I see Tyrone on the street,
six feet
he greets everyone he sees
“yo my g!
what are you telling me?”
untamed charcoal hair
untamed foreign speech.
I must’ve seen his friend last week
on ITV news
another black boy’s life blown up
with a bullet to his head
three more to his chest
-the ten officers reassert their power over the dead
do they not realise that their blood too is red?
I see Muhammad at the masjid,
his place of
peace,
ease
and rest.
How exactly can this ten year old be of any threat?
Thobe above his ankles,
a growing leaf below his chin,
he grins
“Sunnah”
he calls it.
He places his head on the ground
-a place where true love is found,
for the fifth time that day he is at rest,
he is at his best,
he finds an escape through his prayers,
he finds love in a life full of mess.
I see Renae with a buggy,
fresh faced,
slight frame,
sixteen at best.
Growing up she was told that her body
is a runway for men
who couldn’t care less,
she lets them feed on her flesh,
resulting in babies that she can’t bear to bring up,
babies that she gives up
and who grow up
finding comfort in the familiar tale of Tracy Beaker.
Kids who grow up
to push pretend buggies at five
those buggies come to life at fifteen
when she pushes this new life
out of hers
with all of her fragile might.
They see Fatima in a scarf,
they stop
they stare
they laugh
they stop stock still in shock
their mouths
drop.
“Poor thing”, they whisper
“atleast take it off once you leave the house
-once you leave your father’s oppressive regime”
“I mean, doesn’t it get hot?”
“what colour is your hair: black, blue or blonde?”
“you would look so much better without it!
perhaps you could tuck a bit out from the front?”
I see you all.
In me,
within me,
every time I take a peek
in the mirror
I see parts of you in my smile,
parts of you filling up my mind,
parts of you dominating my life.
You are all a part of the puzzle of me
and I let you proudly proclaim
a portion of my identity.
Click for the performed version!
Sagal Gabay 