An African Abroad

By Aurora Mizutani and Dupelola Osaretin Ajala

Aurora Mizutani has written a book that questions everything we have ever thought about.
"An African Abroad" is the memoir of one of Moshood Adisa Olabisi Ajala's children. Olabisi Ajala was a renowned journalist, traveller, and actor. The book briefly recollects the lifelong achievements of the author's father and highlights his interactions with his young daughter.
"An African Abroad" is a collection of anecdotes that speaks to the reader about international adventures, friendships, relationships, trials, and tribulations. The first-person account addresses complex subjects, including teenage escapades, parental trauma, and redemption through political and historical self-re-education.
The book invites the reader to adopt a realistic perspective (instead of burying their heads in the sand). It reveals her theory about the deep-rooted and biggest secret in the entertainment industry and shines a light on the prevailing darkness surrounding child exploitation and grooming. This fictionalised journal is written in a cynical yet uplifting instructive manner, where the narrator undergoes a state of censure to achieve her goal of contemplation, self-analysis and ultimately autonomy from socially imposed scruples.
Spread into eleven chapters, "An African Abroad" transports the reader on a journey that depicts the narrator's character and growth.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Aurora Mizutani
• Release date: Feb 28, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215645918

Aurora Mizutani

Writer, publisher, comedian, YouTuber, poet, mentor, teacher, professor, lecturer, educator, theologian, philosopher, and entrepreneur, Aurora Mizutani is the daughter of the renowned journalist and actor Olabisi Ajala. An Italian national, Aurora Mizutani is the author of "An African Abroad", “21st Century Guide to being a tourist in Japan”, “Dummies in Japan”, “Giappone Turismo”, “Easy Japan”, and “Little Boy and Mr Scary Snake”, written under her previous pen name DA Gravill.

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An African Abroad

Copyright © 2022 Aurora Mizutani

All rights reserved.

No parts of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner without the prior written permission of the copyright owner, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

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Disclaimer

This book is a work of creative non-fiction inspired by actual events.

It reflects the author’s present recollections of experiences over time.

All the events in this memoir are accurate to the best of the author’s memory.

Some names, characteristics and identifying features have been changed to protect the identity of certain parties.

Some events have been compressed, and some dialogue has been recreated.

The author does not represent any company, corporation, or brand mentioned herein.

The views expressed in this memoir are solely those of the author.

This book deals with child abuse.

While the author has taken great lengths to ensure the subject matter is dealt with compassionately and respectfully, it may be troubling for some readers.

Discretion is advised.

The information in this book was correct at the time of publication, but the Author does not assume any liability for loss or damage caused by errors or omissions.

By the same author

Aurora Mizutani

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Table of Contents

Forward 

Introduction 

An African Abroad

Olabisi Ajala

Chapter One  

Italy

Chapter Two 

On My Terms

Chapter Three 

London

Chapter Four 

The International Streets

Chapter Five 

Marriage

Chapter Six 

––––––––

Lust

Chapter Seven 

Former Soviet Union - The Conjuring

Chapter Eight 

Courage

Chapter Nine 

Japan

Chapter Ten 

Freedom

Chapter Eleven 

––––––––

Epilogue

Author’s Note

About the Author

For John & all my 18 dogs for their unfaltering faithfulness.

[1]‘Ask and it will be given to you; seek, and you will find; knock, and it will be opened to you.

Everyone who asks receives , and he who seeks finds, and to him who knocks, it will be opened.

Or what man is there among you who, if his son asks for bread, will give him a stone?

Or if he asks for a fish, will he give him a serpent?

If you then, being evil, know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more will your Father who is in heaven give good things to those who ask Him!’

Forward

I chose to write briefly about my father and myself (mostly myself, as I did not know my father well, but somewhat of him) because I value the lessons taught to me by my diametrical upbringing. I want to make a record or perhaps set the record straight.

It should be noted that this book is not intended as a sequel to An African Abroad by my father, Olabisi Ajala. It is the acknowledgement of my father’s achievements and the purging of my life experiences. This account is a historical essay created as a medium for which the influence of my father’s legacy, and my understanding of it, is immortalized in this book.

An African Abroad is the memoir of one of the many direct descendants of Olabisi Ajala, the journalist.

