Assana

Assana

 

no one paid much attention

to the man wandering Portobello

in crumpled suit, shirt and tie,

rain splashed shoes, battered trilby

and vacant smile

 

peas and rice from a corner cafe

filled Assana’s belly

and wafts of ganja,

hinted Africa

 

he left his Bissau City shanty

in the early nineteen fifties

a tramp steamer stowaway

with a cardboard suitcase

searching for better

 

booted off in Lisbon harbour

he settled a while in Portugal

loved a girl named Rosa

who wept when he left her

 

meandering the streets of Labroke Grove

vivid memories sprang to life -

1950s white-paint signs,

 

‘no Irish’

‘no dogs’

‘no blacks’

 

‘was that long ago? in another time? another place? a dream perhaps?’

 

remembrance stirred of his Golborne digs,

twenty-five shillings a week,

breakfast /dinner ten bob extra

 

‘no cooking’

‘no smoking’

‘no female visitors’

 

that post card to Rosa:

‘arrived in England –

London streets is paved with gold -

it is cold and wet - but rains silver ribbons

I will soon be a very rich man’

 

Rosa never replied

 

a patrol car cruises behind

a face looks Assana up and down,

the driver, shrugs, shakes his head

the coppers slither away -

their minds on other prey

 

a crooked finger beckons

a woollen hat, grey-dreadlock,

walking-stick Rastafarian

the Rasta curses quietly

and turns out his pockets again...

innocent again …

 

the law prowls on

 

Assana's second night

under the Westway, sheltering

from sloping rain and slicing cold

 

he asks a shadow stranger

where can he get on 

the next bus to Lisbon 

 

he loses his watch and wallet - 

the mugger slithers into the darkness

proud of his prizes

 

drinking coffee 

in the misted window Sunrise Cafe

a misted mind clears,

Assana mutters,

 

'better head back to Golborne…

nustn’t be late for supper…’

 

[who knows the back story of those we ignore as we pass through life?]