New life

Chat line

Zenga Longmore

Uncle Bisi, however, is made of sterner stuff than the average double-glazing expert. Last Thursday, he suffered seven long minutes of a one-sided telephone con- versation with an excitable Omalara.

`Hello!' chirped the toddler, ignoring Uncle Bisi's plaintive pleas, 'Me! Once a time, a time, um, a pig, um, a bad woof! A house, a house, a chin, dada, a bwo-o-ow a house down!'

`At last!' gasped Uncle Bisi when I finally reached him. Offstage, Olumba grappled with the thwarted storyteller. 'I must, ah, speak with you today on urgent, that is to say, imperative business. Stay indoors until my presence reaches you.'

This was not at all convenient, but there is no arguing with Uncle Bisi. You see, Olumba and I were about to take turns at standing in the road outside the flats to look out for a Nigerian friend who was to drive Olumba to a back street recording studio. Yes, Olumba's ike, or slit-gong play- ing, is to be recorded for posterity.

Uncle Bisi arrived before the record man and Olumba fluttered anxiously around him. 'As you, ah, know,' the great man explained, 'my wholesale West African foodstuff import business is expanding. Now I wish to diversify and stock Caribbean produce of a kind I am unfamil- iar with. What gladdens the palate of a West Indian islander? We must do market research.'

I groaned, wondering why I had not allowed Omalara to continue with The Three Little Pigs for a further 20 minutes.

`Jamaicans eat bananas before they are ripe!' cried Olumba, in scandalised tones. `They are quite green!'

`This is no time for childlike jests! Now, nephew,' continued Uncle Bisi, frowning into his gin, 'you must go out today and write down on a notepad all the food vict- uals you observe being purchased by peo- ple of, ah, Caribbean extraction.'

`But Uncle, today I must record a. . . ' `Deliver the information to my office by six this evening.'

`But Uncle, I've, I've. . . '

Leaving them to it, I hurried down to the street to stand sentry. After some minutes, I saw Mrs Starman, my evangelical friend, toiling with a heavy shopping bag.

`Zeriga, is you?' she greeted me, looking confused. `I been down Brixton market, and when I reach me yard, I find I lef' the key of me door in the church meeting house. Could you be a hangel, and take care of me shopping while I go fetch the key?'

So I returned to the flat with Mrs Star- man's shopping and Olumba hurried to take my place, calling, 'Yes, Uncle, six o'clock on the dot-o,' over his shoulder as he cantered down the stairs.

`Mrs Starman is, I believe, from the West Indie islands,' Uncle Bisi said at once, eye- ing her shopping in a thoughtful manner, `Aho! Market research!' And before I could say 'green banana' Uncle Bisi had emptied her shopping bag. Methodically he set to work, placing each item on the kitchen table, making a detailed inventory on a notepad. I saw before me a happy and fulfilled man.

So Olumba was able to make his slit- gong record unhampered by market research or, in this case, Brixton market research.