SEE THE PHOTO

Mujahid Ahmed

 

 

 

“Mate, I’m not taking the piss, but did you make this at home?”  

 

That question was directed towards seventeen-year-old me, as I stood at the border security queue at Adelaide Airport on January 25^th, 2001. I was already extremely drained from the 14-hour flight, which included a 17-hour layover. Moreover, I had to endure the entire flight sitting curled in a quasi-foetal position, pressured to decide whether I wanted the chicken or beef when I couldn’t even lower my tray table low enough without it pressing down on both my legs like a sandwich maker. Although I don’t consider myself to be a masochist, denying it however, is becoming incredibly difficult given that I continue to fly knowing that I’ve essentially paid to be bound, put in the stocks, and told when and what to eat as soon as I embark.  

 

My inferences from the question was one, I was not obligated to provide a urine sample, and two, he was bewildered by my Sudanese passport, which was not machine readable, and my identifying information was hastily scribbled on it with a blue felt-tip pen. To make matters worse, most of the key information was almost undecipherable even to a fluent Arabic speaker, as some sentences were written from right to left and vice versa. 

 

Unlike the fight or flight response most people experience when quizzed in this fashion upon arrival, I was not rattled mainly because I had seen the same dumbfounded facial expression on the faces of Asian, European, and African border security officers. Fantastically, my collection now includes an Australian face, though I was somewhat disappointed that he did not yell out “Crikey” when he first opened the passport. With a wide grin, I replied with the cheeky one-liner eight years in the making “No sir. And if I had, I would’ve done a better job of it”. I then handed him a copy of my Australian student visa, and I allowed through.  

 

A few steps past the gate however, the same customs officer yelled out “Oi mate. Hang on one sec”.  

 

Uh-oh, in terms of border checks, being asked to come back was a new experience for me, so I didn’t have a plan B or C. The veins on each side of my temples began to thump with so much force that it felt like there was a drum solo in my head. As a comics fan, a quote by a time-travelling comic character instantly came to mind. “I went forward in time to view alternate futures and all the possible outcomes. I saw 14000065, and only one was different but I can’t tell you which, or it will not happen”. Of the superlative catalogue blend of inspirational and motivational quotes stored in it, my brain picked the most morbid one. Was it the -clearly ineffective- incense mum gave me to bless my journey? Or was it the “sacred” leopard skinned boots my uncle insisted I take with me

“Because this particular leopard was a pain to catch”?   

  

 

“Before you head off, can I please grab a copy of your passport to show the boys at the office? They’re going to think I was taking the piss when I tell them! The only part that was spot on was the description of holder bit where they’ve simply said, “See Photo”! That’s gold!”.  

 

Crikey.  

 

From day one, my list of differences between Oz and Sudan continues to be a living document, as I discover new ones almost every day. Almost every difference has led to a shift in perspective. An example that comes to mind was when I was first invited to a barbeque where the host requested that the guests “Bring a plate”. For a long time after, I wondered why people stared at me funny for walking in with an empty plate rather than at the host who invited a group of people over when they themselves couldn’t even afford basic crockery? I will also never forget the profoundly philosophical response I got back when I asked a bystander for directions which of two possible routes to get to the library was shorter. “Six of one, half dozen of the other, mate”.   

 

Moreover, I had arrived in a country where the failure to vote incurs a fine, from a country where the ruling party’s political slogan was “Stay home. We will vote for you!” My father, who was a journalist and a staunch critic of the regime and consequently, was frequently detained. This arbitrary detention occurred so often that when the government’s henchmen came calling, he greeted them at the door carrying a pillow and a toiletry bag. He once cheekily told me that he was trying to negotiate a deal to ensure he was detained on nights when mum was planning to cook her eggplant casserole for dinner, because “Unlike the regime, he cannot write a scathing column about it”. He returned one evening to tell us that he had asked for a book written by a fellow dissident writer to read, to which the guard replied, “Sorry, we don’t have it, but he’s in cell B-33 if you wanted to chat to him in person”.  

