Omar is learning English.

"Can I offer you something to drink?" he said proudly. I don't know what other convoluted English phrases his teacher is teaching him, but he is managing the basics of verbs extraordinarily quickly, considering he probably has his lessons whilst bent over his sewing machine.

This week I went to have dinner with his wife and their three children. The youngest is six months old, and very plump. He looks like Omar, and giggles non-stop, lying on my chest as I lay on the family bed and giggling into my face.

I told Omar he had put on weight.

"Really, it's because you have gone. I do not stay up all night working anymore. Really, yes, it got a bit too much."

Belgium is a funny little place, divided between Dutch speakers in the north and French speakers in the south, with Brussels, a French-speaking capital marooned in the middle. Tribalism is alive and well in Europe, with three linguistic groups fighting for resources and recognition in one tiny land.

"We may do fifteen concerts in Belgium," said my Belgian friend and producer of some of Africa's greatest acts, "and twelve will be in the north. The northerners are completely curious about African music but at the same time, 35 percent of northerners belong to the Far Right and are completely racist."

The Gangbe Brass Band blew me away with their wicked Voudun, Afro-beat, jazz, marching band sounds and Beninois softness and humour.

*****



P and I spent a happy evening in Abidjan in the summer at a Kofi Olomide concert; we only went to see what kind of sunglasses he would wear on stage. Walking through the Belgian drizzle, I was delighted to come across a station bridge plastered with posters bearing his arrogant image. I thought of P and happy African days. Somehow, my African days all seem happy, I can't remember now, if I ever knew at all, why I left.

Out the back of The Shrine, where we were looked after, entertained, fed and watered, for our days in Lagos, the women got to work cooking food for us and the hundreds of people traipsing in and out during Felabration. One minute, it looked like this, just a few pots of chilis and packets of oil hanging around, innocuous-looking dried items sitting in bowls.



By evening, the place was alive with the smells of fried plantain, yam mash and crispy fish. One large lady scooped servings onto plates, while musicians and stage crew passed along asking for more of this and that. Under a canopy we ate, tired, looking forward to the show.

I never got used to cooking whilst standing up, the pot on the ground, stoking the fire or fiddling with the gas ring as I went. But I guess you get used to it eventually.

One of the happiest days I spent in Lagos this time around was, as mentioned below, a trip to Abeokuta, a smallish town under the great red rocks surrounding the town.



It is also the centre of cloth-production for a kind of batik which is only found there, and across the rocks above the town are great swathes of cloth drying in the sun. After the apparent soullessness of Lagos, this town with life and colour brought welcome warmth, as well as a chance for me to have a break from organising.

We were honoured with a tour of Fela's parents' house, which started with an incredibly lively and enthusiastic talk by the guardian of the house. Under a canopy rented for the occasion we drank cups of earthy-tasting palm wine from plastic buckets, though we all drank as much as we could bear and tipped the rest into the grass which was growing up around the house. We were then treated to a choral demonstration, which left us all speechless, such was the earnestness with which this tour was being carried out.



Next we were taken on a hasty visit of the school that Fela's parents founded, the church where they are buried, and some other churches that also went by in a blur. Tunde drove the bus from place to place and we and armed Ibrahim were shepherded in and out of the bus at great speed. We had said we were in a hurry, typical white people, so we were taken at our word. "Hasten yourselves," shouted Balinger as we tardily looked around the church yard under the wide-eyed expression of the church caretaker. "You musn't be tardy."

I just received my photos back from the printers and amongst some pictures of our day out last month in Abeokuta, the birthplace of Fela, I found this one.



Ibrahim was my MoPol, or Mobile Police, who I hired for a vast sum of money from the Anti-Robbery Squad, a place where my fixer Kole told me people arrested for robbery are taken, tortured, and rarely re-released. Ibrahim carried two pistols or an AK47 whenever he was with us, and mostly he drank Star Beer at the same time, though didn't get as drunk as the other MoPol, who was drunk all the time and complained to me as much as he could, in a language I could not understand, demanding money.

I disliked Baba, the second MoPol, so much that I could barely go near him, and sent Kole to deal with him whenever something was needed to be dealt with. The two bus drivers, who did not go home for a week while they drove us around, sat under the tree in the hotel car park and giggled as Baba teased me, demanding money, whining and whinnying in his squeaky voice, brandishing his pistols ill-concealed on his hips. The bus drivers did not like him either.

The day we went to Abeokuta I actually enjoyed myself because there were only a handful of us, the musicians left in the hotel to rehearse. When we stopped the bus in the intense afternoon heat to wait for Balinger, our guide for the afternoon, we climbed out of the bus and I took the opportunity to try on Ibrahim's bullet-proof hat. He posed for a photo, and though he looks serious, he was light-hearted on that day.

The evening that Kole and I went to pick up the police, the day my musicians arrived from London, we waited outside the police station as night fell. Policemen armed to the hilt were streaming out of the gates and climbing into vehicles or onto motorbikes.

"You see this?" said Kole, "You know where they are going? To raid people."

I had assumed, in the way that instinctively happens when you grow up with a police force who are mostly there to protect you, that they were all going out on jobs like ours, hired thugs to warn off bandits on the road, and trouble from other police. But infact they were out to create havoc on the roads themselves, these were the very police I was hiring Ibrahim and Baba to protect us from.