Scene on a train: a short play

On Platform Two of Seven Sisters overground station. It’s seven twenty-two on a crisp December night. It’s dark and cold and there’s a buzz in the air. Christmas is but days away and, what with the bleak economic outlook and the exertions of the riots, it seems everyone is looking forward to a well-deserved break. People are in good spirits but there’s a hint of edginess in the air.

The platform is crowded. The 19.14 to Enfield Town is eight minutes late. People are checking their phones and watches with increasing frustration. They’re speaking into mobiles loudly and berating the unreliable service. Some of them have come from West End, having taken the Victoria line from Oxford Circus to Seven Sisters. Many of them are black, many of them are young.


Finally, the train pulls in to Seven Sisters, ten minutes late. It’s already full and those waiting to board are laden with shopping bags, making the usual jostle for position fiercer. When the doors eventually open, the usual etiquette is done away with. Those wanting to get off the train are swamped by those desperate to get on as everyone crowds in in a mad rush for seats.


People deposit themselves wherever they find space. Passengers shuffle in their seats to make way for those who are determined to sit down despite the overflow of people and bags. Some place their goods in the overhead luggage racks; others place them on the floor or even on the seat beside them.


In the four seats nearest to the door in the first carriage is a white woman in her mid-thirties, who is sitting against the window facing the direction in which the train is travelling. Resting against her arm is her son, who is about eight or ten years old. He is asleep. Opposite her is an older white woman, in her late sixties or early seventies. Her head is deep in an Evening Standard, although she is aware of the commotion going on around her and the scramble for seats. Her bags are placed on the seat beside her. She makes no attempt to move them to make way for someone to sit down (and feigns blissful ignorance with the aid of her paper).


An old white man in his late seventies gets on the train at Bruce Grove. He’s stooped but nimble on his feet. He’s wearing a grey flat cap and a fur-lined, camel coat. He shuffles into the carriage and hunts for a seat. All eyes are on the old woman with her bags on the only free seat.

This time, she reluctantly concedes and moves her shopping bags on to the floor in order to let the old man sit down.

Old man: Thank you. Thank you, dear, that’s very kind of you.

He takes a seat as the train starts to move off. There’s a brief silence. Rubbing his gloved hands…

Oooo, it’s cold today, innit. Freezing! Still, not as bad as last year. Last year was terrible. This year’s been quite good.

The old woman sitting next to him briefly averts her gaze from her paper and fakes a smile while the mother sitting opposite produces a genuine grin.

Mother: You wouldn’t think that Christmas was only a couple of days away.

Old man: Oo, Christmas. Doesn’t feel like does it. I remember when I was a kid it would be guaranteed snow. Now everything’s changed. You can’t tell whether you’re coming or going.

The mother smiles and there is a brief moment of silence as the train pulls out of Bruce Grove and Tottenham High Street comes into view as the train passes through it.

Old man: It’s terrible. I used to go to that post office in Bruce Grove before they burnt it down. Now I have to go all the way up to the post office at the Sainsbury’s in Edmonton. It takes me ages. Do you know the one?

Mother: No, I don’t.

Old man: The one by the big Sainsbury’s. I have to take the bus or get the train up cos I could never walk there. It’s too far to get to by foot. I used to like walking to the old post office in Bruce Grove. It was a nice bit of exercise, you know. Now, I don’t really get out much.

Silence.

There was a lovely woman who used to work at the Post Office in Bruce Grove. A little Indian lady. Do you know her?

Mother: No, I’ve never been there.

Old man: I wonder what happened to her? She was lovely. Really good at her job. I haven’t seen her since. I thought they might have moved her up to Edmonton but I haven’t seen her there. She’s the kind of person I feel sorry for. She didn’t deserve to lose her job cos some no-good kids decided to burn down her place of business.

All eyes shift towards the old man. The tension is palpable. Lowering her paper…

Old woman: That’s just an excuse. They would have closed them down anyway. The government was planning to shut down most of the Post Offices around here. The rioters did them a favour. Gave them a get-out clause.

Old man: Is it really?

Old woman: Yes it is. The government don’t care one bit about the likes of you and me. They were going to put you out of your post office regardless.

Old man: You’re right, you’re certainly right. But that’s no excuse for them burning down all those buildings.

Old woman: It wasn’t all of them. Some of them are good kids but the media tarred everyone with the same brush. None of the kids where I live were involved.

Old man: Fair point, fair point.

Hastily changing the subject…

Mother: Are you doing anything nice for Christmas?