 

Soon after my arrival, I met the O’Connell family through their daughter Lizzie. And since we first met in 2002, I had spent so much time at Lizzie’s home, that I began calling her parents Ma and Pa. Pa -now retired-, was a police commissioner, who -with serious cajoling- recounted jaw-dropping tales of high-speed chases in cars that were spewing thick fumes, and jumping over fences, while

chasing armed gunmen. I think that most people were more in awe of his casual tone of voice while describing the experience as if the story was about chasing the rubbish truck on bin collection day. As we were both avid fans of football, Sherlock Holmes, and forensic science, we bonded quickly, and I nicknamed him Commissioner Gordon from Batman, which was remains fitting because he seemed to always appear when I needed help, and vanish before I could say thanks.  

 

Ma on the other hand, I’ve always found very difficult to describe. Metaphorically speaking, if Pa with his ever-so calm demeanour was Iceman, then Ma would surely be Hestia, the Greek Goddess of Fire and Family. “You wouldn’t want me angry”, was her ominous disclaimer, which is Bruce Banner says before turning into the Hulk. Trust me, on a bad day, Ma could easily make the Hulk stop yelling and mow the lawn after he was done with the dishes. Irrespective of the subject, Ma speaks with vehemence, telling people -myself included- what they needed rather than what they wanted to hear. And therefore, for the past twenty years, Ma was who I’ve sought out when I needed sugar-free advice. She’s always helped me pick my battles, and strategically stepped into them when she felt she needed to. I will eternally remain grateful for them both; because I am surely one of the few people who have the Batman and a Fire Goddess on speed-dial.     

Years down the track and I was going to Lizzie’s house more with the intent to spend time with Ma and Pa. I had my own key to both their house and their cars and therefore, I came and went as I pleased. Even if no one was home, I would still drop in to watch a late-night football match or to use Pa’s makeshift gym. One afternoon, I found Ma hysterically laughing after the neighbours had told her that they, “Just saw a tall black man using the sauna, and that he’s out the back now doing bench-presses!” 

 

As an honorary O’Connell, I was the M.C. at Lizzie’s wedding and soon after, an uncle to her children. I watched Pa consistently earn accolade after accolade, yet still seemed prouder of the fact that -despite being in his sixties- could still chase the rubbish truck with recyclables under one arm and hard rubbish under the other. Ma’s Goddess of Fire form also seems to have gotten stronger, as she -although now in her fifties- she still got asked for identification at licensed venues, only to be ejected from them due to her rowdiness shortly after. 

 

 

2020 for many us was the year our world magically went from being the stage to a hapless protagonist in a morose interpretation of a Dickensian novel -if it were cowritten by Marquez, Tolstoy, and Dostoevsky while they were stuck in quarantine together-. “Dr Zhivago: Fourteen Days of Solitude”, “On the Eve of a Chronicle of a Death Foretold”, or “Anna Karenina: Ephemeral Love in the Time of the Coronavirus”.

 

“It was the worst of times; it was the worst of times for time was not passing, .it was turning in a circle. A time where seven billion people acquired the forlorn look that one sees in vegetarians, and each of them were unhappy in its own way. It was the epoch of belief; it was the epoch of incredulity. A year when -by not social distancing or wearing a mask, you are sincere but still stupid”

 

In short, “What the Dickens just happened?”

 

And depending on who you ask, 2020 was either the year we went toe-to-toe against a modern-day ill-begotten seed of a Bubonic plague and the toilet-paper famine, or that in fact it was 1984, clothed in naked villainy purely to restrict our civil liberties. A cynical rant by my fellow Sudanese countryman Deng about the current apocalyptic steals a grin every time I watch another “The end is nigh!” press conference.

