islands, where he was born in 1994 and had always lived. It was 2006 early Spring.

The product was insurance against bankruptcy for small to medium sized corporate clients. Eric had moved up to the medium sized firms and had cleared nearly 80 thousand in sales from February to April.

Eric liked to think of himself as an honest man, though there was a lot of exaggeration in salesmanship. And some clients were more suited to the insurance than the rest.

Eric came in early in the mornings. He rented a studio apartment in Chancery Lane behind the British Museum, within walking distance of the Holborn Office.

On a Wednesday night Eric is negotiating a sale worth 7 thousand pounds to the firm. And three thousand to him. The client insists on coming to the offices the following day.

During the afternoon around two o’clock a black taxi pulls up outside the offices in Holborn. The client gets out having mobiled the offices, and is met by Eric outside, who takes them in and shows them around the offices introducing them to one of the directors and the secretaries.

The client is a tall dark Nigerian woman in her late forties. She comes on her own carrying a designer brief case. Eric is twenty three, five foot eight, with dark hair. His parents are English his paternal grandfather was Chinese.

Elsa was the name of the Nigerian lady. She lived in Rome and had been called by Eric with the offer of insuring her clothing business. After agreeing to the insurance Elsa tells Eric she is not going back to Rome until tomorrow morning. She is staying in a guest house in Holborn. Eric offers to take her to the pub for an evening meal. She agrees.

Its evening the weather is close and warm, though there is a cold breeze. Eric and Elsa walk a few streets passing some book shops, an artist gallery selling only watercolours and an architects practice. They come to a cobbled alleyway running at right angles to the street. They walk ten yards and come to the Tavern. Inside there are about twelve people at tables. The interior is lit with lamps and some candles. No one is alone in the tavern, though Eric is often here on his own. Though not tonight.

They sit at a table in front of a small window that looks out onto a small courtyard where in centuries past horses were cared for and rested after long journeys through London.

So how do you come to live in Rome? Eric asks.

I came to England and went to university in York, where I studied art history. Someone I knew has a clothing retail business in Lagos and asked me to buy some clothes for them in Italy. I went to Milan to buy the clothes, but eventually settled in Rome. I run my business from a small town named Santa Lucia about 30km from the centre. I sell my clothes in Nigeria, but also sell some clothes in Italy. Elisa was enjoying this conversation with a quintessentially handsome male, twenty years her junior. And Eric showed her all the natural attention he could, with it never occurring to him, that to her he was attractive, sexually or otherwise.

Santa Lucia is a built up town surrounded by country side. The houses are mostly villas and the businesses run along a main road that leads from the country side into Rome.

Before Elsa learnt to drive she used to take the blue bus along this road into the centre. Now she rarely makes the trip. Running her company from the comfort of her villa with two staff ; one maid and one assistant.

Eric received a phone call, his mobile rang with a Sting song I’ m an alien I’m a legal alien I’m an Englishman in New York. It was one of the secretaries to confirm the finance on the payment had gone through. Eric tells this to Elsa.

She replies Yes, I’m too rich to be dishonest; and laughs.

Eric has a London ale in a pint glass in front of him; after forty minutes the meal arrives. Elsa is drinking white wine. The food is a type of mousaka. Elsa says to Eric as they are finishing

I suppose I will have to go back to my room and watch television.

"Do you read? Eric asks.

Yes. I read anything to do with art. At the moment I’m reading a life of Michelangelo.

There is a talk at the British Museum, it starts at 6.30, perhaps they still have seats, it is about Michelangelo’s drawings.

They make their way through a garden to the British Museum.

There is a Black security guard in uniform at the gate, another in a box. And more security guards at the entrance.

As they enter the building Elsa gasps. She admits she has never been here before. The roof vaults towards the sky and there is a space to house several circuses. There is a short queue at information which goes down quickly. Eric asks for two tickets for the Michelangelo lecture. They go down the stairs to the lecture theatre and take their seats.

As the curator of the Michelangelo drawings comes onto the stage to begin the talk, Elsa takes Eric’s hand squeezes it and whispers thank you in his ear.

