New life

All of a doodah

Zenga Longmore

malara's favourite song of all time is `Camptown Races'. I wheel her to and from the market in a chorus of 'doodahs'. What sense she can make of the words I have no idea, but they seem to please her.

On our way home the other day, we came across Shaka Boom Boom (real name Clive Barnes), master of chat and owner of the prestigious Black Cat Sounds System. Looking prosperous but pensive, he stood at the roadside, fingering an embryo Mephistophelian beard.

`Doodah!' Omalara told him decisively. `Doodah to you, too, young missie,' he responded. 'And talking of little angels, Zenga, what do you make of rumours of lights in the sky? A little pickney girl arksed me the other night if the lights she could see were angels. Me, I looked up and what did I see? I see a beam of light over the rooftops. In my opinion, the lights are spotlights from police helicopters, cruising over the flats dem, trying to start another riot.'

It was the first I had heard of mysterious lights in the sky, but I promised to keep a lookout.

`How typical', I mused, as the lift hove us heavenward, or at least flatward, 'that peo- ple see whatever they want to see. Lights appear in the sky and an innocent child sees angels. A man of the world and master of chat sees police brutality. I wonder what the hippies next door would see? A penny to a quid it would be UFOs.'

The chance to test my theory came soon- er than I expected. A tall, lugubrious hippie was staring out of the landing window almost at my doorstep.

`Hey! You hear about those cosmic lights, man?'

`Yes,' I replied, tentatively, 'what do you think they are?'

`Ley lines, woh yeah, ley lines. A ley line runs through Brixton, right? And the elec- tric energy sends up rays of Celtic mysti- cism known as "dragon light".'

`Well, one thing is fairly straightforward, at least you don't think they're UFOs.'

`I don't? Well, dig this: the dragon light coming from the ground, like er, meets the light generated above by the UFOs that normally follow the ley lines. And further more, dig this: shabba shabba hey!'

`Yes, absolutely,' I murmured, hurrying into the flat.

That evening I presided over a humble dinner party, just self, Olumba, Omalara and one outside guest, Uncle Bisi.

`Pretty, pretty!' cried Omalara, pointing into the lurid London night. I followed the direction of Omalara's stubby finger and gaped. Vivid jets of green, red and white swept across the sky. Well! You could have knocked me down with a ley line! Olumba seized Omalara's hand in protective panic.

Uh uh, Uncle! The lights! Could they be anti-aircraft tactics against invasion from Saddam Hussein?'

I grabbed Omalara's spare hand. Oma- lara let out a sharp little squeal. Only Uncle Bisi took it all in his stride. Rustling the local paper, he cleared his throat regal- ly and began: `Nephew. Before you jump to, ah, ludi- crous conclusions, let me enlighten you on the fruits of my perusals.'

So saying, he removed his glasses and laid back his head as if about to sleep. `Well, Uncle Bisi?'

`What? Ah, yes. There is a laser beam show at your local park.'

Reassured, we pulled our chairs to the window and enjoyed the show. For a moment I had been all of a doodah.