HardLabour

On and on we go and there is something to the myth that after a while time is all downhill because who would believe we are nearly half way through 2009 as if the year can be measured in a week like the science fiction writers allege that’s how time on some planets goes and earth months just zoom on by and before you know it you’ve got a head full of memories and a Zimmer frame and you’re languishing in some old peoples’ home at the mercy of some care worker who wouldn’t give a damn if you’ve been washed and fed. Still we embrace the now and try and fit it all in so that we can make more sense of the lifespan which is marginally longer than the tulips I tend and water before they wilt all too soon. Ok it’s not at all depressing just the way it is and I’m loving cramming it all in.

The boss’s PA rings to say she might be able to fit me in at the end of the week because things are hectic a bunch of new shows that need filling and it will probably be a coffee after hours and I’m fine with that too. There’s time to head out to the Emirates midweek because there’s nothing quite like these European nights and this mild night sees the Arsenal trying to beat Villarreal and make it to the last four teams in the European Champions League and yes we have some defensive issues here and there with William Gallas out for the rest of the season but so what they’ve lost their talisman the Brazilian who fired in a shot from 25 yards last Tuesday. The atmosphere is glorious like we are about to watch Roman gladiators do battle to the death and the noise is awesome and there on the field is Robert Pirez now of Villarreal once of the Arsenal Invincibles of 2003/2004 and the mob is loyal to his memory and sing his praises at his every touch and he plays his game like a blushing maiden fluttered by the mob’s adoration and we can feel the tears of memory sting his eyes at every mention of his name but he’s on the opposing side this April night and will he make the mob pay despite their love? Within 9 minutes the anxiety is assuaged by the confidence of Theo Walcott England and Arsenal’s great hope who chips in a goal of such improvised audacity we feel certain the night is ours. And it is. Adebayor adds another and raises his value and the Dutchman with a face like a comic book here, Robin van Persie, adds another from the penalty spot and Bobby Pires’s Villarreal are vanquished to another year of waiting for their luck to change.

There are new books out there and I’m pleased that two more writers from the broken country have managed to break through and I’ve been in regular cyber contact with the Geneva based Petina Gappah whose short story collection – An Elegy for Easterly – explores the broken country much better than a thousand news pieces have been able to do. She rings to say she’ll be in town over the weekend doing a promotional tour which begins with the radio show start the week can we hook up yes we can but I do have the kids in London over the weekend and there’s the FA Cup semi-final why doesn’t she keep Monday free for us in between her literati showbiz life and we make a plan of sorts and I look forward to meeting her there’s something utterly satisfying about bonding over the written word and I head over to a meeting for the day job. It's an odd but pleasant meeting the rain is lashing it down and I don't know if I want to make it to Wembley in this weather.I enjoy a chin wag with some exec who wants the ‘farai interview style’ for his new shows and he seems to be promising a break from the hard nosed news stories I’ve been pursuing for nearly a decade and that should leave more time to do the things that matter and not worry about being imprisoned for doing your job never mind the car accidents the fear and paranoia the depression.

My producer has been working overtime to make the dream of a production company stretching from our London lives to our African experiences to what global contacts we’ve managed to put together a reality. I’ve been dragged through accountancy firms and banks and production companies to discuss business models for about a year now.The return to writing stories with characters and action and dialogue and themes important enough to give voice to African concerns meant that some order was necessary to keep the whirlwind creativity in check and I’m so impressed with his efforts I get him a steaming latte over at Borders. Fuck your latte, man, let’s celebrate. So what are you going to call it? HardLabour Films, it’s about giving birth to new creative ideas and that’s been talk for so long I can hardly believe it and for a moment I think of Thirty/Thirty One that other great dream and reckon I have time to set that up because I really want it. He's preaching. A few more gigs here and there and that should be a healthy working capital, he says, and we’ll let her majesty’s treasury know where we stand. Plus there’s the co-productions with the Kenyans, with the South Africans our contacts in radio and film festivals – it’s better than nine to five dude. And so we call up the potential cameraman and the film festival guru and make an evening of it in some dive and he gets a visa from his wife and we drink to HardLabour and reckon progress is about ignoring your fears and I wish someone was around to see this stuff happen but settle for the cameraman’s insane company as we are joined by familiar African faces and brothers embrace and folk talk politics and the way the world has become and I say I’ve got my kids plus their mother and their friend coming into town tomorrow and I’ve promised them lunch and I can’t be doing with an aching head and leave as the bar man calls last orders. My boy’s back from France he says he had a really good time and he went to a cheese maker and he visited a baker who made him dairy-free bread. The summer’s looking good, but then again it's early days.