The Black Compendium

By Nigel Banks

This book is a coming of age story. It is about a young man’s journey through life, until this current age of 25, and the internal and external challenges he faces in the search for inner peace and contentment. It is written from a first person perspective.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Aug 25, 2019
• ISBN: 9781728391915

Nigel Banks

I am 20 years old. This is my first completed novel. I was born in Africa but grew up in England.

Book preview

© 2019 Nigel Banks. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse  08/12/2019

ISBN: 978-1-7283-9192-2 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-7283-9191-5 (e)

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

chapter 8

1

CHAPTER

T here once was a time I felt like my life didn’t matter.

I felt like it had no meaning or purpose; like I was an empty wandering existence- on earth simply to make up the numbers.

I’ve only recently become liberated from this train of thought; perhaps my writing of this is what will finally give my life a purpose, and I now live in the hope that my darkest days are behind me. And it is this hope, through the story of the many troubles of my life, and the enlightenment I’ve received from them, that I wish to impart to my brothers and sisters in arms, my kinsmen and all the other scattered tribes of our forgotten home, who, for several centuries, have been forced to walk on the same wearisome pilgrimage as I.

However, it’s not just to them that this story is dedicated, for my message extends to those who, not necessarily out of malicious intent, have, in my opinion at least, demonstrated a certain ignorance about us. An ignorance that I sincerely believe lies at the heart of our seemingly endless conflict. And so, it is for that very reason that I have labelled this writing as a compendium, a material which, if my intentions are realised, can continue to dissipate the self-imposed divide that’s been established amongst us. My ambitions are not quite as lofty as ‘changing the entire world’ all by myself, but I share the same sentiments once expressed by a famous poet:

‘I may not change the world, but I might spark the brain that will,’

And the hope of change is far greater than submitting to the status quo.

It’s a testament to how far I’ve come that I’m able to grasp the concept of hope, for it is one that managed to elude me for so long. Even in my youth, the idea of it was completely unfathomable to me. Where a childlike optimism for the future should have prevailed, there was instead a dominating air of pessimism, one that, under normal circumstances, should have been reserved for the old and the ‘wise’. But in hindsight, I’ve come to understand that it was a defence against the curse of tragedy that followed me, even in the early portions of my life.

The trauma of some of these earlier tragedies forced me towards introspection, and, if I were to guess, that’s probably when I began to ponder the worth of my existence. In the years to come, as a consequence of more severe and heart-breaking calamities, these thoughts would turn into complete certainty.

It could be argued though that the course of my life was decided from the very moment my father named me.

‘David Gustavus Black’.

He had named me David after himself, so to differentiate between the two, most called me Gustavus or simply Gus.

I once inquired why he’d chosen such a peculiar and foreign name, and he informed me that it was in honour of his favourite historical figure, Gustavus Vassa, the man whose autobiographical narrative about his life as a slave was instrumental to the abolitionist movement, in their mission to see the end of slavery. Although throughout my life I’ve only been referred to as ‘Gus’, the inspiration behind my name was, within itself, an indictment of the kind of troubles that lay ahead for me, but more importantly, it provided a fascinating excursion into my father’s mind.

Whenever I cast my mind back to the time he explained the nuances behind his decision-making, it becomes increasingly evident that this went far beyond admiration. I’m now convinced that in naming me after Gustavas, my father was expressing some puerile forgotten hope, that I would become a modern-day embodiment of him, a 21st century equivalent of that extraordinary hero- perhaps not on such a global scale, but one who could certainly free him from his woes. But unfortunately for me, that didn’t turn out to be the case.

For in the 13th year of my life, those woes would finally persuade him to rush and take residence in the land his hero dwells. Or more simply put, and in a far less convoluted way, he decided to join the dead.

It was this premature encounter with man’s mortality that started the process of removing me from a state of blissful ignorance. Until that moment, I’d lived as any other prepubescent child- completely unaware of the inner workings of this world. Whilst I’d certainly noticed, through his often self-destructive tendencies, that this was a deeply unhappy man, my father’s decision still rocked me to my core and shattered the peaceful world I’d resided in thus far. As I wrestled with sorrow and resentment, I also found myself overwhelmed with a longing to understand him. What was it about the very act of being alive that he’d found so… exhausting… unbearable?

I now understand that the moment I began to ask such questions, was the moment I took my first steps on that wearisome pilgrimage.

Like one would expect from any great tragedy, there eventually came a moment of anagnorisis; or less pompously stated- a ‘eureka’ moment. As those of us who remained in the land of the living bade farewell to my escaped father, my oblivious mind would stumble upon a delicate truth. Initially, my intentions that day were to listen to the multitude of eulogies presented by those who, rather questionably, referred to themselves as his friends and family, and by using those speeches, attempt to gauge why my mother and I had been suddenly abandoned. But instead, I found my attention drawn from the words being spoken, to the orators themselves. One after the other, as they stood before the church to express their most heartfelt sentiments, I remember staring and beholding, with increasing bemusement, the same hollow and lifeless expressions which, in my mind had been synonymous with his face. Eventually, my gaze shifted to those who’d not been selected to provide a eulogy, and even in them, I identified those same lifeless eyes. Eyes that mirrored the same pretence of resolve that my father’s had, but if one looked closely, would betray defeat.

