Good Stories... Archives – The Good Simple Life

When asked where my accent is from, I reply, it’s mixed from Dominica, Vancouver (because ‘anc’ is pronounced ‘ang’ for ‘Vangcouverites’…) and London. To which the response invariably is, ah, the Dominican Republic. You must speak Spanish too. This response confirms the box people assume I fit or belong in and it’s like setting up a little podium and giving me a mic to deliver my weekly Dominica speech. Clears throat. Inhale. And go!

Dominica Nature Isle south west coast mountains — The Commonwealth of Dominica, the Nature Isle of the Caribbean

No. Not the Dominican Republic. It’s pronounced dom-in-EE-ca, not d’uh-minica. I don’t speak Spanish, well… I do… but not because I’m from the Dominican Republic (please stop taking Dominica’s mail, btw!). Yes, we have a parrot on our flag. No, we’re not pirates. Pineapples don’t grow on trees. Mountain chicken is really a frog. We call it that so the tourists will order it from the menu. We have 365 rivers, a boiling lake, and, quite frankly, too many volcanoes. Kweyol is a beautiful language, especially for storytelling, shouting and expressing intense emotion. At least once a week, we hop into someone’s car to go for a vep, a short ride with no particular purpose or destination.

Dominica Nature Isle central mountains covered in rainforest with coconut tree in foreground. — Volcanic terrain robed in majestic green.

We’re the Commonwealth of Dominica, the Nature Isle of the Caribbean. Columbus stumbled upon us (he was lost and you can’t discover a place when it’s already inhabited by people with better navigating skills). It was a Sunday, hence the name, which, FYI, we got BEFORE the Dominican Republic. The Spanish claimed us. The French and British fought over us. For. Decades. The Brits won. We became independent in 1978. Our beautiful Kalinago people survived it all. Our original name: Waitukubuli, meaning “Tall is her body.”

There’s nothing like the sound of jing ping music. Or singing crapauds at night (those are the mountain chicken). Or waves ebbing over a rocky shoreline. There’s nothing like the smell of jasmine blooms on a warm evening. Or boiling cocoa tea. Or piles of bay leaves on the side of the road in Delices. We have the world’s complete catalogue of the colour green. Those gem-like flashes you see around hibiscuses are hummingbirds. Some times of year, mangoes are for breakfast, lunch and dinner. Because they’re that good and it’s too hot to cook.

Royal Naval College on clear sunny day with Canary Wharf in the background. — When the British set out to claim Dominica, they conducted some of their studies here in Greenwich at the Royal Naval College. I now live here!

Vancouver False Creek and Burrard Bridge on clear sunny day. — I also lived in Vancouver, Canada for 16 years and it shows in my accent.

Hard to find and get to for a visit. Even harder to leave. Have your hankie ready. Small in numbers, big in heart.

You need to experience Dominica for yourself.

My name is Nikisha, and I’m an islander! I live in London. I have Canadian values and British citizenship. This is the story my accent tells even though you’re hearing something else. Not from here. Foreign. Exotic (because if I were a fruit I’d be a pinapple). But adding to what makes London rich and vibrant.

London's Tower Bridge and London City Hall with dramatic clouds. — Cosmopolitan London with its moody clouds, blue skies, beautiful bridges and gorgeous people from all over the world.

From now on, when asked about my accent, I will send a link to this blog post and save my precious time.

💕

At a house-warming party last weekend, someone asked me, “How long have you been in London?” It’s been six and a half years since I moved here from Vancouver, BC. Feels like I’ve been here a lifetime! It could have been the October chill in the air and the open fire crackling outside which put me in a reminiscent mood. How did it go again?

How about the foggy April 2012 morning driving through Dulwich with four suitcases straining to contain my belongings, staring out the window of my uncle’s car, thinking, boy, they sure like bricks here. I’ve been here for half an hour and I’m sick of the bricks already. But there was excitement beneath my brick loathing and anxiety. A homecoming in a way as I had already lived in London as a child.

I decided to search out those little pieces of London which remained lodged in the oldest parts of my memory, hoping to fan nostalgia into a bright flame of love for my new home. What better place to start than a bag of Hula Hoops. Hula Hoops are potato snacks, salty bands of goodness you can slip onto your fingertips and eat in a way you never can at the dinner table. Single bag purchases soon grew into multi bag purchases. Each crunch opened up my mind and I remembered trips to Hampstead Heath with my parents and my older brother. I remembered riding my tricycle in the house when my Great-grandfather looked after Anthony and me. I remembered my Strawberry Shortcake sneakers. Hula Hoops became a drug that sent me on happy trips down memory lane. Hula Hoops helped ease my fears and anxieties. They were familiar. A portal to an age where everything was new, when I had more life-ahead miles, and I would stare at my little hands, wondering what they’d look like when I grow up. I went to my old house, walked down my old street. Every morning I woke up and went exploring. Before long, London and I were like a boy and a girl sitting on a wooden bench under a full moon in silence, stretching out arms to hold hands for the first time.

And then I started working. And having to commute to work. All I could sing to London was, “What Have You Done For Me Lately?” Delays. Missed trains. Missed busses. Hydroplaned by busses. Loose paving tiles with secret reservoirs of the blackest water waiting to slosh onto your new shoes. Pushing. Shoving. Squashing. Squeezing. Odours. Garbage. Vomit. Drunks. Pan faces. Armpits in your face. Faces in your face, eyes averted. Illness. Asthma. Realising that, yes, we’re both speaking English, but I have no idea what you’re saying.

I got a chain saw and demolished that moonlit bench. London, I’m sorry, but I think I’m still in love with Vancouver. And Dominica.

Then the sun came out. It got hot. I saw a magpie. The evening parade of cats through the back garden. Roses in Green Park. Olympic glory. Jubilee pomp. Smiling faces. Taxidermy dodos at the museum. Capoeira at Russell Square. Outdoor markets. An appreciation for the music and magic of English English. Long walks along the Thames. Steeple bells in the distance. Long train rides to family. Theatre. Tea. Green fields with cows and sheep. Friends old and new. And the grinning foxes loping across Goose Green in the humid night would smile and say, “Hello, love. You awright?” And I was.

The days cooled and rolled into months. One day I woke up and everything was familiar. In an instant it seemed. I started running into people I knew on streets that were once only filled with strangers. I navigated the sidewalks like Fred Astaire, avoiding the paving tiles which slosh black water onto my not-so-new shoes. I gave directions to bewildered tourists, mostly so they would stop blocking the tube corridors. I knew where to get pancakes and maple syrup at 3:00 am. Last week I flung myself, back first, into a crowded tube without batting an eyelash.

When I got home, there was a miniature wooden bench waiting for me with a note from London. Can we sit next to each other? Can we sit and be? Sometimes we’ll hold hands. Sometimes we won’t. But let’s just sit and look out. There’s so much to see and so much of it is beautiful.

Category: Good Stories…

Where’s your accent from?

Moving to London