happy yourself
Cheerful is an adjective, it’s something you do, a personal choice you make. As a child my Saturday afternoons were often times spent watching classic black and white matinees on BBC2. St Trinian’s was a childhood favourite with the galumphing, haplessly in love, Police Sgt Ruby Gates played by the late Joyce Grenfell. Sgt Gates struck me as the definition of ‘cheerful’. Engaged to be married for fourteen long years she pursued the affections of her dastardly fiancé. Although he had absolutely no intention of marrying or reciprocating her yearning affections, she remained foolishly hopeful in her cheerfulness that maybe one day.
Fola gently cupped my partially clenched fists into his firm hands, impending words paused until I met his patiently held gaze. ‘Betty, you know you’re responsible for your own happiness, right? You have to do what’s going to make you happy’. As if a lifesaving medical procedure had been conducted, my fists released. Along the way I’d attached my personal happiness to Fola being in my life, going above and beyond to please him and in the process, gradually losing sight of the love and happiness I should have been showering on myself, Instead of functioning on frustration brewed with built up resentment. Our relationship no longer served me. It had become emotionally and mentally exhausting. Now at 46, un married, no children or mortgage to tie me down in a money chasing rut, I stubbornly clung on like a modern day Sgt Ruby Gates. We had already booked our trip to Lagos, Nigeria with the intention of me being formally introduced to ‘the family’. I prayed. God, if he’s not for me, please let my heart be protected, let me at least have an amazing holiday discovering Nigeria and when I come back, I’ll end the relationship.
Mile 12 Market was like no other market I’d ever seen. Fresh green ewedu leaves bursting from worn rattan sacks as far as the eye could see. Bright red bird’s eye chillies pungently lingering like shiny misshaped rubies in the warm morning sun. Mounds of rich black locust beans with their undeniable pong proudly filled the large, well-used enamel tin bowls, driven down overnight from the agricultural heartland of Northern Nigeria. Brightly coloured plastic woven prayer rugs rolled up and standing tall beside size ordered aluminium pots for cooking, all made this a feast for my eyes. The market seller women appeared un-phased, this was their domain. Walking amongst it all I felt happy and alive.
That smell was instantly recognisable, the familiar aroma of raw honey beans, onions and spiced tomato puree, immediately took me back to my small, functional kitchen preparing my fresh akara mixture at 5.30am for the Granby Street market, Liverpool 8. ‘Shit! Someone’s making Akara!’ I stopped, turned back and less than a foot away, witnessed culinary joy. A young street food seller was scooping his freshly cooked, crispy golden balls of akara onto his display counter. Customers stood by casually inspecting the results with an eagerness to pay, without a doubt this was good akara. My popular Nigeria inspired akara, sold on street food events back in England simply could not compare. This was authentic street food, sold every day from morning till night and for a+ fraction of what I was charging. This akara was bigger, came in a variety of shapes and prices served alongside side the famous freshly baked Nigerian agege bread.
In that moment my pre conceived ideas of real Nigerian street food, its indigenous ingredients and farming systems were all smashed. What exactly did I know? Not as much as I thought. But I was excited and more importantly open to learning and discovering from the very people who stood before me living it all out. At every opportunity, I immersed my time in speaking with the market traders, street food sellers and business women who made Mile 12 magic happen. I found my happy and in turn a renewed appreciation for African people and the food.
Shortly after our holiday high return to London, I ended my relationship with Fola, along with the certainty I’d made the right decision for myself came much relief and joy. Freedom of a new beginning awaited me, I just didn’t know how and when it would all manifest. Before long I began asking myself, What next Betty? What are you going to do with your life now? I silently longed for more adventures of food, people and culinary discovery in West Africa but self-sabotage and self-doubt pushed Africa to the furthest part of my mind.
You’re too old to be back-packing like a teen on a gap year, you’ve left it well late.
You need money for Africa, you don’t even have savings. Bitch you is broke.
It’s so risky with malaria in West Africa, the healthcare isn’t great. What if you get sick?
Margaret’s shop on Mare Street acts as a community social hub but more importantly she’s my friend. We hadn’t seen one another since I got back. A warm welcome and a chance to share my holiday footage on my mobile phone was presented. Margaret sat calmly observing me in my state of excitement and passion talking all things Africa as well as my un founded frustration of the direction my life was headed.
“Betty, go to Africa . . . . that’s where your heart is. Go, don’t worry just go . . . ’
It was as though the lights came on in my mind, everything was crystal clear and true. I was choosing to be happy and find my joy in this decision in this moment. No more fear. Within seven months I would land back on the shores of Africa.
In Ghana, West Africa there’s a saying to describe holding oneself accountable in the pursuit of happiness. Rita, my host and flatmate in Accra would often tell me in passing, ‘Betty, Happy yourself’. What a perfect instruction. I can happy myself, wherever, whenever without having to ask or wait to be told by a person or for an occasion. Travelling across West Africa by road to discover the rich cultural traditions of Northern Ghanaian food, Sierra Leone farm lands and the tribal Ivorian and Liberian people, ‘Happy yourself’ became my new daily affirmation. I am always deserving, regardless of how I may feel of intentionally happy-ing myself.
Betty Vandy