"I have only accomplished a fraction of the countries visited by my father during his titanic world travels and not entirely on a moped. I admit to having opted for conventional methods of transportation. Thus far, I have visited and lived in a total of twenty-one countries, namely; Nigeria (Lagos, Benin), Italy, (Bologna, Venezia, Firenze, Milano, Como, Rome, Sardinia, Cagliari, England (London, Newcastle, Brighton, Blackpool, Hull), France, (Paris and Lille), Netherworlds (Amsterdam and Roosendaal), Belgium (Brussels), Germany (Frankfort and Munich), Estonia (Tallinn), Sweden (Stockholm), Austria (Zell am See), Wales (St Davids and Llangadog), Scotland (Gretna Green), Denmark (Copenhagen, West Indies (Trinidad & Tobago, Granada, St Lucia, Dominique), Soviet Union (on the train), China (Hong Kong, Beijing), Korea, Cambodia, Philippines, Taiwan, Thailand, and Japan (Tokyo, Osaka, Kyoto, Okinawa).

This book is about my journey to self-analysis and the means to an end: the shadowing and a gradual culmination of my intellect.

A trip full of sibling rivalry, youthful adventures, drugs and alcohol, the loss of freedom, lust, murder, intrigue, escapes, fugitives, sex, betrayal, witchcraft, love, the rigged racket that is the Childcare Court system, incest, grooming, alleged sexual abuse and grooming of a minor, the whistle-blower considered a virago of a loose cannon by the system, faith, devotion, and redemption.

Consider yourself forewarned if you expect to be pampered while reading these memoirs. Things will inevitably ‘get real’ to better illustrate my life experiences as the author of "An African Abroad. I aim to be completely transparent and candid about my experiences.

No-holds barred.

On this note, I will also narrate my brief encounter with Lupin from Australia. Lupin was perhaps the oldest of my father’s children.

My limited interactions with less than a handful of heads of state in the United Kingdom taught me a lot. What I learned I will share with you.

For the reader or listener to appreciate the lessons I learned thoroughly and to understand and visualize the circumstances that led me to this time and moment, we must travel back in time.

Ultimately, my travels, social interactions, and international observation have led me to find freedom.

There is something to be said about genetics. Like my father, Olabisi Ajala, I have a natural curiosity, a desire to learn and a passion for knowledge. I am a non-conformist.

That is how I discovered my craft.

I had a life-changing encounter with the former Soviet Union. My fight against communist Russia was psychological, not physical. The attack was on my emotional stability when a woman was in her most vulnerable state. I consider having eluded the loss of my peace of mind as my one great victory.

Without the seal of approval of the elite, outsiders cannot achieve notoriety. Thus, any personage I quote in my book is bound to the establishment. Nevertheless, I must refer to the interpretations of my peers to better illustrate my viewpoint.

Unlike my father, Olabisi Ajala, I am not a journalist. This book is not a political or travel journal nor a historical composition.

I hope these accounts will be useful to many and that the reader might learn something from my experiences.

A few of you will relate. The rest of you will wonder.

Introduction

Olabisi Ajala accomplished a challenging task by travelling to more than seventy countries on a moped and meeting with heads of state, to name a few of his recorded adventures. If he had been caught, my father’s ordeal would have been physical in the form of possible torture and brutal imprisonment. Olabisi Ajala eluded imprisonment in Russia, perhaps even the dreaded Gulag.

It has been said that Ajala died in poverty. That depends on one’s definition of wealth. Ajala died leaving behind around a dozen children. My father wanted to ensure that at least one of his offspring would carry his legacy. Olabisi Ajala, a true pagan, had the foresight and wisdom to understand that earthly riches are just that. Earthly riches. Arguably, as Ajala died in the knowledge of true freedom, I dispute the assumption that he died in poverty. What freedom? Read on to find out.

Olabisi Ajala must have had a complete understanding of the game ‘Monopoly’. When one has finally mastered the game ‘Monopoly’, they learn that reaching their objective is futile. That is to say that when the game is over, all proceeds inevitably go back in the box. The bottom line is that one cannot take the money, or anything else, to the afterlife. The Egyptian Pharaohs died wealthy. They buried their vessels and riches in crypts. These riches were excavated by archaeologists and are now on display worldwide. Olabisi Ajala had the foresight to spend his money on this earth, as it’s apparent that we cannot take it with us. Olabisi Ajala left behind his scions and his written legacy, the true treasures of this material world.

I persist in my unwavering belief that Olabisi Ajala died a wealthy man indeed within this reality.

[2]

[3]

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Chapter One

Olabisi Ajala

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London, England, Spring 1994

A picture containing text Description automatically generated HAD JUST TURNED EIGHTEEN years old.

Within a few months of being given the London council flat on Isledon Road and Hornsey Road, and after being released from HMP Holloway, my mother insisted on finding me a roommate.

My mother was still living in Italy with my eldest sister Etna. My mother Lucia had driven around Europe in her youth with us her daughters in her car on many other occasions. Lucia, my mother, would think nothing of driving around Italy. From Italy to France. From France to London and back to Italy again. This, of course, was when we were children, and my mother was in her early forties. My mother would have been around fifty years old in the early nineties.

