Category Archives: Non fiction

I Remember My First Trip

I remember my first trip to America. It was more than ten years ago, in the summer month of July. It felt like a dream, boarding the plane in Muritala Mohammed airport in Lagos, Nigeria, next stop being JFK International in New York. I kept saying to myself that this couldn’t be real. No way could it possibly be . . . yet it was real. It was happening as I boarded the plane, settled in my seat, and watched the plane taxi off the runway into the midnight sky, leaving my home and Africa behind.

I grabbed the armrest of my seat while looking out the window beside me as we soared higher and higher into the clouds. The crowd in the Economy class section of the plane broke into a cheer, like we were off to an afterparty special event. I would have preferred settling in the Business or First Class section, but you’ve got to have plenty of bread to spare to afford that luxury. In the Economy section, you had to deal with narrow seats, awful leg-room, and pray the fellow seated beside you doesn’t have a mighty elbow. Even worse is whoever that’s beside you isn’t long-legged to be digging into your backside. It was very inconvenient, which is why I prefer having a window seat than sandwiched in the centre aisle. A bad conundrum is knowing how many times you’ll need to get up and go pee in the back; double bad if it’s preoccupied and there’s a long like of folks waiting their turn. You get the picture, don’t you?

The most ingratiating moment consists of listening to children whine, cry, and grumble all through the flight. There were times when I truly contemplated suicide. The good thing was that it didn’t take long for many to start falling asleep. For me, sleep came late. I simply couldn’t force myself to nod off. This was a historic moment for me, and I wasn’t yet done cherishing it.

Our next stop was Charles DeGaulle airport, in France. We deplaned, and then made our way through the airport to another section, where he had hours to burn before boarding our scheduled flight that would take us across the Atlantic. Only then did I allow myself some hours of sleep. 

It was dark again by the time we drew closer to America. All I saw was a dazzling panorama of bright, colourful lights that stretched as far as my eyes could see into the horizon. Lights, lights, and more lights. Then we began our descent, and everyone stayed quiet as we taxied down the runway. The room broke into cheering again as the plane slowed to a final stop.

Homeland Security waved me through, and I still had butterflies dancing in my gut as I followed the crowd to claim my baggage, and then I was outside the airport, setting firm foot on American soil. The ride to my friend’s home in Mount Vernon was smooth. I got to take some shots along the way.

Hard to believe that before that day, it had only been a dream I’d whispered to myself about visiting America. That dream had now become a reality. What came afterwards was beyond my imagination.

Check out my recent interview: https://readershouse.co.uk/index.php/2024/05/06/damien-dsoul-unveiling-desire/

A Cold Day Walking into Central Park

I woke up to a cold morning like every other morning had been for the past month and the month before. A cold morning in Mount Vernon, New York. It was March 2013. The snow outside had already begun to melt, but the cold, blustery wind wasn’t going anywhere. I huddled under my twin blanket, seeking comfort, but it wasn’t enough to keep from feeling the bite of cold. I got up instead with no other intention but to face the rigours of the day, one way or another.

My friend’s Dad, whom I had been residing with, reminded me the month was soon ending, and if I was going to spend another month living with him, then I’ll need to fork over another 500 Dollars rent. My pocket was dwindling already. If I kept spending that large amount, I would barely have enough to keep me going for another month. 

I might as well have become stranded in America.

I did a rough calculation and told him I didn’t think I could pay for another month. He nodded solemnly and said he would speak to the landlord later. My old man’s Dad taught at an urban institute in Brooklyn. He wore his hat and scarf, picked up his briefcase and left me alone in the apartment. I had nothing but lots of quiet all to myself. The sort of quiet that can drive you insane if you let it. But such was what I’d become used to since coming to this part of the world.

I opened my laptop and tried to do some writing, but nothing came forth. I was worried, deeply worried. I was getting closer to being destitute, and I couldn’t think of any way out of my predicament. I’d laid in bed praying for a Hail Mary, and nothing seemed forthcoming. The eerie quietness in the apartment seemed to weigh down my dilemma.

I showered, dressed up, and left the apartment.

The apartment housing wasn’t far from Mount Vernon East Station. I went there and got myself a ticket, and rode it to Harlem. I got off at 125th Street Station and decided to walk from there. 

I walked past Marcus Garvey Park, but it stopping there seemed so dismal. I continued along Fifth Avenue. Realizing I’d been walking for a long time and my feet were growing tired, I stepped through a side gate and strolled into Central Park.

