964 - Part 2

A meeting with an old friend.

One month later; my final few months in what was once my home town. I was home alone for two weeks, working every day except Mondays. So, on a Monday, an old friend drops by to see me.

Ore is a proud Nigerian and a proud Christian. He trained with his father as a wild animal veterinarian from just 10 years old. At 30, he and his then pregnant wife, Ronke, moved to the north of England, hoping for a new and prosperous life in a country they had spent most of their lives dreaming of visiting. She had been offered a job as an anaesthetist in a local hospital, and he planned to continue his family trade at a nearby zoo. However, the stubborn racist fool of a zoo owner refused to offer him paid work, insisting that he could only take Ore on a 'volunteer basis. I'm sure that my Nigerian friend told him calmly and politely where he could shove his offer, and by the time of this narrative had become a successful small business owner.

Ore knew about my University's reputation for having a large international student population, as well as its huge multi-faith chaplaincy. He liked that I had chosen to study there, although he was well aware of my devout atheism. I should add that he was always respectful of my beliefs, or lack thereof.

"How are your studies Michael? Have you met any nice Africans this year on campus? What about nice Christians?" 

Ah, Ore and his quiet wishes for my soul. He had asked these questions before, but this time I had the perfect answer for him.

"Aye, I did actually. I met an excellent African Christian gentleman just the other week. Really nice guy, we ended up going out for a few drinks. Had a proper good chat."

I failed to mention the weed or coke. Ore was cool, but not that cool.

Ore's beaming smile lit up his entire face, and he quizzed and questioned me for several minutes for details of my new friend. He wanted to know where he came from in Africa, which church he attended, and if I knew his family tribe. Did he have a girlfriend? How much did he drink? Did he smoke? How were his studies? A few questions I had answers for, many I did not.

Then the penny drops. Ore realises he has missed an important detail. Knowing as I did his fondness for African language and names, I was surprised at how long it had taken him to ask.

So he pops the Million Dollar question, and I tell him.

His face drops. Just as his cheeky grin had brightened his entire countenance mere moments before, the gloom and despair marking his features now radiated a purest sorrow. My stomach dropped several inches in sympathy.

His gaze is fixed on the carpet for several second before he slowly raises his eyes to mine.

"Do you know why?"

The question could have seemed open, but I knew exactly what he meant that day, standing in the kitchen. Now, you know what he meant too.

"No. Not really"

His gaze fell away again, and as it did his hand drifted to my shoulder.

"Then we must sit."

He led me through to my own front room. He sat first, and requested a Whisky.

Ore was a good friend, both to me, and to my father. He deserved the best we had in the house, a hundred times over. My father had passed away a few years previously, but his collection of Single Malts - whilst somewhat depleted - had an excellent few bottles remaining. Selecting an Islay Malt - the pleasingly named Bunnahabhain - and pouring two generous measures, I went and sat next to Ore on the sofa, handing him his drink as I sat.

He toasted my father for buying the Whisky, and I for serving it. Then he necked his glass, and sat it down on the table. I sat cradling and sipping mine as he began to explain. I kept quiet, sensing that this was a story to be told all in one go, without interruption.