Moses Ascending

by Sam Selvon

  Twenty-five years later it seems less important to present Selvon as a heroic postcolonial saint than to place his work (and attitudes) in historical context. His pioneering use of Caribbean vernacular was acknowledged by peers such as V. S. Naipaul, who said in a 1958 interview that ‘because Sam has written so authentically he has made it easier for the rest of us who want to make people talk the way they do. Sam was the first man, and I think we ought to give him credit for this, who made it possible.’7 There is much to admire in Moses Ascending, not least the extraordinary pages where Selvon describes, in lyrical satirical prose that’s all the more intense for the cold anger that lies behind it, the ‘good fortune’ of black menial workers who have to wake up before the rest of the population:

  The alarms of all the black people in Brit’n are timed to ring before the rest of the population. It is their destiny to be up and about at the crack o’dawn. In these days of pollution and environment, he is very lucky, for he can breathe the freshest air of the new day before anybody else… The first flake of snow in the winter falls on a black man. The first ray of sunlight in summer falls on a black man. The first yellow leaf in the autumn falls on a black man. The first crocus in the spring is seen by a black man and he harks to the cuckoo long before all them other people what write to the newspapers to say they was the first… The population masses believe that racial violence going to erupt because he is being continuously and continually oppressed and kept down. Not so. It is true that racial violence is going to erupt, but not for that reason. What going to happen is one of these days the white man going to realize that the black man have it cushy…

  Moses Ascending is a rough-and-tumble book, a carnival, and fittingly it ends with the high brought low and the low raised up high. It’s also a depiction of a city and a country in transition, a Britain making its way out of the post-imperial twilight towards a future lit by a brighter sun – a future Sam Selvon helped to imagine.

  Hari Kunzru, 2007

  Notes

  1. V. S. Naipaul, ‘Power?’, in The Writer and the World (London: Picador, 2002).

  2. Sam Selvon, ‘Three Into One Can’t Go: East Indian, Trinidadian, West Indian’ (Wasifiri #5, Autumn 1986).

  3. Daniel Defoe, Robinson Crusoe (London: Penguin Classics, 1985).

  4. James Baldwin, ‘An Open Letter to My Sister Angela Y. Davis’ (NYRB, Volume 15, Number 12, 7 January 1971).

  5. Horace Ové, ‘Horace Ové in Black and White’, interview with Stuart Hood (Sunday Times, 17 September 1978) (Pressure/Baldwin’s Nigger: Two Films by Horace Ové, BFI, 2006).

  6. Kenneth Ramchand, ‘An introduction to this novel’, The Lonely Londoners (London: Longman, 1982).

  7. Radio broadcast, V. S. Naipaul with Stuart Hall, ‘In Discussion on British Caribbean Writers’ (21 April 1958), quoted in Sukhdev Sandhu London Calling: How Black and Asian Writers Imagined a City (London: HarperCollins, 2003).

  It was Sir Galahad who drew my attention to the property. He was reading Dalton’s Weekly, as was his wont, looking for new jobs; roaming through bedsitter land; picking out secondhand miscellany he need and could afford; musing on the lonely hearts column to see if any desperate rich white woman seeks black companion with a view to matrimony; and speculating when he come to the properties-for-sale page, buying houses and renovating them to sell and make big profit.

  Little did he dream that whilst he dreamt I was on the lookout for an investment in truth.

  ‘Hello Moses!’ he say, stretching the pages out and backing the one with the item he was reading. ‘Tolroy’s property is up for sale. Listen to this: “Highly desirable mansion in exclusive part of Shepherd’s Bush. Vacant possession. Owner migrating to Jamaica. Viewing strictly by appointment with agent.” That’s Tolroy’s house. It got his address.’

  ‘Does it say how much he’s asking?’ I ask.

  ‘No. He’ll be lucky if he could give it away. You never seen it?’

  ‘No, you?’

  ‘Yes. You ever build houses with playing cards when you was a little boy?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘And you shift one card and the whole house collapse?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘That’s Tolroy’s mansion.’