I found myself a lone bench and sat there to cool off my heels while admiring the steady flow of humanity around. My mind raged inside my skull, trying to take stock of my dire situation while my eyes roamed the vicinity. Across from me was a pond, and I sighted an old white man leading a kid towards the pond’s edge. They were admiring a raft of ducks circling the water. I couldn’t help feeling slightly fascinated by the old man and the little kid, watching the way they interacted r. I imagined the old man as my Dad, and it got me wishing my Dad and I had done something similar to this before. Not something you’d expect a Nigerian Dad to do, but the thought of it warmed my heart nostalgically.

The thought of the old man and the little kid got me imagining where they came from. I began sketching back-stories in my head regarding their past: I imagined the old man hadn’t seen his grandson in ever, and this outing was their first time bonding together. I tried concocting ideas of whatever could have led to them never encountering each other until that moment. It was out of that brainstorming that the idea for my forthcoming novel LEMMON’S JOURNEY came about.

I got up, feeling better about myself, left the Park, and continued my walk down Fifth Avenue to Grand Central Station. I spent the next few hours viewing the latest MacBook laptop at the Apple store. Hours later, I stopped at a restaurant to fill my stomach and rode the train back to Mount Vernon. I was buoyant and rejuvenated when I returned to the apartment and got busy starting work on the novel I had in mind involving the old man and his alleged grandkid.

My friend’s Dad returned later in the evening. I told him I had changed my mind and would pay rent for another month’s stay. His response was the least news I expected to hear, and it killed what little happiness I’d saved up for the remainder of the day.

“No can do,” he said. “I already told the landlord that you’ll be leaving, and he’s agreed. I’m sorry, but that’s how I do things around here.”

Without further word, he marched into his room and slammed his door in my face. I returned to mine and tirelessly asked myself what I’d done wrong in life.

Two weeks later, May came around, and my days of homelessness began. I left the apartment with my luggage in hand without a farewell from my friend or his Dad. Neither bothered walking me to the train station. I rode the train to the city and got on a Greyhound bus to Washington, D.C.

Last Train out of Grand Central

My friend and I were eager to see the ball drop on December 31st night. We set out of our home in Mount Vernon East around 6:00p.m., made it to the train station and rode it all the way to Grand Central in New York City. It was bitterly cold that evening, colder than I’d ever felt, and winter was yet to arrive.

I had dreamed about doing something like this for years. This was one of my earliest trips to the USA, so I was still a novice on things. But watching the ball drop in Times Square was a dream I needed to make happen.

The city was in chaos when we got off the train and made our way out of the station. The city was bursting to the brim, teaming with New Yorkers and foreigners from all over; apparently, everybody was there to witness the same thing. Everyone was decked in parkas, winter jackets, hoodies, and thick shoes. It hadn’t begun to snow yet, but on the weather report declared that was coming soon.

Several avenues were closed. Cops manned road-block stands deterring anyone from passing through. We joined the crowd and walked down West 42nd Street to Times Square. It felt like we were part of a chain gang; I started wishing we had taken our time before coming.

There was a bursting crowd there, and it was tough getting through onto Broadway. We made it to a Burger joint and filled our stomachs for the long night. The sun was out, but it was frigging cold; the sun looked like it wasn’t going anywhere.

Eventually, the sun dipped beyond the skyscrapers and vanished, replaced by a starry night. There was bright lights and Christmas décor all around. My friend and I returned to the streets, waiting. We talked, we joked about how cold it was, and laughed. It was fun seeing my breath turn to vapor before my eyes. We exchanged greetings with other people who were there to see the ball drop. 

Time passed, and the crowd grew larger, more frenetic. There was music playing, but it seemed to come from everywhere. The hours went by and yet we continued to wait.

Like that, the inevitable hour arrived. I could barely see much from where I stood, and like everyone else, I had my phone out, taking snapshots. The resounding countdown noise was eloquently clear.

“FIVE! . . . FOUR! . . . THREE! . . . TWO! . . . ONE! . . . HAPPY NEW YEAR!!!”

You could hear the scream for miles. Fireworks exploded into the sky; confetti rained on our heads. People hugged and cheered; couples held each other and shared passionate kisses; enemies kissed friends, and friends celebrated with enemies.

Peace reigned briefly upon the world. It was beautiful.

Then came time to leave, and that was a struggle going with the crowd. It was non-stop bumping and grinding as we returned to Grand Central. There wasn’t a direct train to Mount Vernon, so we joined one heading to Harlem, and made two more stops before arriving at our station. It was 02:37 a.m. when we returned home. neither of us slept much. We made tea and talked for hours, mostly about what we hoped the New Year would bring.

It had begun to snow by the time we laid our heads to sleep.

HAPPY NEW YEAR, EVERYONE!