My mother was concerned that living in a council flat near Finsbury Park might not be entirely safe.

It is fair to say that Finsbury Park was one of the most disreputable parts of London, as were Brixton, Lewisham, Peckham, the Elephant & Castle, Hackney and many more London boroughs.

Finsbury Park was particularly unpleasant. Finsbury Park, at that time, was overrun by rapists, drug addicts known as crackheads, heroin addicts, robbers, and prostitutes. This assembly of dubious distinction sprawled out to Stroud Green Road, Blackstock Road, and Hornsey Rise and stretched as far as Manor House, Stamford Hill, and Stoke Newington. That part of north London was a veritable ghetto. Except for Islington, located slightly out of range to Upper Street and joined onto the Angel and City Rd.

Islington and its surrounding locations in the direction of the Angel were considered more innovative places and were inhabited by the working lower class. The working lower class were a step below the working middle class. That is to say that Finsbury Park was a hazardous area for all accounts and purposes.

Finsbury Park was a refuge for the released and the escaped residents of Broadmoor Criminal Lunatic Asylum. Broadmoor Hospital opened in the village of Crowthorne in Berkshire in 1863. The patients of Broadmoor rehabilitation institution for the mentally unstable were often male and female child murderers and considered dangerous. Many of the patients residing in the lunatic asylum were set loose unto the community, possibly due to overcrowding in the hospital wards. Thus, the patients were left to fend for themselves on the streets.

The streets surrounding the Finsbury Park area, that is. The formerly hospitalized patients often wandered around the Finsbury Park underground station. They would either be begging for money or trying to steal food.

A mummy’s boy. My mother engaged the services of a young Italian boy named Arturo, whom she had found by placing an advertisement in the local Italian newspaper near where she lived in Bologna. The twenty-nine-year-old Arturo who had answered my mother’s advertisement was what is often referred to as a ‘mammone’. In Italy, a ‘mammone’ is a fully grown man who has yet to sprout wings and move out of his parent's home. The ‘mammone’ depends on his mother and father to provide for him as though he was still a young child or a young man. On average, a ‘mammone’ is around forty years old. This young man Arturo, whom my mother had found, was considerably younger than forty but was nevertheless a bonified ‘mammone’, for he did live with his parents in Italy and depended on them for his board and keep.

Arturo the ‘mammone’ and my mother had met up in Bologna and had thus readied themselves to set off for the drive to London.

Upon their first meeting, the unfortunate young man Arturo was surprised to see that my mother had innumerable luggage that she intended to load onto his car. The young man’s vehicle was inevitably overloaded to total capacity and beyond. The car could hardly pick up any significant speed on the road to London. The young Arturo could not dissuade my mother from carrying such cumbersome luggage, so they set off. I wasn’t present then, so I do not know the actual happenings during their drive from Bologna to London. Knowing my mother, the poor ‘mammone’ would have felt much stressed within hours of their departure.

Three days after leaving Bologna, my mother and the ‘mammone’ pulled into Finsbury Park in London. My mother telephoned me upon their arrival in London at around 8:00 AM.

My mother informed me that they had parked the mammone’s vehicle, whom she had recruited to become my roommate, by Finsbury Park Underground Station. My mother further explained that the young man wanted to practise his English in his land of origin. Hence, he agreed to be my roommate for a limited time. This was the first I heard of my mother’s plans to get a roommate. However, I was accustomed to my mother’s improvisations. I was mainly put out by receiving a telephone call during the early hours of the morning.

At this point, I wish to remind the reader of the well-known fact that some of the very best people in history have been detained at Her Majesty’s Pleasure. Elizabeth the I, Joan of Arc, Niccolò Machiavelli, Oscar Wilde, Marco Polo, Nelson Mandela, Mohamed Ali, Malcolm X, John the Baptist, Jesus of Nazareth, etc. The list goes on and on. Imprisoned idealists and zealots have been and will continue to be the cornerstone of non-conformism.

I dare not compare my plight to the many great achievers in history. Nevertheless, as a former captive, I know myself in good company.

Get dressed and come to Finsbury Park right away, my mother’s bellowed at me on the phone. You must inspect the young man and escort him to your flat. My flat, on the 12th floor of Talbot House, is located directly opposite the Sobell Leisure Centre. It was around a 10-minute walk from my flat to Finsbury Park and less than a five-minute ride on my bicycle.

I brushed my teeth, took a quick shower, threw on some clothes, grabbed my bicycle, and ran out the door without locking it. This was when the self-respecting and discerning burglar would not attempt to rob a house that had not been verified as having belongings worth stealing. At that time, my flat had nothing worth stealing.

