Diversity appears to be the signature of this store; the colors and fabrics speak the language of sophistication and casualness. To receive patrons into the well-appointed space are two beautiful ladies, one from Hungary and the other from Italy. In their eyes I could read beyond what sales person do, this duo wanted to sell an idea and the vision of the owner without much fuss or aggression
SINCE the day I encountered the word Flaneur, I have always wanted to be one or pretend to walk in the footsteps of these observant participants. As you will soon notice, my entire lifestyle fits right bang with the Internet definition of a Flaneur. The definition says “examples of characters who embody the flâneur spirit are journalists and social commentators; that is figures who explore cities and document their observations, capturing the essence of urban life. Apart from journalists, artists and Photographers also fit the bill. These are individuals who use the city as their canvas, capturing fleeting moments and details through their work (e.g., Edgar Degas, Gustave Caillebotte).
Remember, please, that the flâneur is more of an archetype than a specific role. While some historical figures fit the description perfectly, the essence of the flâneur – the observant wanderer who absorbs the city’s atmosphere – can be seen throughout history and even in contemporary contexts.”
Now that I have provided you with the context of this story with its own twists and turns, let me go to the genesis of the story and all its tributaries.
The Development Studies Association conference ended, and I decided to make use of my open return ticket back to Folkestone, Kent. I got there bright and early around 11 am, hoping I would be put on a 1 pm bus at the worst. I approached the front office staff with the confidence of Omo Baba Olowo (apologies to Davido). I showed the front office staff the details of my open ticket and he in turn asked me a few questions just to verify that I was who the ticket says I am. He punched all the details into the National Express computer with so much nonchalance. The result showed on his screen that the next available coach to Folkestone would be by 6 pm!
My ears did not believe what was said and my face showed disapproval. He repeated what he just said and asked if I was ok with 6 pm. Ok, with what? How could I be ok with a wait of close to seven hours? He was getting impatient and those on the line waiting to be served must have been sending hot curses my way. How did I know? I could feel darts behind my back. I tried one last attempt as if I did not know the answer. Yes, it was still the same, and a much worse option followed in quick succession. I left his presence as a deflated Omo Baba Oloro (the child of a scorned father).
‘I will look up onto the Hills from where comes my help’ were the words that filled my mouth as I dragged my luggage and my defeated self into the main bus terminus. I was no longer that confident passenger with an assurance that my stay at the terminus was just a matter of a couple of hours at the most. In my pensive mood, nature called, and I was just about heading to the house of waste matter when I heard a female voice,
“Do you like Nat King Cole?” I turned to the direction of the voice, and I saw a woman dressed as if in Dolly Paton’s “coat of many colors my mama made for me.” In this case, she was not wearing a coat but a blouse of bright floral patterns and a green pant (as Americans would say). She had bangles, neck chains, rings, and different adornments. I took a fleeting notice of her and the big man she was ‘preaching to.’
If I must confess, I thought she was one of those bus terminus evangelists trying to win a soul for the Lord before they embark on their road journeys. On my return from the house of waste matter, she was still there, and curiosity took the better of me. I asked her if I could take photos of her and talk to her too. The response was neither a ‘yes’ nor a flat-out ‘no’. I brought out my camera and took a few snaps.
I balanced myself opposite her and the man she was engaging, seconds became minutes, but thank Jehovah the minutes did not become an hour. As you know, waiting for your coach to arrive makes time run on the slow lane of life. When she finally left David, the big man, I initially saw her with, and came over to where I sat, the wait was worth my every second. What on earth did we not talk about?
In 25 or so minutes, she raced through the passing of many loved ones. The list appeared endless, her father had passed on; her partner also passed on, and then a certain writer James Berry, who her mother loved before she met her father, also passed on. I was not going to sit while she painted a gloomy picture of harvests of deaths. To change the subject, I asked her if there was any place she had ever worked for more than a year. That question brought up the story of a location not too far from Victoria Station, where our animated discussion was taking place. She not only remembered the name of the place, but she also even recalled the actual name. It was at a Café named Chocolate Society that she met a man who later became her husband. As with stories like this she said so many things a writer should not share with readers.
What can, however, be shared is to just bring up Professor Amanda Hammar’s concept of the biography of a building. Instead of making you go looking for what that entails, let me save your precious time by cutting and pasting how professor Hammar articulates it; “The Biography of a Building has been a long-term conceptual and methodological interest that I continue to explore in specific empirical contexts as a means of understanding the parallel biographies of state-citizen relations on the one hand, and relations between property and personhood on the other. The longer-term intention is to develop a collaborative/comparative and interdisciplinary project that explores the biographies of selected public buildings across multiple political-cultural geographies.”