 

“Bro, firstly, the reminder to wipe all surfaces is not really necessary for everyone, because you know that we already wipe all surfaces, door handles, even clean the bedrooms upstairs even when our neighbour calls to say she’s coming to burrow a cup of sugar! Secondly, I don’t understand why westerners panic so much every time they hear about a new virus! We get so many viruses back in Africa, we should get a National Virus Day paid public holiday every year! I just sincerely hope that the next one will not be called the Johnny Walker or the Heineken Virus or something like that, because I casually mentioned to someone at work that I got a free case of Corona-Extra with my last food order, and they made me quarantine for

14 days!!”

 

I remain on the fence on what 2020 was like for me, as I am of the firmest belief that we as human beings are not necessarily able to discern then and there what constitutes a positive or negative experience. I for one vividly remember a time where I was walking across a searing dessert, -literally not figuratively, in 50+degree Celsius heat with a shattered left arm, and a bag nearly twice my weight feeling quite forsaken and dejected, wondering “How on earth would this ever be a positive experience?!” It took me over two decades to realise how incredibly enriching that ordeal had left me, as I never felt lost ever again and when I did, it was never laced with any dread or helplessness. 

 

I guess what I am trying poorly to say, is that I learned that some of the most stressful and difficult moments of one’s life might end up being the most formative and even motivating. And, -on the flipside, some of the best and most gratifying experiences of one’s life can end up being the most distracting and demotivating. And ever since, I no longer trusted my own perception of what a positive or negative experience is, because all that I know is what hurts in the moment, and what doesn’t, which is, to be frank, not worth much.

 

Fast forward twenty years, being told that I am “Built like a brick shithouse” no longer offensive, and learned that no actual urine samples are required when “You take the piss” Sadly, I still cannot confirm nor deny whether it was “A bloke called Damo” or Confucius who coined the sagacious proverb “If you’re not careful, you may find yourself up a certain creek with no paddle”.    

As for me, I’ve graduated and became a counsellor, travelled the world, learned two languages, became a comedian, married an Australian woman called Grace, and most -importantly- I have a daughter. My Nigerian friend Kingsley, was dumbfounded because he has not much luck with Australian women using the one-liner “You look healthy, and your huge hips are the ideal size for child bearing! So, are you seeking a husband?”.  

 

Ageing is a Sisyphean struggle. We spend most of our youth pushing the boulder upwards and aspiring to move it forward, and then the rest of our lives with our heels dug in trying to prevent it from gaining momentum. When I first arrived in Australia, my bags were not only laden with the incense my mother swore was like Sarin Gas for spirits, the shoes made out of -from what I was told- an exceptionally tenacious leopard, but also the assumption that I was a grownup. My spiritual beliefs now include the ANZAC spirits, and my dry sense of humour is now DrizaBone. My garishly coloured Sudanese moral fabric is now interwoven with green and gold.  

 

Bloody-oath, mate.

 

 

 

 

Two decades on, I realise if I could go back in time, I would either make the same mistakes or new ones, “Six of one, half dozen of other”. Therefore, I would tell seventeen-year-old me that whichever route you will take, you will end up where you’re supposed to be. Moreover, being a Grown-up is a burdensome epithet, and a dubbing people die trying to abdicate.  

 

Standing in that delivery room, hearing my wife screaming in primal agony, was the second time I felt the drum solo thumping in my head. And oddly, it reminded me that leopard-skinned shoes which were still sitting in my shed. My daughter Amani, is only a few weeks old, and she spends more time asleep than awake. The deafening silence when she’s asleep evokes the possibility of unperceived existence, and I often forget she’s there. She has no idea who I am yet, evidenced by her utter disappointment when she tries to suck on my chest when I hold her. While everyone coos at her, I still find her featureless. All I see are questions. What will her account of “Growing up in a diverse Australia” look like? Will she have her mother’s emerald-green eyes? Will she be light or dark-skinned? When the time comes, I think the best response to these queries will once again be “See the Photo”!