The spring morning of April 22, 2009, was warm, like the Caribbean heat. The low clouds covered the blue sky, and a light, fresh city breeze blew; the whistling wind drifted like a sailing boat.
It twisted like a princess dancing and twirling from the excitement of a rollercoaster. The day was damp, as a fine mist of rain wandered out of the sky.
You could be standing at the edge of a waterfall, which was very humid and muggy. On top of the morning, I felt bright and chirpy, with a step to my walk.
I looked around at the girls as I bopped, watching their tits rock, cars going beep then stop, the rush for the bus, while others walk, somebody shouts, ‘Look out, the bike.’
It’s bloody mad.
The drivers panic, trying to get across the road. They put their cars in gear, racing off before the green goes. Money-hungry, doesn’t it drive you crazy?
If not, maybe.
I’m in no rush to get to my appointment with Awareness Workshop Working Links. It was part of the new government's back-to-work plan.
Since I made the appointment on March 22, 2009, I have intended to use any grant offered to start a new promotional company, Deejay Agency, as a long-term proposal. On the day, I had mixed feelings about how I would be received once I had my say.
I just needed people to hear my views. What I had to say was vital. The urgency, importance, and necessity were clear to me.
People around the world were suffering and dying needlessly.
Since I walked from my flat to the job centre on Mare Street, Hackney, I found myself late for the office.
After signing in and getting directions to the meeting room, upon entering, they were in full swing. They were about to hand out application forms for a business plan again.
I was pissed off the minute I saw the words, business plan on the top of the page. I could not help myself.
I stood up for everyone to hear me shout as loud as a ghetto blaster and clear like bathwater, and I said, ‘This does not work. I’ve done this three times.’
There must have been sixteen trainees in the room, plus two staff members who were presenting the course. They all looked around at each other as if they were meerkats looking suspiciously for a predator.
When one of the staff queried my response, ‘What do you mean it doesn’t work?’
In a manic manner.
I explained in five minutes the chances in probability and the ratio of a small business competing in a market that is overpowered by big business. The small man doesn’t have a chance.
After my slight rage and frustration with the same old thing by a different government, I walked out. I was dismayed by financial forecasts, disillusioned as I’d just seen a mirage, and disappointed with government policies.
In that split second, I made my way to the bus stop, lost in thought. How can I get to speak to the masses?
I stood outside Hackney Town Hall, at the bus stop, watching the busy, bustling traffic for about an hour. My bus must have passed me four or five times as I gazed into space, thinking, How could I tell seven billion people what was on my mind?
Inspiration hit me when Flash Gordon appeared in my mind. He said, ‘Go to the town hall to see my M.P., opposite the bus stop where I stood.’
With a brand new hope and a mission, I went to Hackney Town Hall and picked up a leaflet, which gave the days for surgery. When I came home, I wrote what you, the reader, were about to read, dated it on the next page and published my blog before bed.
Sure enough, I arrived at my flat to see the news report on the Taliban. With the death of more British soldiers, both sides lost many lives.
The sorrow I felt is, oh, so depressingly sad.
So, I wrote the next day’s blog, 23rd April 2009. I had a lot to say.
Heart, Head and Hands
My heart, head and hands bear a pain one’s soul cannot stand.
A heart that aches, a mind makes hands inflict pain.
A head that yearns, a heart beating relentlessly for tender hands coming with a concerned mind.
A hand that aids, a heart is filled with delight, a conscious mind is pleased.
Pride
A sense of pride, there is work to be done.
A sense of pride when the day is done.
A sense of pride, a mother for her son.
A sense of pride is everyone's love.
War Correspondent
While writing a letter to the world leaders about the war, I realised I was blind.
So, I sit and imagine writing a line in my mind.
It slipped my mind that I have no hands; this will not stop me. I will walk to the United Nations and have my say.
Then it hit me: I have no legs. I feel around to have found there is nobody.
The governing body members are happy and safe in their beds, knowing they are defended.
Where is my head?
Oh no, I’m dead.
John T. Hope
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