I arrived at Finsbury Park Underground Station, on Blackstock road, where I saw my mother walking toward me. It was early in the morning, and the streets were relatively quiet. Spotting my mother was no hardship. My mother came towards me, and we walked towards Blackstock Rd. I have left Arturo in charge of guarding my belongings in his vehicle, my mother informed me without a word of greeting. That was our way. There was no need for greetings. That’s his name. Arturo. Let’s go grab a cup of tea. Suggested my mother cheerfully.

Where exactly did you leave Arturo and the car? I asked as it dawned upon me that Finsbury Park is not the safest place for Londoners, let alone an Italian ‘mammone’.

Oh, somewhere by the Stroud green Rd, behind Finsbury Park Underground Station, replied my mother, unperturbed.

I was concerned. The Stroud Green Road was perhaps the most dangerous part of Finsbury Park. It is where most of the released patients from the asylum tended to gather. We need to go and find this young man Arturo immediately, I said to my unperturbed mother. And his vehicle with your stuff in it. That did it. The thought that her belongings might be in danger rattled my mother as she remembered Finsbury Park’s reputation.

As the words were coming out of my mother’s mouth, I saw a young man running from the direction of Finsbury Park station up the Blackstock road with fear written all over his face. I, of course, can spot an Italian a mile away, so I did. The poor man ran towards my mother and me at full speed.

Aiuto! screamed Arturo, the ‘mammone’ at the top of his lungs in the direction of my mother. Aiuto Lucia! shouted Arturo as he finally reached my mother and me. The young man was very shaken. Speaking in Italian, Arturo quickly explained that he was being chased by a humongous 7-foot black man the size of a wardrobe and had been brandishing a hammer, eyes bulging and yelling in English while running towards him. The young man Arturo tried to explain to my unsympathetic mother that the individual trying to assault him had appeared out of nowhere and looked like something sent from hell.

My mother quickly and quietly assessed the situation and became very angry with Arturo. Instead of consoling the young man, my mother started berating him about having left the vehicle with all her belongings unprotected and at the mercy of Arturo’s persecutor. The thought that her belongings were not as valuable as Arturo’s life never crossed my mother’s mind for an instant. In truth, knowing Finsbury Park as well as I do, the young man Arturo had gotten off lightly. If one was to go by the young man’s description of this individual, Arturo had probably been chased by an insane, larger-than-life crackhead whose intention was to rob in and possibly harm him. It was only after returning to the vehicle and having found it and my mother’s belongings intact and relatively safe that my mother took it upon herself to try to placate the horrified young man.

The young man was utterly disillusioned with London and afraid for his life by this time. It did not help that my apartment was a stone's throw away from where the ginormous man with the hammer tried to assault him. I remember Arturo saying that I lived practically at the crime scene and in the heart of the ghetto. There was no dissuading him after the unpleasant experience. Arturo truly believed London to be a dangerous place. My mother unloaded the young man’s vehicle of her belongings and refused to return the young man’s deposit for the accommodation she had, according to her, painstakingly provided for him. Namely, to stay with me in my apartment as my roommate. I had just been given the council flat in London, and already its location was proving to be a liability. Living in a council flat by Finsbury Park located only about a mile away from the ghetto was like being in a cage and paying rent for it.

The young Italian man Arturo sold his vehicle to take a flight back home to his mother and father, where I am 100% sure he is still residing. After his horrendous experience in Finsbury Park, London, it is doubtful that he would ever have gone anywhere outside of Italy again.

[4]

[5]

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Lagos, Nigeria, 1970’s

Most people have never heard the name Olabisi Ajala. I have listened to this name almost daily since childhood. It is my father’s name. I was born on the 11th of October 1975. Almost 100 years to the day of Alistair Crowley. [6]Edward Alexander Crowley was born on October the 12th 1975 in... England.

My father, however , collected my birth certificate two days after my birth. My birth certificate shows the modified date from the 11th (my birth) to the officially recorded date of October 13 th , when my father went to collect my birth certificate.

The conspicuous abundance of the letter A in my father’s name and my own is no coincidence. Most countries have the letter A woven into their names. Also, no coincidence.

I fondly remember my father Moshood Olabisi Ajala as my guardian angel, a constant guardian angel to all of his children.

Olabisi Ajala was responsible for procuring my mother’s, mine, and my sisters' visas out of Africa. Some people in Nigeria did not all-heartedly appreciate Olabisi Ajala wanting his life accomplishments validated. Olabisi Ajala wanted the Nigerians to recognize all he had accomplished while travelling worldwide.

Olabisi Ajala started frequenting