Caleb Azumah Nelson

Small Worlds

Remmi Ahmed

Since Mark Duggan’s death sparked protests across London everything has changed. Not with us, in our world, because we always understood what it might mean to occupy these bodies, to be these people. No, there has been a raising of public consciousness, a shift in perception so that now every instance of violence feels like spectacle. Not least because we're reminded of Mark Duggan several times a day, on TV, or plastered across the newspapers or during one of the escalating number of stop and searches on the streets, knowing this was the path Mark was forced down, until he was brought to a halt with one last hard stop, designed to engulf and subsume. There's fear amongst us; it could've been any number of us whose parents had to be informed of their child's demise by way of the news cycle. There's anger amongst us because a witness, watching the commotion from his ninth-floor flat, described the event as an execution. And while anger is a necessary emotion, it feels more frequently misdirected; this misdirection how the death we know in multitudes multiplies further, and much of this misdirection emerges from not having space, from feeling like this city is closing in, trying to magic us away, encouraging our disappearance.

'Auntie's shop is done out here, bro. What do you mean, "It's done"?" Done,' he says simply, as if summing up a football match. 'Rent raised. Doubled. Tripled. She didn't say any- thing.' He sighs. What was she even meant to say?" But,' taking a seat beside Ray, it's so sudden. I know.' Ray has seen this more than I have, but he doesn't need to explain. Over the past few years, we've both watched youth centres and hair shops and other cafes close. We all knew that this might happen. This phe- nomenon spreading like a virus, like contagion, that asks us to stop considering our people and community, and only think of value; value that can be rendered in words and numbers, can be exchanged with a signature. It asks us not to think of people but property. But what of the people? What of those, away from home, trying to build something here; what of their wants and needs? What of Uncle and his aviators and his Guinness, where will he make a home, where will he find a space? And Auntie Yaa, who looks after us all, who will look after her?

To go back home is to wrangle with who you are against who everyone thinks you should be. It must be a strange feeling, that this place my parents have longed for, a place they used to call home, could also rejet them in their current form, could ask them to be someone else.

So today, I tell her what I always do: I want a place for us. On the menu, food from home: waakye and red-red., fresh fish and meat stews. There would be a space for din- ing, anda space for more casual gathering, where people could grab and pick at food, eat happily with their hands if they wish. I would have long tables where families could gather, platters spread at intervals, or where friends could come together at the weekends, for no other reason than to talk, to talk about it all, to laugh and cry and everything between. I want a bar where people might drink and drink together, or enjoy their solitude. Art hanging on the walls, music always playing. Live music evenings and weekends, small reminders that it is a place where people could express themselves. I want to build a place where there's a sense of freedom which isn't attached to anything else, that doesn't come as part of a transaction. There would be no catch. Just a place for people to eat and drink, to plot and breathe. To be. A place we could call home. 

It's the last day of school. The air vibrates with something large and unknown, something which shimmers and shines, something which excites and terrifies. In our final assembly, a teacher had stood and insisted that this was not the end, but the beginning. That we had the rest of our lives ahead of us, that from this moment, anything was possible. Though we're young and often so sure we know what we want, sure we know ourselves, these moments are sobering. In the times we didn't know ourselves, we always had each other; when faced with the unknown, we could lean back into the familiar, knowing each other's hearts, knowing each other's intimacies. So, knowing how valuable this is, we all insist, once more, that we'll link up, that well keep in touch, that the only thing between us is love. After we've scribbled messages into yearbooks, after the frantic energy of not wanting to let go of each other begins to settle, Del and I find ourselves in our usual spot on the edge of the school fields. 

 There's more l want to know but as the laughter settles, I see it's not just joy Mum is holding but melancholy too. I don't push, instead coming round to where she stands, putting my arm around her. She leans into the hug, and we stay like this, mother and son, hold- ing on to our joy, our melancholy, our love.

 Auntie understood that anger was a necessary emotion but often it was misdirected; and its misdirection was how the death we knew in multitudes multiplied further, and much of this misdirection emerged from not having space. She held this brief court and sent them home with shea butter for their hair, meat pies for their hunger.

For her, for many of us, food is not just sustenance but memory, nostalgia; a way to quell longing, a way to build new foundations. Auntie sends stuff back home too, allowing people to ship pieces of themselves for their loved ones to hold.

We've known each other so long, I know when she hears a sequence or phrase which pleases, her features will soften, taken by something like wonder. We've known each other so long I don't know what name to give to this knowing.

Most of the Tupperware on the shelves contain meals Mum would've laboured over, something heavy and home-made, the sort of food which might fill the house with longing for a whole day, the sort which you might quickly devour, only to enter a strange stupor in which you can do nothing but nod and say how wonderful that meal was.

Del's lips make a brief home on my cheek, and we pull each other close. We give no goodbyes - we know death in its multitudes, and goodbye sounds like an end - instead, after our embrace, the soft pounding of fists accompanied by, in a bit, which is less a goodbye, more a promise to stay alive.

I gaze at my parents, and see that a world can be two people, occupying a space where they don't have to explain. Where they can feel beautiful. Where they might feel free.

Caleb’s writing is ethereal. The way he expresses such profound, intimate and personal experiences in the most unique and nostalgic way has you yearning for a past that is in no way your own. The struggle of both first-gen immigrant children, but also the parents’ struggles was so well portrayed, as well as the pre-gentrification London life that is becoming more and more rare. 

caleb azumah nelson se bez problému stává jedním z mých nejoblíbenějších autorů,,umělců.

mám v sobě tolik pocitů. píše tak kouzelně, poeticky a uvěřitelně. propojení textu s fotkou a především s hudbou je ještě silnější než v jeho první knize Open Water. caleb umí tak výstižně popsat tu nesnesitelnou lehkost bytí, samotu, lásku (naštvání) a krásu. každá věta, každé slovo má svůj smysl a to opakování jen prohlubuje význam celé knihy.

k jeho dílu se chci vracet navždy; tohle je umění.

,,,,I've only ever known myself in song, between notes, in that place where language won't suffice but the drums might, might speak for us, might speak for what is on our hearts, and in this moment, as the music gathers pace, looping round once more, passing frenzy, approaching ecstasy, all my dance moves are my father's.

eve 

caleb azumah nelson se bez problému stává jedním z mých nejoblíbenějších autorů,,umělců.

mám v sobě tolik pocitů. píše tak kouzelně, poeticky a uvěřitelně. propojení textu s fotkou a především s hudbou je ještě silnější než v jeho první knize Open Water. caleb umí tak výstižně popsat tu nesnesitelnou lehkost bytí, samotu, lásku (naštvání) a krásu. každá věta, každé slovo má svůj smysl a to opakování jen prohlubuje význam celé knihy.

k jeho dílu se chci vracet navždy; tohle je umění.

,,,,I've only ever known myself in song, between notes, in that place where language won't suffice but the drums might, might speak for us, might speak for what is on our hearts, and in this moment, as the music gathers pace, looping round once more, passing frenzy, approaching ecstasy, all my dance moves are my father's.

Small Worlds

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