Defeat and sadness. Sentiments that, my intuition told me, were not wholly related to the present circumstances.

So, rather ironically, it came to be that at a funeral of all places, I received a new revelation on life. This ‘sadness’, which until then I’d assumed possessed a special love for my father, was even more demonic than I’d imagined. Instead- it roamed, like a lion, seeking to devour whomsoever it pleased. But my most profound observation that day was that it seemed to take great pleasure in devouring those who looked like me. As a result of this enlightenment, my already burgeoning curiosity was piqued even further.

What force was behind all of this?

There are those who live their lives earnestly adhering to the proverb; ‘curiosity killed the cat’, but I’ve always believed that particular interpretation only presents a fragment of its truth and potential. ‘Curiosity killed the cat but satisfaction brought it back’ is the interpretation I’ve always preferred. A subtle but significant shift, one capable of changing the essence of the entire proverb, and it was with this preferred interpretation in mind, that I went in search of satisfaction. However, my search would reveal to me that fragmented truths and concealed potential were not phenomena exclusive only to old proverbs.

Even at that tender age of 13, I’d always found it strange that people like me seemingly contributed very little to humanity’s story. Though my knowledge of history at the time was limited to what I’d learned in school, it was still extensive enough to encompass several centuries. In my 7 years of education, we’d journeyed from as ancient as the Aztecs, to the modern-day horror that was Nazi Germany, and yet, despite the breadth of our studies, other than brief references to Dr King and Nelson Mandela, there had not been a significant mention of black people. It was an inexplicable void that I ignored, partly due to my adolescent state, but also because I’d observed that other cultures received fleeting mentions. However, due to recent events, I’d developed an overwhelming desire to understand my people, so, as any lost child would, I sought guidance from those I believed to be more educated. A decision that would only serve to further unsettle me.

As is often the case after the death of a loved one, families temporarily grow closer, presenting more opportunities to interact with family members you’d seldom see under normal circumstances, and it was on such an occasion that I first attempted to satiate the thirst for knowledge that was in me. Typically, during family gatherings, the adults remained downstairs and the children would retreat upstairs, unaffected by the troubles of the adult world, and this day was no different. I found myself sat in my bedroom with my older cousin, who was 17 in fact, and our interactions at that point had revolved around his rather awkward attempt to reassure me that everything would be fine, and then his mind vanished into the world of his mobile phone, until a conversation about Black Friday, which was the following week, returned his attention to my room.

‘Getting anything for Black Friday?’ I asked, already calculating the direction I wished to steer the conversation in.

‘Nah’, he replied abruptly, obviously annoyed I’d disturbed him from the sanctuary of his phone.

‘What’s the point of Black Friday anyway?’

There was a brief pause, as though he was considering the purpose of my question, and having perceived my intentions he responded:

‘Nothing to do with us if that’s what you’re thinking’, he superciliously shot back.

I could tell he was unwilling to hold a lasting conversation with me, so I decided that there was no need to take part in pedantic games, rather, I would simply address the matter at heart.

‘What do you know about black people?’

He stared at me blankly for a moment, clearly thrown by the question, then, after gathering his wits, he delivered an answer that will forever be etched into my memory.

‘What is there to know?’ he asked.

‘You’re the guy at college. I should be asking you.’

He paused briefly, and I awaited his insightful answer.

‘Ermmmm… We got fu- done dirty by white people back in the day.’

I’d heard all this before, and that answer simply didn’t satisfy me, so I attempted to delve deeper into his reserves of knowledge.

‘I know that already. Anything else?’

He paused once again.

‘Erm… Nah. Not much else to say really’, he softly replied, eyes momentarily flashing with the same defeated look I’d observed before, and after delivering that statement, he retreated into the world of his phone, to be left undisturbed for the remainder of the evening.

I, on the other hand, spent the remainder of that evening deeply troubled by my cousin’s response. It was not so much what he’d said that bothered me, but rather, the scarcity of knowledge he had to impart. I started to become concerned, that in the 4 years before I turned 17, I would not be any closer to finding the answers I was seeking. And then suddenly, a more sinister thought began to arise within me.

Was our absence from history a consequence of a lack of accomplishments? If this were the case- did that have any connection to the aura of defeat that permeated from us?

Subsequently, instead of alleviating it, the encounter with my cousin had done nothing but thrust my curiosity into a state of crescendo. It was now apparent that education wouldn’t provide the answers I sought, so I decided to take a step I’d been hoping to avoid.

As a result of my father’s death, my mother had been on a downward spiral of her own, struggling with the loneliness I’m guessing, and the light that she’d once radiated, that had often kept our household together, was slowly being extinguished. Our relationship had taken on a new and more fractured dynamic, one that had led to us communicating less and less as she fell deeper and deeper into despair. However, I decided that my need for answers outweighed any concerns I had about the divide between us, and instead, I selected her to be my next interrogation victim.

I knew I wouldn’t get much dialogue from her, so I chose to use the opportunity I had to quickly extract the information I was after.

‘Why aren’t we in many