Homeward BoundA friend told me a story about a Ghanaian man he knew who, apparently through 'no fault of his own', had ended up in a British prison. He paused. I waited. He had just returned from visiting his friend in prison and the accumulated fatigue from the journey, plus the disturbing experience of seeing the man in confinement, was beginning to tell on him. He sat down. He began to tell the story again, this time more wistfully. OK, so perhaps his friend was culpable to some degree. He was a young Ghanaian man who had ostensibly come to England to study but he had managed to overstay his visa. He had also managed not to study--or rather, he had 'studied' but earned neither a diploma nor a degree. In all likelihood he would be deported back to Ghana with a stamp in his passport that would effectively make it impossible for him to return to Britain. I listened to my friend's new version of the story, which was identical to the first version except this time I learned the man's name. Mohammed Mansour Nassirudeen, prisoner number HA1000, would soon be returning to Ghana without his formal education, and with a mark of shame. He would be a convicted criminal.

'You know, he wants to be a writer.' I looked across at my friend. 'He's been writing, and he's just got a prize for an essay.' My friend reached down into his smart new briefcase and retrieved a file of papers. He flicked through them and then handed me a five-page essay entitled 'A Day in My Life as a Detainee'. I looked at the creased, dog-eared pieces of paper, then put them to one side, I would read them later. I asked, 'Is he likely to get any kind of last-minute reprieve and be allowed to stay?' My friend rubbed the back of his hand into a tired and lined face. 'No chance', he said. 'He'll be going back to Ghana on a one-way ticket. After all his effort to get here, after everything that he's been through in Britain, they'll just put him on a plane to Ghana and kick him out. As simple as that.'

In the evening, after my friend had left, I picked up the crumpled essay and began to read. The structure was conventional enough. It simply traced the contours of Mohammed Mansour Nassirudeen's 'prison day', which began at 4.30 a.m. with Muslim prayers, and ended at 9 p.m. with more prayers. The 'day' that sprawled from pre-dawn to post-dusk was characterized by Mansour's apparently insatiable hunger to attend educational classes in order that he might improve himself, and his dedication to prayer. Mansour's narrative successfully resisted the impulse to explain just why he was serving time in Haslar Detention Centre but, this glaring omission aside, there was an admirably stoic determination to his tale--as told by himself--which was betrayed by only one piece of special pleading.

The morning session of education ceases at 11.30. During the interval I keep myself mentally active as much as possible. My mind is constantly occupied with new ideas which I have organized in my Database. That leaves me little room to think about my problems of being locked up in detention when I have committed no crime during the eight years that I have lived in Great Britain and paid my taxes. Nevertheless, I see my situation not as a problem but as an 'opportunity'. I certainly don't know why I am here. But it has to be for a reason which only God knows. Even prophets like Joseph, Ysusf, have been in jail, and other dignified people like Nelson Mandela. Life is full of paradoxes, I feel physically that I am in detention, though spiritually I am not.

Six weeks later Mohammed Mansour Nassirudeen was escorted on to a...

Doctor Johnson's WatchIt was a cold December morning, and the bitter wind penetrated my black cloak with ease. However, the stubborn sun continued to shine brightly in the sky, although it failed to bestow any warmth on either myself or the two dozen sombre souls gathered outside of Bolt Court. I glanced about my person, realising that I was part of a bizarre congregation that represented both high and low society, but how could we be anything other than a queer assembly of misfits when one considered the personage who was to be buried on this melancholy English morning?

London society was still somewhat amused by the gossip relating to the recently departed Dr. Johnson's final exchange with the sour-natured Sir John Hawkins, an apparently abrupt conversation which had taken place only some few short days before the doctor's death. Understanding that his mortal time was limited, the doctor had demanded of his chief executor in that stern, almost impolite, tone that he had perfected, a tenor of voice which unfortunately masked his more cordial nature, "Where do you intend to bury me?" When the news of the doctor's question reached the ears of the leisured gentlemen who recline in the smoke-filled coffee houses which constitute London's informal business world, the question served only to occasion much laughter from both those who knew the gentleman personally, and from those who knew of him by reputation. Indeed, what kind of a question was this? "Where do you intend to bury me?" Apparently Sir John Hawkins maintained his countenance and answered plainly, "In Westminster Abbey." He might well have continued and punctuated his uncharacteristically civil answer with the rather less civil question, "My good man, where else do you expect to be lain to rest?" According to Hawkins, on receiving this news the great man simply stared back and then, almost as an afterthought, he adjusted his inadequate wig. Although he was evidently drawing close to the terminus of his existence, the slovenly doctor still appeared to be insensible to the squalid spectacle that he presented. However, despite his shabby appearance, Samuel Johnson was undoubtedly the foremost literary scholar of his age, a man whom nobody would dare to deny his rightful place in the abbey next to Geoffrey Chaucer and John Dryden. Eventually, the great gentleman, as though finally understanding that his resting place was indeed to be Westminster Abbey, continued in a less stentorian voice. "Then," he whispered, "if any friends think it worthwhile to give me a stone, let it be placed over me so as to protect my body." No report was made of Sir John Hawkins' reply, if indeed there was any, to this plaintive, and surprisingly coy, request by the good doctor.

