The Great North

On subtle ways of belonging

Two weeks ago, I moved up from Newhaven, East Sussex, to Lancashire, (Morecambe, specifically) while I wait for our house to get ready. Coast to coast. There is sand and water and sun and many times, rain and grey. I am forbidden from walking the dog on the North and South Beaches so we stick to the promenade or take the bus to various parks, or walk the streets of Lancaster and Morecambe until we tire and return to the airbnb. I am in limbo.

In the meantime, I write. An apology: I have neglected this substack for many weeks. I was miserable and in a different sort of transition and thought to myself, why spread the misery? Nobody only wants to read only pain and, I simply could not rouse myself from my stupor of depression to write anything. I thank my subscribers for your continued faith in me, as well as the value you place on my work, paid or not. Thank you for your patience.

The first week I arrived I was seized by bouts of melancholy, missing my children’s voices, their incessant questions, their very selves. I have been alone with them for many years and I am used to having them around me all the time except for brief daytime stints with their father. Being without them troubled me. I thought to myself what I would do when they were grown and gone. Would I wallow in misery? Would I suddenly be confronted by an emptiness in my own life that nothing could fill?

I am old friends with melancholy. Time and again I return to a mental image: me, in primary two, 6 years old, haunting grasshoppers in the tall, swaying grass. There is an art to this, moving stealthily through the cutting blades without wincing or jumping, crouching low enough not to cast a shadow, two palms cupped downwards, a sudden springing and yanking and presto! The grasshopper (plus a few blades of grass) is in your hand. There is an art to holding a live grasshopper too. Hold tightly, and when you open your moist palm you are confronted with upturned legs and big glassy eyes where once there was life.

On this one occasion that keeps coming to mind, while I tried to catch the grasshopper, I became aware that I was alone in the world. That despite the compound swarming with children - playing ‘Swell’ under the gmelina tree, kicking balls about in the main field, chatting, chasing, plaiting each other’s hair, cooking sand soups with leaves and grass, sticks and spittle, wading through the grass metres away from me - that I was a singular being, removed from mother, father, siblings, everybody. A heaviness pressed upon my heart and grew behind my eyes. I might have wept if children would not have bullied me, laughed at me, called me ‘cry-cry baby’. And if the teachers asked, what would I say the matter was? They could punish me for being soft. I was all alone with oversized feelings and nowhere to turn. Whenever melancholy descends, I am again, in the field, under the hot sun, trying not to cry.

We have developed a routine in Morecambe, Jet and I. Early morning walks, followed by coffee at one of the local cafes where they give him a bowl of water which he slurps greedily and gratefully. Then, home to write, banging out a thousand to two thousands words before lunch, reading, a siesta, evening walk, dinner and a movie. It is telling that my belonging in new places has twice recently, happened in coffeeshops. By day three in Morecambe, I was getting hellos as soon as I walked into the door from Dave the history professor, Lorraine with the walker and Elaine…I think her name is, who works night and always rides her bicycle home. By the 7th day, staff were keeping track of what days were my decaf days versus fully caffeinated days. And today? Well, today I walked in, spent some time in line talking to someone and by the time I got to the front, the barista said '“That would be £4, please,” handing me my correct order which he made as soon as I walked in the door.

To me, this is what community feels like.

I am obsessed with the idea of what community could be in this age, especially as an African woman. It forms part of my research and the core of my writing work. We, in Nigeria, identify ourselves as part of groups; ethnic, extended families, and so on. The concept of individuals, or the emphasis on individualism are recent enough to still cause friction in many societies. In this, individualism vs collectivism, we are even now, finding our way; practising some hybrid, pick-and-mix, hit-and-miss form of the two. And yet, the more I belong, the more melancholy I become, because the individuality of self tends to be absorbed into the collective. I chafe against it, I want to undersand and be understood as me, even as I celebrate the things which make us similar. It troubles me, the way one can ‘belong’ for decades and yet, never truly be seen in those little pieces that form the larger picture of our lives.

I knew how my father would react when I told him of my separation, and he did just that. Until recently, he was on my husband’s side, because he is a man. This is no surprise to me. My father has always been this way. Recently, he expressed regret but that had nothing to do with me and a lot to do with how this same ex had treated him even after he extended the all-encompassing support he had withheld from me. It shocked him, to be undervalued, discarded. The thought of not being important to my ex-husband had not even occured to him, despite the fact that I, his daughter had been unimportant as well. I know how my father likes his coffee, where to put his handkerchiefs, what things delight him. I see into his life in the utterances he makes. I have studied him all of my life and I know him. I, despite being open and honest, remain a mystery to him. Often my utterances shock him and he clamps down on them. It is only recently that he has stopped trying to literally tell me what to think.

And yet,I got the idea of community from my father, more than my mother but while his comes with obligations and duties, I choose to build my community on common interests, on the little things. It is the way of women after all. I try to remember birthdays. I make coffee dates, virtually and in person. I catch up on my friends’ children’s progresses and celebrate successes, I empathise with difficulties. I try to remember how they like their coffee, what allergies they have, if they drink coffee at all.

Most of all, however, I never give up on the sort of relationships I require, even with my parents. One is never too old to learn new things and I will never stop trying.

‘The Great North’, Fox Broadcasting Company, 2021.

Because sometimes the right hot beverage is how you say ‘Welcome, I see you, please pull up a chair and rest here’, and everybody deserves to feel this way.