My First London Nights

The queue at the Immigration desk was long and moved slowly. When it was my turn, I walked briskly to the next available desk and handed over my international passport and ticket. It was a return ticket to Nigeria. The officer flipped through the pages and asked me what I had come to do in Britain. I explained that I had come to study. He asked which course and college, and I provided him with the details. He then wanted to know how much money I had with me. I told him that I only had 47p. I explained that my accommodation and living expenses had already been sent to my college. Since it was Sunday, he asked where I would stay until Monday, when the college would be open. I told him that I would be staying with Dr. Lewu.

The Immigration Officer then led me to a side desk where he began asking me further questions. He asked for details about Dr. Lewu. I gave him his address and telephone number. He went away for a couple of minutes and then returned. He explained that he had telephoned Dr. Lewu, but he was not at home. However, his wife was aware that I was coming and had requested that the Immigration Officer arrange for a black cab to bring me to their house in  Finchley. The Immigration Officer then accompanied me to the luggage collection area, where my luggage was waiting for me. I followed him outside the airport, beyond the arrivals hall, and he flagged down a black cab for me. By this time, I was already freezing and could feel pain in my ears from the cold.

The Immigration Officer handed Dr. Lewu's address to the cab driver and asked him to take me there. I had heard about the famous London Black Cabs and had seen them in movies. It was a strange feeling getting into a black cab driven by a white man. It was around 8 p.m., and it was dark. As the cab driver drove along, I saw lights illuminating the streets as we moved down the road. The driver explained that we were heading to North London. This didn't mean anything to me—I didn't know the difference between East, West, North, or South London. As far as I was concerned, I was already in London. As we continued, I noticed that he was driving on the left-hand side of the road, and the steering wheel was on the right-hand side.

I had heard about this from friends, but it didn't seem unusual to me, as I could recall a time when Nigeria also drove on the same side of the road. Everything looked completely strange. Nothing seemed real to me; it felt like I was watching a Western movie. I was speechless and couldn't even initiate a conversation with the cab driver. He was white and very friendly. He had helped me load my luggage into the car. As we moved along, he started to ask me lots of questions: where I came from, what I had come to do, how long I would be staying and so on. I answerd all his questions as much as I could. The journey seemed endless, so I asked how much longer we had before we reached the destination. He said we would be there soon.

The total journey time from the airport until we arrived at Dr. Lewu's house in Finchley was approximately one hour. His wife came out of the house and paid the taxi fare. She did not tell me how much she had paid, and I did not ask. There was another lady whom I knew from secondary school, who I later understood to be Dr. Lewu’s second wife. Both of them were very hospitable.

Dr. Lewu, who had been introduced to me by my brother's wife, Mrs Christiana Medupin, was an ambassador working with the Nigerian High Commission in London. He returned from work at about 10 p.m. I was meeting him for the first time. He gave me a warm welcome and promised to take me to my school the following morning. My first night in London was long; I could not sleep. I rolled from one side of the double bed to the other, imagining so many things.

The following morning, Dr. Lewu was up early and ready to take me to my college. He asked for the address, came out of the house, and went straight to his car. He asked me to get in, but I was still standing by the door, not realising that he was waiting for me. I did not realise that he was sitting on the driver’s side, so I tried to open the door on his side. He looked at me and smiled, asking me to enter through the other door. I knew it would take me a while to get used to this new system. As he drove along, turning from one street to another, I was amazed by the scenery. Nothing seemed real to me; it felt like I was in a dreamland. I was speechless. After about twenty minutes, he stopped, parked by the side of the road, pointed to a tall building across the road, and said it was my college. I got out of the car, thanked him for his help, and promised to keep in touch. He gave me £10.00.

When I got out of the car, I looked around, and everything seemed strange to me. I was confused. I turned around and saw a sign that showed he had dropped me at Bond Street Station. I was expecting to see a complex that resembled a university. I walked up and down for a few minutes. I asked someone if he knew where West London College was and gave him the address: 360 Oxford Street. He was not sure. I asked another person, and he said I would need to take a bus or a taxi. I decided to flag down a black cab instead. I got in with my luggage and gave the taxi driver the address. He looked at it for a while, as if unsure I had given him the correct address. He drove for about four hundred yards and made a U-turn. After driving for a few minutes, he parked by the roadside and pointed to a building on the left, saying it was 360 Oxford Street. He charged me £4.00. I got out of his car and looked around. I was right opposite Bond Street Station, where Dr. Lewu had first dropped me a few minutes ago.

I entered the building and was directed to the reception desk located on the second floor. I introduced myself, and the lady welcomed me to the college. There were other newly arrived students waiting to see the bursar. Within twenty minutes, I was formally registered and provided with the necessary documents, including a statement of my account, an identity card, and more. I was asked to find my way to Willesden Green, where a room had been rented for me, and to report back to the college the following day.