On the Monday after the doctor took his leave from this earthly world, we subdued mourners gathered on the narrow pavement outside of Bolt Court. Our gloomy congregation could not be accommodated within the modest confines of Dr. Johnson's house and, I confess, at this time I was not a member of that privileged inner circle who strolled boldly from their carriages and knocked upon the door before waiting confidently for admittance. Sixteen years ago, I was little more than a minor literary wit in London society, but more properly I was regarded as a financial investor, a man of the City. My participation in Dr. Johnson's wider circle was unquestioned, but good manners prevented me from attempting to assert a prominence which I had not yet earned. Accordingly, I stood with the less celebrated members of the Literary Club and first stamped my feet, and then rubbed my hands together against...

So our village is divided into two. At the bottom of the hill there is a road that runs west to the main town which is five miles away, and east towards the coast which is about fifty miles away. Everybody knows this because just before you enter Weston from the town side there's a sign that says it's fifty miles to the coast. Then after that there's the big sign that reads "Weston" and announces the fact that we are twinned with some town in Germany and a village in the south of France. In the estate agent's bumf about "Stoneleigh" it says that during the Second World War the German town was bombed flat by the RAF, and the French village used to be full of Jews who were all rounded up and sent to the camps. I can't help feeling that it makes Weston seem a bit tame by comparison. Apparently, the biggest thing that had ever happened in Weston was Mrs. Thatcher closing the pits, and that was over twenty years ago.

The only history around these parts is probably in the architecture. The terraces on both sides of the main road are typical miners' houses, built of dull red brick; the original inhabitants would have had to bathe in the kitchen, and their toilets would have been at the end of the street. However, these houses have all long since been replumbed, and the muck has been blasted off the faces of most of them so that they now look almost quaint. Mind you, the people who live down there still have to deal with the noise of the traffic at all times of day and night, and I imagine it's murder to keep the windows clean. Besides the terraced houses there's a petrol station, a fish-and-chip shop, a newsagent-cum-grocery store, a sub-post office that opens three mornings a week, and behind the far row of houses a pub that sits smack on the canal, which runs parallel to the main road. There's also a small stone church, with nicely tended grounds, but I won't be needing to go in there. Stoneleigh is up a short steep hill and it overlooks the main road. We're the newcomers, or posh so-and-sos, as I heard a vulgar woman in the post office call us. There are not that many of us, just two dozen bungalows arranged in two culs-de-sac, but there are plenty of satellite dishes, and outside some of the houses there are two cars. Me, I don't drive. We don't have any shops up here, so if I do want anything I have to trek down the hill to the newsagent-cum-grocery store. Either that or catch the bus the five miles into town.

In May, I retired as a schoolteacher. Four years ago the school went comprehensive and since then standards have plummeted. It left me in a bit of a spot as I've spent most of my life banging on about how it would be better if kids of all levels and backgrounds could be educated together and learn from each other. It's what Dad believed. He hated seeing the grammar-school boys in their white shirts and ties, and their flash blazers, while the kids from the secondary modern could barely find a pair of socks that matched. I can still see him shaking his head and pointing. "Class war, love," he'd say. "Class war before they're even out of short pants." And then four years ago, the education authority scrapped grammar schools, turned us comprehensive, and they put me to the test. I was suddenly asked to teach whoever came into the school--we all were. Difficult kids I don't mind, but I draw the line at yobs. But then early retirement came along to save me, and when I saw the Stoneleigh advert in the paper I thought, why not, a change is as good as a rest. Four weeks later, I found myself standing at the door to this place and handing the removal men a twenty-pound tip. I watched the dust rise and then slowly cloud as their big van...