Lost in Stamford Hill

Dalston market, London, 2004, gave me so much memories of Salaga market, Accra, in the 1980s. My maternal grandma was a fish merchant who traded from the Tema fish harbour and the Salaga market. As little boys, we frequently went to the Salaga market late afternoons to see our grandma when she had returned from her distribution to resellers. We knew that seeing grandma means we will definitely get everything we want to eat. Her joy was to see us in our school uniform. She cherished education and gave her last pesewa to ensure we had the best childhood education and experience.

May her soul continue to rest with the Lord!  

Dalston market is in an area of East London, in the London Borough of Hackney, one of the Black communities. Kingsland, Shacklewell and Dalston have a historical antecedent to the Ancient Parish of Hackney. Mare Street is the epic centre of Hackney.

We lived about seven minutes’ away from the Dalston market. Knowing the market was one of my best experiences living in the Borough of Stoke Newington and Shoreditch. As a typical Ga boy, living with my mum and grandma taught me a lot of great lessons which I continue to abide by. To them; laying the bed, chewing sponge and washing of face as early morning rituals were non-negotiable.

On that particular trip to London, I couldn’t send the usual Ghanaian travel essentials like gari, shito, dried fish and my favourite chewing sponge. I struggled initially until I was introduced to Dalston market where one could buy all those items plus more. I can say boldly that I bought some of the best kenkey from Dalston market. Shopping at Dalston market to cook Ghanaian meal made no difference to shopping at Kaneshie market in Accra.

I had only been in London for just a week. On my first Saturday when my host was off duty from work, he took me to the Dalston market. Since then I never lived for more than two consecutive days without going to the Dalston market. Aside the ease of the market, prices of items were affordable. The characteristics of the market is so much African perhaps modelled on the huge number of African migrants in Hackney, Seven Sisters, Tottenham, Edmonton and the like.   

My host was as good a cook as myself. On one Saturday afternoon after a good meal of groundnut soup and rice balls prepared by my host, I went to see a friend at Walthamstow who is fellow ardent Arsenal supporter. Arsenal played Tottenham Hotspurs. It was a North London derby. Those were titanic days of Thiery Henry, Ashley Cole, Sol Campbell, Cesc Fàbregas, Nwankwo Kanu, Dennis Bergkamp. I love Arsenal.  

Upon seeing my friend and after an hour of conversation over coca cola and hobnob biscuit, we walked few minutes from his apartment to the ‘Black Horse Road Pub’ to watch the big match. We were the only blacks in the pub. Fathers and children were there too. It was a mixture of Arsenal and Tottenham supporters. That was my first time to have seen a minor drunk a full jug of beer. The father bought the beer for the son who in my estimation will not be more than 12 years old. For the whites, life must be made flexible. I remain a teetotaller.    

After the match, I joined the bus to return to my flat. From Black horse road, I changed bus at Seven Sisters to join the Liverpool street station bus. Though I was new to the area, I was managing my movement around quiet well. The roads looked same and buildings looked same.

I got confused. I missed my bus stop. I got off at Stamford Hill. It is at the centre of an Ashkenazi ultra-Orthodox Jewish community. The area is known for its Hasidic Jews in Europe. I stood there asking for direction. Suddenly, I saw many Jewish men walking in their distinct clothes of black and white on their way to and from the synagogue. Fear gripped me. It was my first time seeing Jewish people in that multitude and fashion. Strangely, I started having memories of all the ghost stories I heard and read when I was a little boy. Shivering and crying within; I thought they will kill me. Funny isn’t it?  

I run to a black man and asked him if I could use his phone to call my host. Not willing to give me his phone; I gave him the number and he dialled. My host picked up. He told my host I was lost and panicking. He asked him for the direction to our flat. My host gave him. It was a two minute walk from where I stood. O boy! He pointed the road that led to our flat amidst giggling.

I hurriedly walked home looking over my shoulder every second to see if some Jewish people were following. When I beeped the bell at our flat, my host was already in greater laughter, teasing in wonder how a Ga boy, Jamestown born could be frightened at the mere sight of Jewish people.

The Stamford Hill community library later became my hub were I frequently went to read the newspapers and browse the internet. I got used to the Jewish people. I guess my previous fear was because my first encounter with them in that manner was in the evening and the thought that ghosts show up in the evening was my fear.

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