The ride to Willesden Green seemed like an endless journey, but I was filled with excitement about my new life and the new experiences ahead. I had informed the bus conductor of my destination, and he promised to let me know when we arrived. I started wishing that Grace was with me to share those magical moments. I felt momentarily lonely but quickly recovered. After almost half an hour, the bus conductor came to me and told me to be ready to get off at the next bus stop.

After I alighted from the bus, it took me another twenty minutes to locate the house. I had to ask for directions from a couple of people. Fortunately, my luggage was not that big, so it wasn't much of a hassle to carry around while I was looking for the house. The first person I approached said I had gone past the street and advised me to go back to the main road. He told me that at the bus stop, I should cross the road and go straight down the street opposite. He mentioned I should take the first turn on the left and seemed confident in his directions. I made my way back to the bus stop, and just as I was about to cross the road, I saw Willesden Lane right in front of me.

I knocked on the door and waited for a reply. I knocked again, but no one responded. I knew someone was inside because I could see a light in one of the rooms. I could not knock harder as it was painful due to the cold weather. I looked around and saw what looked like a doorbell, so I decided to press it. An old lady opened the door and welcomed me into her house. I introduced myself and handed over the letter that the college had asked me to give to her. She explained that she was the landlady and showed me the room on the first floor. She introduced me to all the amenities in the house, including the electric meter, the bathroom, and so on. She showed me how to operate the electric meter and told me that she had already put in 50p worth of electricity for me. I did not quite understand what she meant, but I just said thank you. She explained that I needed the electricity to shower, heat my room, and cook. She gave me a small electric cooker that she said I could use in my room. Everything seemed to be working.

As soon as I had settled down, I felt hungry. I had not eaten a proper meal since I left Nigeria. I had brought a small amount of food with me, including gari. I decided to go out to the street to see what I could get. I saw a small grocery shop and checked to see what I could buy. I took an interest in what I initially thought was goat meat and decided it might be good for preparing some soup. I bought a few okra, onions, pepper, and other ingredients for the soup and returned to my room.

My first attempt at cooking in London started by cutting all the various ingredients into small pieces and mashing them together, as I had no blender. I put the ‘meat’ in the pot provided by the landlady, added some water, and started to boil it. At first, I noticed that the aroma coming from the pot did not have the familiar smell of boiling meat that I was used to back in Nigeria. I thought it might have been a different type of meat or perhaps that London meat was different. I waited to see how it would turn out.

Gradually, I noticed that the pot started to foam. Suddenly, the foam began to overflow from the pot, spilling onto the cooker and the carpet on the floor. I quickly switched off the cooker to slow down the rising foam. After a few seconds, I decided to turn the cooker back on, but this time, I reduced the heat. I left it to heat up for a while. The odour was still unfamiliar, and the foam continued to ooze out, but it was no longer as forceful and rapid as before. While waiting for the meat to cook properly, I started to cut the okra. As soon as I thought the meat had been cooked enough to eat, I added all the previously mashed ingredients. I also added the okra and mixed everything together in the pot. I added a little salt, some corn oil, and cooking sauce to give it a familiar flavour.

Within a few minutes, my first pot of soup in London was ready. I boiled some water with the kettle that the landlady had also given me and made myself some eba. The food was delicious, albeit with a somewhat unfamiliar taste. I ate with relish and thoroughly enjoyed it. The soup lasted for three days. Each time I tried to warm it up, its odour would still fill the tiny room. My landlady did not complain. Since she hadn't complained when I was first making the soup, I knew she wouldn't complain now. It wasn't until Grace joined me that I realised I had eaten my first eba in London with soup cooked with bacon, which I had mistaken for goat meat.

I spent my second night in London in my tiny room. It was very cold, so I kept the heater on. At about 10 p.m., I noticed the light suddenly went off. I wondered if it was just in my room or the whole building. I thought I had left the problem of epileptic electricity supply back in Nigeria. I did not know what to do. I came out of the room and could see light in the corridor. I could also hear the sound of a television in the adjoining room. I went downstairs and complained to the landlady. She explained that I needed to buy another card to recharge the electricity. I reminded her that she had bought one for me that afternoon. She laughed and said I had used it all up. It was freezing, so I had to run out of the house to buy a card. Fortunately, the local store was still open. When I returned to the house, she advised me to switch off the heater before going to bed to save some money. The bed cover she had provided was not thick enough to provide the needed warmth at night. It felt like I had been put in a deep freezer. I did not have a good night's sleep, and I was glad to wake up the following morning and head straight to college.

Extracts from my forthcoming memoir, Grace and Resilience—a journey of endurance, hope, and transformation.