My recent reading brought our all-too-brief time in Cote d'Ivoire to the foreground of my mind again. As I said in the croc post I wrote last year, the ten months we spent there definitely come in a category that might be labelled "seminal", "formative", even "life-changing".

And way up there in my memories of that period is a particular person. Mercy.

She has featured a couple of times in blog posts -- when the media's negative portrayal of Africa has come up, for example, or when I've been reminded of our tailoring expeditions together.

But this post is exclusively for her. It gives thanks for a person whose qualities have only shone the brighter as time has passed.



Mercy was Ghanaian by origin. She was a very bright woman, fluent in English, French, and her native Fante -- and probably German too, although she always claimed to be rusty in that. She was practical, foresighted, and entrepreneurial, but also creative. She loved her home continent, deeply resented the ways it had been (and still was being) abused by wealthier powers, and enjoyed showcasing its design riches in the furniture and art of her home.

And she was deeply compassionate. Nigerian leader Sani Abacha died while I was there. She was appalled that some were celebrating that event: "We should never, ever, ever be happy at the death of another human being."

She was a keen royalist, and had huge admiration for the Queen. But interestingly, she wasn't a fan of Princess Diana, whose recent death had caused such stirrings in Britain. She felt Diana must have understood what she was getting herself into, and brushed off her allegations of husbandly infidelity by asking loftily: "Why go breaking your head over THAT?"

Most importantly, from my personal little point of view, she was really kind. She went beyond being polite, pleasant, helpful, and concerned (qualities that defined most of the acquaintances I made in Abidjan), and advanced fearlessly into the territory of genuine, self-sacrificial friendship. She was willing, in other words, despite her always-busy schedule, to invest time and effort in a relationship with a person very different in upbringing and experience.

Mercy was always beautifully dressed, in creatively tailored African cloth. When she realized I really admired her clothes, she started to take me shopping. We'd tour the various genres of fabric shop in the various parts of Abidjan, drooling over the beautiful materials, and inevitably spending more than we'd originally planned... Then she introduced me to her (many) tailors and their specialities: "This one does the best shirts... This one does beautiful embroidery." Etc.   


Some of the many talented clothing-creators that Mercy put me in contact with

She loved food, and loved to bring me food. Little gifts of peanuts, roasted plantains, home-made alloco and fried fish, bambara beans, manioc... Nigel sometimes used to go over to her place to sort out her computer, and always returned with enough goodies to cover the next day or so...

We toured markets together, and ate out together at all manner of establishments, both sophisticated and simple. She took me to places I'd never have managed to find by myself. The one that stands out most in my memory was called the Power House. Unsigned, and located in the midst of a warren of back-streets, this place provided some of the best food I had in Cote d'Ivoire (and believe me, there was some very stiff competition for that accolade). A choice of foutou, a choice of sauces, bits of meat or fish or crab, all eaten with your fingers... And lots of conversation. You sat at communal tables in the big courtyard, and the people who ate there were always ready to talk. 

While we're on the topic of food, I'll just note that I've never met anyone who could pick a chicken bone quite as clean as Mercy could... Once she'd finished with it, you'd have sworn that bone had been bleaching in the sun for a month at least.

We went to several concerts together, and for these we'd be joined by Nigel, and sometimes by Mercy's son. Aicha Kone and Ami Koita; General Defao et les Big Stars; Kofi Olomide; the Miss Cote d'Ivoire competition... Wonderful cultural experiences that we still talk about even today, so bright are they in our memory.

When we left, Mercy presented us with some beautiful tie-dyed outfits, sewn by one of her premier tailors, and arranged for some photos to be taken (the ones you see here).

It was a sad goodbye. She had been a generous, open-hearted friend and comrade throughout our stay there, and I felt I owed her a great deal. There was every historical and political and cultural reason why Mercy and I should not have become friends -- but we did.

While I was still there, we had tentatively made some plans to meet up in the British Isles, and do some sight-seeing together before I went to New Zealand. Mercy was a professional woman. Such a trip was well within her means.



But once I got back to the UK, at the end of July 1998, things became progressively more difficult.

For a start, Mercy and I seemed to have endless difficulties communicating. Emails in both directions went missing. Letters didn't arrive. We had to resort to phone calls, and as I had no real home by that point, these weren't always easy to engineer.

And personally, it wasn't an easy time. Nigel headed off to New Zealand, after a hectic month of goodbyes, so I was on my own. Work was busy, and there was a lot of additional post-Africa wrapping-up to do. Meanwhile, I was finding the whole going-to-New-Zealand thing increasingly hard to handle. At that stage I didn't have a job to go to, and the future felt very frightening. I had a round of painful goodbyes to make, to old friends and elderly family, and I began to feel that there was some of this -- particularly the trip to the Isle of Man -- that I just had to do alone. 

I communicated all this to Mercy, feeling very, very guilty about letting down someone who had been so kind and generous towards me. I didn't have the courage to say "don't come", so I said, in effect "half come". Come to England, but not the Isle of Man. I'm guessing that was pretty hurtful.

Of course, she was characteristically big-hearted about what was really a big betrayal. I know she was disappointed. But she sent me a warm email, not only approving my decision to keep my Isle of Man trip to myself, but suggesting -- tactfully, graciously, lovingly -- that she didn't come at all. By means of a phone call -- another disaster as the money on my card was eaten up so quickly that we were cut off twice -- and another couple of emails, I ended up humbly accepting her offer not to come to the British Isles at that point. We agreed we'd focus instead on a visit to New Zealand in the not too distant future.

By the end of 1998, I'd eventually established myself in New Zealand, and begun working hard on a new project that had happened along just before I was due to arrive there. Over the course of the next few months, Mercy and I stayed in touch, phoning and emailing from time to time, and still talking about a visit.

Then, at the end of July 1999, she emailed to say she was in Paris having radiotherapy after cancer surgery. Of course, I responded with concern. But it sounded as though she was recovering well.

I absolutely didn't expect, therefore, just a few months later, to receive two emails, from her brother and a mutual friend, telling me that Mercy was dead.

She had left France apparently OK. Then there had been a crisis. She had been taken to a very good hospital in Abidjan. But she died.

I didn't know then, as I know very personally now, that certain medications to prevent the recurrence of cancer can end up killing you. I had no idea back then.

So I remember reading and rereading the emails, uncomprehending. Mercy... I remember looking at her picture, recalling her hug as we embraced the last time I saw her. I'd cried when we said goodbye. We all had. Through my mind trotted memories of her sympathy when I was finding my work difficult, and her support when Nigel was ill; of the fun we'd had on our jaunts together, and the plans we'd had for the future, and our endless discussions about spiritual, political, and historical issues. So many of our Abidjan memories were bound up with her. She made it for us in many ways. She lived up to her name, literally showed mercy, befriended a stranger who wanted and needed friendship. And I stopped her coming to the Isle of Man... I had looked forward to her visit to New Zealand. Now no longer possible.

That was almost twenty-two years ago. There are a number of things in my life that I will never forgive myself for, and aborting Mercy's trip in the autumn of 1998 is one of them.

But she wouldn't want me to end on that note. She almost certainly forgave me, not because I deserved it, but because that's how she was.

So I'll close instead by remembering again her kindness, her fortitude, her wisdom, and her loyalty. Rest in peace, Mercy. You really were one in a million.