I could observe that my newfound friend was interested in the idea of a building having a biography. To show how excited she was with the idea, she agreed to take me to the spot where Chocolate Society was located. She had places to go but not until she had shown me the very structure, a few blocks away from Elizabeth Street. We did not leave immediately because I offered to read the title poem, The Poet Wept, in my last collection of poetry.
That done, I gathered my belongings and followed her as she told me more stories about different people in her life, especially a certain Wendell Delarno Fitzgerald Davis, a former boxer who Sarah says did not like computers. He also died last year without any electronic footprint I could deploy to bring him back to life in this text. If the dead ever read narrations such as this; elder Wendell Davis should know that to live in the hearts of those who love us is not to die. I never met him while alive, but a total stranger brought you to life. Now I want to know more about you.
Now we made it out of the ever-busy Victoria Coach station, and we headed to Elizabeth Street. It did not take us more than seven minutes to arrive at a shop painted pink and lavishly decorated with flowers. Peggy Porschen cannot be missed for many reasons, one of which is the corner-piece location. In addition, just by the intersection is a Black man who appears to be a permanent feature at that location. He is always with his belongings talking to no one in particular. Sarah wanted me to stop and have a chat with him because “he says very interesting things.” I was not sure I had enough time to engage the man because of what was on my mind. I wanted to find out what became of Chocolate Society, where Sarah played Mother Theresa with the owner’s hot Chocolate drinks. There was no guessing as she led me to a cream-colored building on 36 Elizabeth Street.
“This is the place,” she said with a girlish excitement in her voice. Though she told me the place was formerly a Hairdressing Saloon after Chocolate Society closed. One of two things might have happened, maybe the owner of the Saloon sold it to the new owner.
Can you guess who this new owner is? Well, why keep you in suspense; she is Samantha Cameron, the founder and Creative Director of CEFINN. Does the name Cameron not ring a bell? I am sure those who live in the United Kingdom can link the dots to a David who ruled over the affairs of the United Kingdom from 10 Downing Street. The fashion store is the flagship outlet for Mrs. Cameron’s designs. In the free brochure, I was given at the store, she states that “effortless confidence” is her philosophy and it is at “the heart of her approach to designing luxury fashion tailored for modern, busy women.”
DIVERSITY appears to be the signature of this store; the colors and fabrics speak the language of sophistication and casualness. To receive patrons into the well-appointed space are two beautiful ladies, one from Hungary and the other from Italy. In their eyes I could read beyond what salespeople do. This duo wanted to sell an idea and the vision of the owner without much fuss or aggression. According to the founder, the goal is to ensure that patrons “feel great from work to weekend, desk to dinner and those unforgettable special occasions.”
Sarah and yours truly looked around the store and even got a promise of a quick tour if we were up to it. Sarah had other errands to run, and I had a coach to catch, so we took a rain check to be back another day. So, you are free to say window shoppers who run away from a shop owned by Lady Cameron leave to return another day.
IF you recall where this story started and where it is about to end, you will agree with me that the road is pregnant with stories, all you have to do is follow your instinct and you may never know the type of offspring you may be blessed with at the end of the wandering about. One thing is sure, I will definitely go back to CEFINN not only to see how the designs have grown but to surprise someone with one of the designs. After all, what is money, like the Nigerian musician would sing? “Money is nothing” we should sing as I go back to pick one or two designs.
Sarah went on her errands, and I traced my way to the Coach station with less waiting time on my hands. Who does not agree that the road is pregnant with stories? To kill boredom before it kills me, I relocated to the arrival section where I witnessed firsthand a large army of young people returning from the annual Glastonbury music festival. One of them told me it cost her 400 pounds for four nights, five days… I could not do the math of how much she and her friends must have spent for the entire period. She said it was worth every penny she spent at the festival ground. The only question on my mind is how I can obtain data on the amount of money young people spend on entertainment. I have also been reading how Burna Boy filled a stadium of 80,000 capacity. How much did they pay to watch their musical idol? An indication of what Burna Boy made from the show can be deduced from the $100,000 he paid Sabinus (the comedian) for just one-minute appearance. I can only imagine how much he paid the set designer and all who worked behind the scenes. There is really good money in entertainment!
I hear this is not a new trend, so why is the global economy going South or it is just me?
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