Mustapha Matura Bio
Mustapha Matura was born Noel Mathura in Trinidad in 1939, and brought up Anglican. He later changed his name -- not his religion - when he emerged as a writer. "I liked the sound of it," he explains. "It was the sixties."
His father was an unsuccessful car salesman, the son of a rural Brahmin priest who had emigrated from India. His mother was a sales assistant in a Department store, a Creole of part-Scottish-part-African stock.
Rejected by both families for marrying beneath or outside their cultural group, his parents settled in a racially and socially diverse neighbourhood, originally settled by freed slaves, in Belmont, Port of Spain.
Mustapha's childhood was spent playing 'boy' games, exploring the nearby forest and backyards of the tightly-packed houses, unconsciously observing and absorbing the personal lives of his neighbours. His first school was a wooden room on stilts on the top of a hill, its sole teacher a tall, elegant black lady, who was well liked and respected for her ability and no-nonsense manner.
In his pre-teens he discovered a love of the cinema. Going to double features sometimes twice a day, he would describe films by acting the parts, and with the bags of rice and sugar of a next-door shop serving as mountains, produced and directed his own Western scenarios with himself and the owners' children as the cast. His own character was invariably the outlaw Black Bart. In Mustapha's boyish version, crime paid; Bart always got away with the robbery, and returned to the cave of cardboard boxes he had built under the house. At length the child playing the Sheriff complained, "How come he always get away? Dat don't happen in de flims."
His education at a local secondary Boys school was fitful, but uneventful. Uninspired, and disliked by teachers for being a lazy wastrel, he became a solitary subversive, and after breaking a school rule that decreed "no rubber band and bent pin battles on last day of school," he collected six strokes from a police cane. He doesn't remember whether or not he cried, but at last he made his escape. His father's death served as his pretext.
His first employment - and his first exposure to grownup office politics, co-workers' personal lives, and the world of work -- was as an office boy in a solicitor's office. The job lasted for five years, and the most valued advantage he gained from it was a deep appreciation for the English language. It ended abruptly when he was sacked for incompetence, having absent-mindedly left the weekly office wage package in the foyer of a client's office. By this time his curiosity about life in the outside world, and his plans for the future and a career were coming into focus. Influenced by Playboy magazine and his idol at the time, James Dean, he would to go to the USA and study acting. Unfortunately, the money he had carefully saved to pay for travel and fees was confiscated to reimburse the lost wages.
Mustapha got a job supervising the stock at the bar of a smart French hotel in Port of Spain, and began saving to go to London. There he believed he could express himself more freely than was possible in what he perceived as the narrow-minded, oppressive society he had grown up in. He’d be an Artist, a Writer, something creative. Meanwhile he and the barmen practiced creativity in scamming the accounts, and he was eventually sacked for lack of industry. Once again he escaped - this time from a threatened marriage. The political and emotional entanglements of the staff and guests at the hotel inspired his play Independence.
During periods of unemployment Mustapha became a voracious reader of European "classical” literature, and his curriculum - haphazard, rudderless, chaotic though it was - set him on his way toward the fulfillment of his dream. The style and power of Shakespeare's Julius Caesar probably determined the medium he would choose.
Whilst working at his next job as a tally clerk on the wharves, he noticed a book being passed around furtively among his fellow workers. When he enquired, he was told to put his name on a waiting list; it was From Superman to Man by J. A. Rogers, and it also had a profound influence on him - his first look at African-American history, and the context of his own experience on the wharves, when.he was accused of being an informer, and he lived and worked in constant fear of personal attack for weeks, until the real informer was discovered, and revealed to be a carpenter and part-time preacher, ironiclly named Righteous.
On the ship that finally bore him off to England, Mustapha shared a cabin with a part-African-part-Cherokee American sax player called Duce, who was on his way to Paris to link up with the jazz scene. Duce had been deported from Trinidad for drug offences and for walking naked down a street one night, blowing his sax.
To relieve the boredom of fourteen days at sea, confined to steerage - lower decks with two hundred males for company - he began writing a corny love letter to a girlfriend he had left behind. These letters developed into a daily journal of his thoughts, feelings, and experiences on the journey - the gambling, stealing, fights, and stowaways that constituted the stuff of life shipboard. He posted the large roll of curled pages to her on his arrival in England, and to this day, mourns its loss.
On board, Mustapha became friendly with a Dutch sailor who swapped his copy of Dylan Thomas's 'Under Milk Wood' for Mustapha's current issue of Playboy which, along with the expected erotica - in this case Japanese kimono prints - contained poems by Robert Graves. Under Milk Wood was gripping, but he also mourns the loss of the prints.
On his first morning in London, whilst staying with a friend who was running catalogue scams, he was awakened by an attractive, aristocratic Chelsea beatnik, an artist's model who had just come out of prison for bounced cheques. She gave him a brief insight into and taste for the Bohemian life in London. When his money ran out, so did she.
For a year Mustapha worked in England as a hospital porter, following the latest trends, films, theatre, art scenes, etc., then left for Rome with a fellow Trinidadian film director, who had heard there was work there for 'exotic' film extras, and sex-starved, rich women looking for gigolos.
As it turned out, the vita was not so dolce. His 'lack of sophisticated experience' scuppered his career as a gigolo. Mustapha and friend were soon broke, hungry, and demoralized. But they met a group of black American Actors, Musicians, and Artists, who showed them how to hustle the Roman scene, and Mustapha was hired as a curtain puller for a production of Shakespeare in Harlem - a jazzy look at black life by an iconic black American theatre figure, Langston Hughes.
Evenings, as he stood in the wings, mesmerised by the play, the idea was born that he would abandon the Hollywood idea, return to London, find an undemanding job, and settle down and write plays about West Indian life experiences.
One night in mid-dream, Mustapha panicked and opened the curtain at a time when the actors were not in position. The following night he closed it when they were meant to take a bow. He was sacked, and returned to London, where by now the spirit of the Sixties had fully arrived.
London was swinging, doors were opening or bypassed. The alternative culture whose concerns were Peace and Love had been born and was blooming. Racial intolerance and War were anathema. And the West Indian community was making its cultural and political presence felt.
Mustapha's own political consciousness was expanding, his anti-colonialism growing, he was hanging out on the fringes of the Black Power movement, observing and intrigued by the dramatic possibilities of the "consciousness-raising energy of conversations and confrontations," and felt that someone had to "capture those moments, record them, write about it, tell it like it is." And as his conception of himself as a mouthpiece of his culture grew, these words became his mantra.
He wrote three short plays set in Ladbroke Grove, reflecting the various political and social features of the West Indian community at the time, intending to show them only to his friends. But they landed in the hands of a theatre director who was looking for similar material. To Mustapha's astonishment they were produced, reviewed, even lauded. When asked to explain his success he said that all he wanted was "for people to experience the beauty and liberation of writing in my native dialect. That was the key that opened the door, I just walked in."
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