  Nevertheless Galahad didn’t know one arse about houses; it’s true some of these terraces in London look like they might capsize any minute, but united we stand, divided we fall, and knowing Tolroy as I do, it stand to reason that he would not of bought no end-of-terrace house, but one plunk in the middle what would have support on both sides.

  True enough it turned out when I went to see it and get some more details from Tolroy, such as it had a five-year lease, two of which was gone, and it was due for LCC demolition. It sounded like the sort of thing I could afford.

  ‘That’s why it’s going so cheap, Moses,’ Tolroy say. ‘If you let out rooms you can make your money back in no time at all. Besides, you will be a landlord and not a tenant.’

  It was this latter point which decided me in the end. After all these years paying rent, I had the ambition to own my own property in London, no matter how ruinous or dilapidated it was. If you are a tenant, you catch your arse forever, but if you are a landlord, it is a horse of a different colour. Take the HP, for instance:

  ‘Er, Mr Moses, er, I’m sorry about this procedure, but we usually ask if our customers know anyone who will be prepared to act as a guarantor? Perhaps your landlord?’

  ‘I beg your pardon, I am the landlord.’

  ‘Oh… how silly of me… if you’ll just sign the form here, SIR… sit down… use my chair.’

  I can also be on the other side of the door when people come to look for rooms.

  ‘Is the landlord in?’

  ‘I am the landlord.’

  ‘Oh… I’m looking for a room.’

  ‘I don’t let out to black people.’

  SLAM.

  I might even qualify for jury service.

  ‘I hereby deem you a rogue and a vagabond. You will go to jail, you worthless scamp, and await Her Majesty’s pleasure.’

  These are only some of the privileges that would be mine.

  ‘I tell you, boy Moses,’ Tolroy say, ‘if I wasn’t immigrading I wouldn’t of sell. And as it’s you, I will forget all the other buyers who are eager and give you priority.’ He take a deep breath, like a poker player about to put down a royal flush, and say, ‘You will even be zero-rated for VAT.’

  I don’t want you to think that it was Tolroy’s spiel what inveigle me; I did already make up my mind.

  When Galahad get wind of what I was about he rub his hands together.

  ‘When do we take possession?’ he ask.

  ‘This is the parting of the ways,’ I tell him. ‘You can have this whole basement room to yourself. When I leave here, my past will be behind me, you inclusive.’

  I knew he would take it as a joke though I mean it in serious.

  ‘You can’t erase me like that,’ he say. ‘I am part and parcel of your life.’

  ‘I have trained you for the London jungle, Galahad,’ I tell him, ‘and from now on you are on your own.’

  ‘I suppose you going to live in that whole house by yourself,’ he sneer.

  ‘I’ll have tenants,’ I say, ‘but you won’t be one of them.’

  ‘We shall see who needs who,’ he say. ‘I have noticed that you look as if you ready to retire, but I am with it, man. You will need me to cope with current events and the new generation of black people.’

  ‘That’s where you wrong,’ I say. ‘I just want to live in peace, and reap the harvest of the years of slavery I put in in Brit’n. I don’t want people like you around, to upset the apple cart.’

  ‘I won’t beg you to take me,’ he say, ‘but watch out. The old days are finished. It is a new era. And old-timers like you will be just brushed aside.’

  ‘There’s nothing more I’d rather,’ I say sincerely. ‘You may visit when you feel like it, but remember your station. Ther
e will be no more bonhomie ’tween us.’

  I do not think that Galahad took me serious then, nor at any other time. When people come to expect a certain pattern of behaviour from you, they refuse to accept that a man could change, and turn over a new leaf. But I did not give two hoots for Sir Galahad.

  To cut a long story short, I clinch the deal with Tolroy. In this world you must not heng your hat too high. I would naturally of preferred a mansion in Belgravia or a penthouse in Mayfair, without too many black people around, but I had the feeling that if I didn’t make the move now, I would be doomed to the basement brigade for the rest of my life.

