One of the first things we get told as children is to “stay away from strangers”. Or, if you’re me, “stop sneaking downstairs in the middle of the night to eat butter out the fridge”. As such, we make it our life’s mission to avoid any and all contact with people we do not know, for fear that we might make an enemy, or even worse… a friend? Never has this been more true than right here in London — the city of passing ships. But today, I’d like to challenge the concept of stranger danger by telling you about my mate, Peter.
If you’ve ever passed through south London, specifically the East Dulwich end of business, then you’ve probably met Peter. It is even more likely that you have enjoyed Peter’s front garden (not a euphemism — the man’s 85 for God’s sake). It’s truly breathtaking — an untouched utopia spilling out onto the street. Sunflowers soar up into the clouds, dahlias dance about in the sun and roses nod gracefully at every passer-by. He’s created a one-man Chelsea Flower Show. Oh, and it’s a hit with the ladies. Not just the Doreens and Maureens; I’ve seen Peter casually leaning up against some chrysanthemums, chatting to my dream girl on several occasions. Man’s got that botanical rizz.
My first proper encounter with Peter involved him getting my name spectacularly wrong. If they did Emmys for mispronunciations, he’d be on stage in a tux clutching it. Having told him the previous day that my name was Munya, I strolled past his garden, his head popped up from behind his newspaper and he confidently chirped, “All right, Mumbi!”. In that moment,
I knew I liked Peter. Not because he had renamed me as some sort of cartoon hippo, but because he’d made an effort. And, perhaps more significantly, he had bothered to say hello.
Tigers and tall stories
Over the next few months, Peter and I became proper mates. Our polite hellos were soon replaced by epic tales, mainly on Peter’s part. He’d show me newspaper clippings from the war, describing how his unsuspecting pre-fab had survived the bombs dropped only inches away. He’d recall stories from his time posted overseas, like how he had hidden from a tiger
in an empty train carriage or tried spicy Caribbean food for the first time — I couldn’t quite tell which he’d found scarier. And perhaps most characteristic of our friendship was his relentless pranking — something my grandad had always done. He’d warn me against going to the butchers because of how they’d used human meat in their pies or lament how he’d been surviving on gruel for the last seven days, and each time, as I was on the verge of taking serious intervention, he’d unleash a devilish grin: “I’m only joking, you plonker! I thought you were meant to be the smart one!”.
One day, I decided to get Peter back. It had snowed the night before. Perfect for stealth, perfect… for a snowball. I had ventured out for coffee when I saw Peter tinkering, his back turned. I locked my gigantic biceps into position, his tiny pinhead firmly in the crosshairs — fire! In slow motion, the snowy orb hurtled through the air ready to deliver its damp destruction to the back of Peter’s head… But then, in the split second before impact, he turned his face. The snowball splatted square in his eye. “Ooowoooh!” he yelped, before slowly folding over. Stranger danger. We don’t interact with them because we fear they may harm us. Thus far, my friendship with Peter had totally debunked this theory — and now I had ruined it with one cold, wet decision.
Taking a chance
“I’m going to jail,” I thought. This is how my career ends. I could see the headlines: “Munya Chawawa imprisoned for life after urban snowball slays sweet old man.” I sprinted over, heart thundering, all thoughts of a decaf cappuccino having dissolved into sour panic. I attempted a concerned hug, it was more like an awkward cradle — Peter, a giant man-baby in my arms. He wriggled out irritably and barked: “What did you do that for?” He was alive! Elation surged through my sweaty body as he dusted himself off and shot a faux glare at me. “You wait till I tell everyone you tried to assassinate me!”
I knew in that moment, I had provided Peter with a lifetime’s worth of fodder to roast me with — and roast me he did. He’d tell passers-by how he’d had part of his brain removed after contracting frostbite from a mystery assailant’s snowball — making sure I was in earshot, of course. The story only solidified our friendship, it felt like the shared mischief you only get with a proper pal.
A few weeks ago, I moved out of the flat — the landlord was a sphincter of the highest order. I’ve had time to reflect on my friendship with Peter. Why I was so willing to miss important Zooms perched against his fence. Why I’d happily postponed pressing deadlines to hear his stories. And why, in a city obsessed with networking and LinkedIn connections, I’d spent so long building a friendship with an old man in his garden.
I now realise it’s because through Peter, I got to finish my relationship with my grandad. My grandad was the funniest, wittiest person in my life — he passed away in lockdown and I never got to say goodbye. And because of the tumour in his throat, I never got to hear him say goodbye or tell me one last joke. I didn’t cry at his funeral and I haven’t cried since, because I don’t think I’ve fully accepted it’s over. When I speak to Peter, I get to be with my grandad again. I get to have all the conversations I never had the chance to finish with him. I get to laugh at stories like the ones he told me, curled up his favourite armchair.
I haven’t said goodbye to Peter since moving. Maybe it’s because it’s too hard. I haven’t told him what he means to me because I imagine I’ll burst into tears. But Peter, someone who was once a mere stranger, has become such a significant part of my closure and healing — all because of that fateful day on which he decided to shout, “All right, Mumbi!’” And so, as we rush around this city with our heads down and barriers up, if it feels right, challenge yourself to say hello to a stranger, because who knows? You might just be everything someone needs in that moment.
