HOMEWARD BOUND

So it is over.

I sit on the plane heading home

Tearful as we take off

Not sure why

Relief I guess

Relief that this is over

Eager to wash off the stench of racism

Which sticks to my clothes

My skin my hair

There is contempt

A white contempt in the air

In SA that I have not exepreinced for a long time

It has taken its toil

Leaving is a relief

Saying goodbye is difficult

Leaving friends behind

Who live with this 

And do not have a place of retreat

Or sanctity.

Confusion

It is a place I love and a place I hate

A place of beauty and a place of ugly

A play of joy and a place of great pain

A place stuck in the past but crying out for a future

A place of fire, of passion, of marching

Of young voices demanding, demanding

That their elders listen

A place where guilt seeps from white pores

But where true sacrifices are not made

Futile gestures

And patching up

But no real change

No real answers

I do not have the knowledge to break down all I have seen,

I can only explain how I feel,

I cannot theorise or intellectualise

All I can do is explain how I feel,

I cannot throw out names

Or break down political policies

All I can do is explain how I feel,

And even then sometimes words are not enough

Words cannot express

The hurt and pain

And poverty

It cannot explain the grown black men I have seen searching in bins on my early morning runs,

Searching for anything of us,

It cannot explain away the black bodies lying in grass,

momentarily at peace but not peaceful

Sleeping but not safe

It cannot explain away the old black woman 

so embarrassingly grateful for a few Rand

I place into her wrinkled hand,

It cannot explain the school children that walk miles to school everyday

It cannot explain away

The black labour force poorly paid

But grateful for work

It cannot explain away the filthy be-draggled young black boys

Hands always outstretched,

It cannot explain

The thieving behaviour of the ruling class

It cannot explain away how apartheid stooped

But racism and white privilege did not.

HEADING HOME

We head home

Battered and bruised

But we head home

Airport foolishness

He is trying hard to look smoldering

Me cracking up

We are different

I cannot explain how yet,

But we are different

Somehow this relationship has made it through,

The scrutiny, the racial divide

The apartheid legacy

I have been angry, vulnerable, shed tears,

Battled nervousness and fears

Met new life long friends

Connected with old ones.

Witnessed black poverty

Witnessed white privilege

Tackled race issues like a lioness.

Roared, punched words

Vomited words,

Sucked words in like a vicious tornado

Then spat them out again

Dealt with more white bullshit

That I have had to deal with in years!

Learnt patience, bowlfuls of patience,

Stepped foot on the Motherland

Welcomed with open minds

Gave of myself until there was nothing left to give

Put my shit on the stage and survived

English soil awaits me

Home but not home

The only home I know

Zululand I salute you

It is a new beginning

A new awakening

Life goes on….

THANK THE LORD IT IS OVER!

I made it,

Shit I made it.

This piece we created was brutal, honest revealing,

We took to the stage and gave no quarter

A white South African male

And Black British Female

Tonight we let rip,

No bars held,

Questions/accusations with missile precision 

flew across the stage,

The frustration was released

The anger was released

The tears I cried the night before had dried

And in their place was fire.

I left my soul on that stage,

I left my pain on that stage,

I left my past on that stage,

Neither of us knew where this would go,

Neither of us knew that this would almost tear us apart

Neither of us knew we would have to give 

much more of ourselves than we expected.

It’s been a long time since I have held court 

with white people in this way.

I stopped blacksplanning years ago

Patience has never been a virtue of mine,

I found patience in South Africa

But a toil has been taken,

I will need to wash this process away

Wash away the white privilege

Wash way the white naivety, 

the white guilt

white shame

I carry enough of my own bullshit

I will not carry anymore than I need too.

I will return home with only the luggage 

I bought along

Weighing me down

No excess

I will hold onto the black strength I have seen

I will hold onto the black pride I have seen

I will hold onto the black warmth, the black welcome,

First trip to the motherland

First trip home

it's been emotional

You cannot give so much of yourself 

to your art

without feeling exposed and vulnerable

without asking yourself if it was worth it

without questioning your own sanity

Exhausted and drained

I head back home

To the only real home I know

British soil awaits…..

No better, just different

Where I will begin to piece myself back together again

One poem at a time.

