Tomorrow is Another Day

I arrived in Brussels just over a year ago en catastrophe and in reduced circumstances, due to having had to hand over every last stick of furniture to Nana Godsbrain Boateng Kwaku XVI, The Ya Naa of Mbongoland (West), to pay for Harold’s funeral. In West Africa coffins are custom-made to suit the personality of the deceased, and a bottle of Star beer was agreed to be the appropriate receptacle to carry him into the next world, since it played such a key role in carrying him out of this one. It wasn’t cheap, I can tell you, but I’m sure you’ll agree that he certainly went out in style. I dressed him in his favourite beige cardigan and dabbed at my eye as he was despatched to the care of the great deity Manatcanda, while the choir of the Seventh Day Redemption Chapel sang the theme from Match of the Day.

With African tribal ceremonies the entire village has to be invited, they invite their friends and relatives, who in turn invite their friends and relatives, and they all have to be fed, watered and entertained, at great expense. It would have been cheaper to fly him back in a private jet, but his last wish was to be buried among his “subjects”. (He was suffering from delusions of grandeur by the end). I tried e-mailing friends all over the world for their bank account numbers in order to transfer a large amount of money which was blocked in my Swiss bank account, but nobody seemed willing to help. So, after an exhausting 5-day wailing period, I had to bake four hundred thousand vol-au-vents and distribute alms to the poor - who I then joined, after I had no more alms left to distribute. You could say I was almless. I left Mbongoland by dugout canoe with two Louis Vuitton suitcases, and managed to flag down a Liberian cargo ship en route which gave me a lift to Antwerp, for an extortionate price. But I did get to sit at the Captain’s table every night. In his cabin, mind you.

On arriving in Brussels with only a few cowrie shells to my name, I was obliged to rent a poky maid’s room which was little bigger than a shoebox, in which to rest my weary décolleté. Even though I had little more in my wardrobe than a Chanel suit and a string of pearls, it was hardly a fitting abode for a Grande Dame of my calibre. However, it was situated in a leafy suburb somewhat reminiscent of Cheam which shared the initials of my last name, and thus felt destined for me. I am supremely adaptable, and acquired a pair of green wellies and a shopping trolley in order to fit in with the locals. I soon became a familiar sight at the local Sunday market in my trademark colourful robes and toffee wrapper headdress fashioned à la Scarlett O’Hara from batik tablecloths. With a darker shade of foundation, nobody suspected I was not a genuine Mbongo market lady selling lace doilies and teacakes. I rather missed Mbongoland at first, but now I’ve moved to a neighbourhood which feels just like home, and I can call out a cheery “Woyayah!” to my neighbours in the morning. I still don’t have room for more than one servant, but it’s a slight improvement. Fear not, the south will rise again.

A large amount of money is still blocked in my Swiss bank account. If you would like to send me your bank details, I would certainly make it worth your while.

Incidentally, you should know that North Korea is not the only nuclear proliferator we have to worry about.