  Having lived below the surface of the world all my life I ensconced myself in the highest flat in the house: if it had an attic I might of even gone higher still. It had a tall London plane what growing outside, and one of the branches stretch near the window. I would of prefer if it was a mango tree, or a calabash, to remind me of home, but you can’t have everything. Also, being at the top of all them stairs was a deterrent to idlers and hustlers calling too frequently.

  I cannot tell you what joy and satisfaction I had the day I move into these new quarters. Whereas I did have a worm’s eye view of life, I now had a bird’s eye view. I was Master of the house. I insert my key in the front door lock, I enter, I ascend the stairs, and when the tenants hear my heavy tread they cower and shrink in their rooms, in case I snap my fingers and say OUT to any of them.

  What a change it was to go and put up notices of vacancies on the hoardings, instead of reading them myself to find a place to live! And I record with pride that I wasn’t one of them prejudiced landlord what put No Kolors on their notices. Come one, come all, first come, first served, was my mottos. It was also my policy to avoid any petty restrictions for the tenants who was giving me my bread. Live and let live was another motto, as long as every Friday-please-God they shell over their respective rents, and didn’t grumble too much about leaks and cracks and other symptoms of dilapidation which infested the house.

  The only thing I didn’t want was to have any of the old brigade living in my house, and the rumour went around town that I was a different man, that I had forsaken my friends, and that there was no more pigfoot and peas and rice, nor even a cuppa, to be obtained, even if they came with gifts of myrrh and frankincense.

  All these arrangements were attended to by my man Friday, a white immigrant name Bob from somewhere in the Midlands, who came to seek his fortunes in London. My blood take him because he was a good worker, young and strong, and he put down three weeks’ rent in advance. By the time the three weeks was up he was spitting and polishing all over the house, tearing down old wallpaper and putting up new ones, painting and puttying, sweeping and scrubbing. He was a willing worker, eager to learn the ways of the Black man. In no time at all he learn how to cook peas and rice and to make a beef stew. I got him cracking because he didn’t have no more money to pay rent, and we come to an agreement for him to be my batman and to attend to all the petty details about running the house in lieu. He arrive with a big crate full of comic books and was forever thumbing through them and leaving them all about the place. The only thing I didn’t like about him was he went out most evenings and come back pissed, drunk like a lord. As we became good friends, or rather Master and Servant, I try to convert him from the evils of alcohol, but it was no use. By and by, as he was so useful to me, I allowed him the freedom of the house, and left everything in his hands so I could enjoy my retirement.

  And whilst I was indoctrinating him, I also learn a lesson myself, which is that Black and White could live in harmony, for he was loyal and true, and never listened to all that shit you hear about black people. Afterwards he tell me he used to believe it, but since coming under my employ he realize that black people is human too.

  I decided to teach him the Bible when I could make the time. As soon as I had explained his duties to Bob and he took the responsibilities off my shoulders, I relaxed and started to work on my Memoirs. One of the things that gave me great delight was to be able to stay in bed and think of all them hustlers who had to get up and go to work. At first this gave me a selfish pleasure, but then I got to taking an objective view of this whole business of employment.

  Sometimes in the winter when the alarm go and you get up and look through the window to see the weather conditions and you can’t see nothing, only smog and frost out there, and the sky so grey and gloomy it look as if it join-up with the earth and make one, you does wonder what crime this country commit that it have to punish so with this evil weather. It is not the alarm what really wake you up: it is cold in your arse.

  The alarms of all the black people in Brit’n are timed to ring before the rest of the population. It is their destiny to be up and about at the crack o’dawn. In these days of pollution and environment, he is very lucky, for he can breathe the freshest air of the new day before anybody else. He does not know how fortunate he is. He does not know how privileged he is to be in charge of the city whilst the rest of Brit’n is still abed. He strides the streets, he is Manager of all the offices in Threadaneedle street, he is Chief Executive of London Transport and British Railways, he is Superintendent of all the hospitals, he is Landlord of all the mansions in Park Lane and Hampstead, he is Head Gourmet and Master Chef of all the restaurants. He ain’t reach the stage yet of scrubbing the floors of Buckingham Palace or captaining the heads therein. There is a scramble among the rest of the loyal population for these royal jobs, but with time, he too might be exalted to these ranks – who knows?