SHIT GOT DEEP TONIGHT!

Today for one of the first time ever I cried on stage.

Shit got deep out there. Broke down and bawled like a baby.

Why?  I can’t even tell you the reason why right now. 

All I know this process has been challenging, difficult, revealing, tiring, draining, emotional and raw.

Police violence is no joke, even years after the fact.

I still carry the scars even if I don’t admit it to myself.

Dealing with race issues day in and day out for almost 3 weeks, as I have been here in South Africa has taken its toil. Working with a white South African going head to head day in and day out, has obviously been eating at me more than I thought. The racial injustices and disparities I have witnessed have obviously impacted me more than I thought.

Sometimes there are no words only feelings. I do not cry easy but today the tears fell.

Today was the third performance of I to 1 with Iain Ewok Robinson, tomorrow I will be the last and we will have our first Q & A after the performance.

That should be a very interesting exercise.

I am filled with trepidation and nervousness, this is art, art at it’s most raw and revealing.

This is what being an artist is about the self doubt, the questions, the moments of madness and the moments of clarity. 

I am not sure where on the spectrum I am right now!

Back in London today was the 7th annual United Family and Friends Campaign march again deaths in police custody, which I have been attending for years. I am aware that unlike many of the grieving families who attend. I am one of the lucky ones, I am one of the lucky ones who almost died in police custody, but who survived. I am one of the lucky ones who now has a platform to speak, expose racism and bring the horrific treatment, black people face at the hands of police to light. 

This process was never going to be easy, but dealing with race in the land of Apartheid, opposite a white South African, without my usual support network was always going to take this sh*t to different level and it did. 

One more show to go.....

Who knows what will happen on the stage tomorrow.....

RETURN VISIT TO CLAIRWOOD

Tuesday I went back to Clairwood Secondary School, a school I visited the first week I was here with Poetry Africa.

I had an amazing time.The teacher Simi who invited me back is so sweet and dedicated and I have nothing but admiration for her and teachers like her who work so hard to teach and inspire and even mother the children they work with.

The first class of the day was just finishing when I arrived so I performed a quick 5 min set for them. I performed Poetry Addict, and the Granny scene from RAISING LAZARUS. I encouraged them to speak to their relatives and collect stories, as their stories were important, interesting and the truth.The first class had a couple of girls who had seen me previously and I got lovely hugs and compliments from them. I tell you working with kids pulls on my heartstrings constantly.

The second class I had for an hour. I performed poems and answered questions.

I performed, Poetry Addict, Tube Rage, Granny, Rise Dark Girls and Does My Anger Scare You.

There was a question about what England was really like and I was honest, honest about the racism, honest about the opportuniteis, honest about the fact that kids get free bus passes and do not have to walk to school like they do. I talked about police brutality and my experience of it.

When I performed Rise Dark Girls Rise, I got all the girls up and to the front of class, and had them singing the chorus, it was a lovely moment.

It was an inspired morning, you know the schools bring you in to inspire, but it’s the opposite… the pupils end up inspiring you.

I invited the pupils to perform as well and two boy's kindly obliged.The first boy that performed was a mixed raced boy whose poems touched on that. 

The second boy was a tall black boy who looked down at the floor the whole time but who had the most commanding deep voice, His poems dealt with overcoming difficulties. Later on I found out he is usually very shy, sits at the front of the class and has nothing to say!

I gave them both one of my poetry books to say thank you for being brave enough to perform.

Another boy came up to me and begged for a book, said he was too shy to perform could he please have a book…. how could I say no.

The last two weeks have been a challenge, all the debate and discussion and arguing, with Iain Ewok Robinson, the white artist I am working on the play with, at times I have been drained and frustrated, but Tuesday morning revitalised and reenergised me and reminded me of the importance of the work I am doing.

When you talk to a teacher who is struggling to keep pupils in school, who has pupils so poor they cannot afford the bus fare, and kids leaving school with no education but leaving with two babies. When the resources you have are so limited that many of your pupils will not leave school able to read or write.

                                            Simi and I, this teacher is amazing, warm and inspiring.

When you have pupils who are forced to be educated in a language that is not their first language, so they will always be behind. That is inspiring, that is humbling, that is motivating.