An Evening With an Immigrant

Nope, that's not what it was supposed to be this evening - I had booked a ticket to see Paul Sinha. But then, while I was at lunch, I got a mail to say sorry, but it was cancelled and I'd get a refund. Now, that didn't help with deciding what to do tonight!

There wasn't much on Meetup, and I ended up back on Time Out for the first time in months. At least I see they've reintroduced the customised date feature, where you can specify an exact date range to search through. Not that it affected me, since I was searching for something for today anyway. I spent ages trawling through comedy gigs and checking them all out on YouTube - they're all practicing for the Edinburgh Festival, next month. Nothing suited. There were a couple of things I'd have gone to, but the Time Out reviews put me off - and a couple more that were sold out.

I was well cheesed off by the time I got to about page 7, and came across An Evening With an Immigrant, at the Soho Theatre. A one-off show, it featured a Nigerian immigrant telling his story - and with no bad reviews to put me off, I decided to go, and I booked.

I was lucky, changing trains at Earl's Court - on both outward and return journeys, one escalator was not operational, but in each case the working one was the one I needed. And I made the theatre in good time, again. A long queue snaked its way around the box office lobby, but it was fast-moving, and I was soon at the desk - where the guy completely misheard my name and nearly gave me the wrong ticket, before realising the postcode I'd given him didn't match. When that got sorted, I was told to wait in the bar - which was already crammed. The upstairs theatre mustn't have been free yet - they often run multiple productions.

We were finally told we were clear to enter, and the long climb to the top floor ensued. Upon entering the theatre, we soon saw that many of the side seats had "Reserved" signs - and without a companion this time who didn't want to sit in the front, that's exactly what I did. We were told not to leave spare seats - they were evidently expecting a crowd. As I waited, I noted the woman beside me, who was reading a book entitled "Theatre of the Oppressed". And underlining bits, and making notes: obviously a student.

A fellow at the back played prerecorded music, and a fellow at the side took photos with cameras that looked professional. The star of the show, Inua Ellams, made a somewhat dramatic entrance, dressed in traditional costume and dancing to the music. He soon shed his garb though, reassuring us that he was wearing something underneath - and spent the rest of the evening in t-shirt and jeans. He perched on a stool, with a script on a stand alongside - he explained to us that he would tell us his story, and this script consisted of his poems.

He also warned us that this was not a theatrical production, and indeed he ran well over. Not one person minded. It transpired, mind you, that many in the audience were his friends. And he proved to be a natural storyteller, with a fascinating tale to tell. His father is Muslim, his mother Christian - and where he comes from, that was not cool at all. Things worsened when, instead of his mother converting, his father decided that he would like to convert instead, and the family started getting death threats.

His father had something to do with the national radio station - I forget what. Anyway, that was the excuse he used to get the family to London, where the BBC was keen to establish good relations with Nigerian radio. His father paid lawyers to handle the family's immigration case, and as he describes it, he ended up in a school that had the whole world in it! Nelson Mandela visited, he said, and this must be where he came up with his idea of the Rainbow Nation..

Well, the family's papers, passports etc. got lost in the mail, it seems, and Royal Mail - unsurprisingly - washed their hands of the matter. They're not liable for anything that's not insured, you see. So the lawyers advised his father to take the family to Dublin for a few years while they sorted this out. When they returned, and his father tried to contact the lawyers, they were nowhere to be found - it eventually emerged that their offices had been raided, because they'd been selling immigrants' identities! So, as he said, there's someone out there using his name..

Officially stateless and forbidden from working, his father nonetheless found work as a taxi driver - until his stroke. So now the family poet had to support them all! Well, he's gone from strength to strength, and at his deportation hearing, the testimony of those he's worked with saved the day, and he got leave to stay. However, his right to stay has to be reviewed every three years - and since it's based on the Human Rights Act, which - in a typically xenophobic move, the Tories want to scrap - well, he still doesn't know how long he'll be here.

All of this was imparted to us in an easygoing, entertaining style, and interspersed with some of his poems. Not all - he just didn't have time. But it was a fantastic evening, although I didn't stay to buy one of the books he was selling from a bulging bag. I enjoyed listening to his poems, but I never end up reading the poetry books that I buy. Still, I heartily recommend hearing him speak, if you get the chance! And out I went, braving the crowds on Shaftesbury Avenue to walk to Piccadilly Circus - because I was in no particular hurry. And I must mention the excellent busker in Piccadilly Circus.. electric guitar doesn't always sound this good.

Tomorrow is looking like a film. Of the three films jostling for position at the top of my list, one is Indian, so I'm dubious - from experience. Besides, it's typically long. Of the other two, I'm thinking I'll go to The Salt of the Earth, simply because it's showing closer, at the Curzon Victoria.