Around 7o’clock Rome time on Thursday the fourth of April, Edith who works for Elsa in Santa Lucia, and rented a room in her Villa received a call. The call was long distance from Nigeria. The call was not from Lagos where they did business importing clothes, perfumes, make up and occasionally jewellery. The call was from the village in the East nestled between hills and the rainforest. The call was from a stranger, the woman calling claimed to be, the sister of Elsa.

Edith worked as a buyer and also helped with the export of goods by ship or plane to Lagos, which was a port and busy airport. The capital of Nigeria was Abuja a glossy specially built central administrative city. But Elsa’s main business was in Lagos.

Edith occasionally travelled there but not that often; she usually held the fort while Elsa did the travelling. Though Edith did travel around the firms and stalls of Rome and Milan looking for product.

Edith was an Igbo name. She was born in Rome and had worked after school in a hotel where she had met Elsa. She had not yet been to university, but the arrangement she had with Elsa was working out. She was getting fantastic experience and was able to save some money. She was happy. And working with Elsa put her in touch with her roots.

The caller said:

Its urgent, you please send money. I’m in need of 100 000 pounds sterling for family business. Important - money be sent to the following bank account and she gave the details to Edith, who took it all down, perplexed, sure that no money would be sent. Nigerians were famous for there scams on supposedly wealthier Europeans and especially on their fellow Africans. Elsa was unaware of the call as she was not in Italy but England.

She had gone with out her mobile but had left the number of the guest house.

The caller ended the call by saying:

we could all loose all our land

The call ended Edith had it all written down but then realised she hadn’t the name of the caller, only that she was calling from a village in Eastern Nigeria. And that the bank the money was to be deposited into was in Onitsha.

After the call Edith put her jacket on and she walked to the dining area at the back of the villa where she found the maid Louisa. I’m going for pizza, what would you like.

Mushroom and garlic she replied. Louisa had started the spring cleaning. The villa had sixteen rooms and to polish everything would be no easy task. She also did a spot of gardening, and was getting better at it over the four years she had worked there.

She and Edith took it in turns to get the pizza, from the bakery that never delivered.

But they made the best pizza in Santa Lucia.

As Edith made her way down the private road onto the highway she set one guard dog after another barking, all of them safely behind fences to the luxury houses, high above on the hills. The road she was taking had ramparts twenty metres high on either side; Elsa Johnson’s Villa sat nestled amongst the pine trees; this road was always quiet but for the barking and occasional returning or departing vehicle, and the small hotel, which had tourists in summer. The road she was now walking connected to the main artery through the countryside leading into Central Rome and the Vatican City, where the Pope and St Peters resided.The weather was mild and the air crisp and fresh despite the traffic on the highway.

Louisa was onto her second Heineken. She was watching a festival of music held at an estate in the Alps. It was being televised across Italy for Easter.

The Villa was home to these three women who were firm friends despite respecting each others space; Louisa, Elsa and Edith, and they had lots of space. There were hills at the back of the house and along the highway leading off the private road connecting five villas. One of which was now a hotel Villa Maria.

The traffic came and went but mostly it was quiet.

CHAPTER 2

London 8 o’clock Wednesday night

Daylight had finally drained away and the air was dark. The lights in the red brick houses made the walk back to Elsa’s guest house seem enchanted. Eric had kissed her goodbye at the steps of the British Museum and didn’t expect to see her again. He had enjoyed the lecture and her company. He felt uncomfortable with some of the references to Michelangelo’s divine homosexual love.

The red chalk sketches of mens bodies, by the divine hand, had appeared on the lecturer’s screen as tawny etched and scratched like a human geography of eroticism and disgust. Now He was three thousand pounds richer after a weeks work on the phone and a day at the office. He was twenty three and single. He had the world at his feet.

He was in the office again the day after tomorrow on Friday; then it was the weekend. He was racking his brain trying to decide what he would do. If things continued like this, he was going to be a very wealthy young man. Very wealthy indeed. And strangely he hadn’t seemed to pay for it with anything more than a few hours of work. His Christian upbringing had left him believing that pleasures were