  Instead of moaning and groaning about his sorrows, he should stop and think and count these blessings reserved solely for him. He should realize that if wasn’t for him, the city would go on sleeping forever. He should look upon himself as a pioneer what preparing the way for the city’s day, polishing the brass and chrome, washing the pots and pans. As he banishes the filth and litter, he could thunder out decrees in the Houses of Parliament and his voice would ring through the corridors and change the Immigration Act and the policies of the Racial Board.

  What is that heavy footfall on the cold damp pavement before the rest of the world is awake? What is that freezing figure fumbling through the fog, feeling its way to the bus stop, or clattering down the steps of the sleepy underground at this unearthly hour?

  It is the black man. He is the first passenger of the day. He is the harbinger who will put the kettle on to boil. He holds the keys of the city, and he will unlock the doors and tidy the papers on the desk, flush the loo, straighten the chairs, hoover the carpet. He will press switches and start motors. He will empty dustbins and ashtrays and stack boxes. He will peel the spuds. He will sweep the halls and grease the engines.

  As he stands, mayhap, in some wall-to-wall carpeted mansion (resting, dreaming on his broom or hoover) and looks about him at mahogany furniture, at deeply-padded sofas and armchairs, at myriading chandeliers, at hi-fi set and colour television, as his eyes roam on leather-bound tomes and velvet curtains and cushions, at silver cutlery and crystal glass, at Renoirs and Van Goghs and them other fellars, what thoughts of humble gratitude should go through his mind! Here he is, monarch of all he surveys, passing the wine, toasting the Queen, carving the baron of beef, perambulating among distinguished guests, pausing, perhaps, for a word on the fluctuation of gilt-edge shares or the new play in the West End.

  And the black man is the chosen race to dream such dreams, and to enjoy the splendour and the power whilst the whole rest of the world still in slumberland!

  Oh, the ingratitude, the unreasonableness of those who only see one side of the coin, and complain that he is given only the menial tasks to perform!

  (As I became objective, I was mad to jump up and put on my clothes and go straight to work!)

  Consider him standing, too, in Regent street of a cold winter’s morn, leaning on his refuse cart, a lone, commanding figure, directing the arterial flow of the traffics as thousands of vehicles ply hither and thither, to and yon. Who was it but o
ne of these solitaires who suggested the brilliant idea to London Transport to divert the buses – them in the heart of Piccadilly Circus, thus alleviating chaos and confusion for millions?

  Great thoughts does come to men when the world is hushed and is foreday morning.

  Strangers to London – even bona fide Londoners too – have been heard to remark that they can’t see the hordes of black faces what supposed to clutter the vast metropolis. Ah, but at what time of the day do they make this observation? If they had to get their arses out of a warm bed in the wee hours, if they had to come out of cosy flat and centrally-heated hallways to face the onslaught of an icy north wind and trudge through the sludge and grime of a snow-trampled pavement, they would encounter black man and woman by the thousands.

  There is no dearth ere dawn. The first flake of snow in the winter falls on a black man. The first ray of sunlight in the summer falls on a black man. The first yellow leaf in the autumn falls on a black man. The first crocus in the spring is seen by a black man, and he harks to the cuckoo long before all them other people what write to the newspapers to say they was the first.

  Is it too dear a price to pay for these pleasures that gladden the heart and lift the spirits? And to augment the argument, is it nothing that the black man has a monopoly on these pristine delights?

  Fie, I say, on those who look on one side of the coin alone. God’s blood, things have come to a pretty pass when in the midst of the trials and tribulations that are his lot, he is displeased when he is put to manage the fair city, and can make or break the tenor of the day for some Very Important Person merely by putting an ashtray in its right place, or straightening the blotting pad on a desk!