Old man: Nah. My daughter lives in Essex and she’s got her kids to think about. She’s divorced, see, so she’s got her hands full. I’ve got a son too but he’s taken his family off on holiday. Gone off to the Caribbean for some winter sun, Gambia, or somewhere, he says, so he’s doing better than we are. It’s all about the kiddies anyhow. Got any plans for the little lad?

Mother: Oh, he’s spoilt enough. Nothing special. But he’ll know it’s Christmas.

Old man: That’s right, he deserves to be spoilt, don’tcha lad?

He ruffles the sleeping boy’s shoulder playfully, rouses the child but doesn’t wake him. The mother smiles.

When my kids were little ‘uns we used to really treat them at this time of year, me and the wife. We never had much but we made sure that they knew it was Christmas. We did our best.

Mother: I’m sure you did.

The train stops at White Hart Lane.

Old man: I’ve lived here going on fifty years. Used to take my boy to watch the football every Saturday when there were home games. It was safe as houses then. So much’s changed but I wouldn’t live anywhere else. This is England, warts and all.

The train passes behind a house with a huge St. George’s flag billowing in its garden. They all look at it.

Old woman: In all its ugliness and its glory.

Small acts of kindness

I’ve been back in London less than twenty-four hours and I’m heartened to have borne witness to small acts of kindness that exemplify that, in north London, at least, we really are all in it together. Whether or not we’re part of the Big Society as expressed by the prime minister is another story but we’re certainly part of society as it exists for us in our local communities.

It’s been interesting to compare today with this time last year. The scenes that I recorded in my diary last winter were of a Dickensian gloom, a very individual despair. Times are harder than they were twelve months ago yet spirits are definitely higher. There’s been an almost imperceptible sea-change that has not gone unnoticed.

As my friend and mentor, Natalie, observed, we’re currently on a spectrum of extreme intolerance and small acts of kindness. At the opposite end, we, and millions around the world, see what transpired on a tram in south west London and a similar event on a bus further east. Some people no longer feel the need to conceal what they’re thinking when it comes to race and pointing the perceived finger of blame at people of colour and immigrants, whether they were, in fact, born British or whether they were newly arrived last week. At the other end, it is a pleasure to watch a stranger help a blind man board a busy Victoria line tube train. Not only did the sighted man discretely assist the blind man, but he also stood chatting to him for the length of his journey as if they were old friends. I only realised that they had just met when the sighted man helped ‘his friend’ off the train when he reached his stop and steered him in the right direction. It was at this point that the blind man thanked him for keeping him company and shook his hand saying, ‘Nice to meet you.’ Hardly Miracle on 34th Street but notable, nonetheless.

The following day, another incident occurred that restored my faith in Londoners. A man held a bus for me, a bus that I was certain to miss had he not intervened by standing half in and half out of the door as insurance while asking the driver to wait as I ran. It’s been a long time since that has happened since everyone is in a perennial rush these days, Christmas notwithstanding. But this gentleman didn’t stop there.

As we both ascended the stairs to the top deck of the overcrowded bus, we – and everyone else – noticed the shadowy, hunched figure of a young male stood on the stairway. He wore a dark hoodie and loose, cotton trousers and his face was covered by his hands, which were small and gloved. He was clearly distressed though silently so. We all ignored him, including myself. When the bus reached its terminus, everyone passed this figure on the way down, just as we had done on the way up and no one said anything.

It was at this point that the man who stopped the bus for me put his arm around this enigma, who turned out to be a young boy, no more than fourteen, and asked him, ‘Are you alright, brother?’ The boy looked up at the stranger, perhaps fifteen years older than himself, and said, ‘I’m alright, thank you.’ He clearly wasn’t but he looked grateful that someone had taken the time to ask. At a time when young people are falling prey to all kinds of temptations and tragic fates, sometimes all it takes is a small show of interest to reassure them that someone cares. I felt quietly rebuked.

These were the main episodes that struck me but by no means the only ones, including the young mother in a store in a notoriously deprived area who informed me that my bag was torn and offered me a carrier by way of substitute lest I fall victim to a thief. A small thing but then in our twenty-four hour, consumerist society every little helps, including small acts of involuntary kindness.

Sunday praise: Giving thanks for Amiri Baraka

Amiri Baraka and Saul Williams

In yet more evidence of God fulfilling dreams that you didn’t even know you had, last night saw the realisation of a latent desire to be in the company of great men who have contributed significantly to our world and our lives today. 

Last night I had the privilege to spend time with legendary poet, playwright and activist, Amiri Baraka formerly known as LeRoi Jones. 

I was honoured to be able to see Baraka perform with legend-in-the-making Saul Williams at the Black Power of Speech event at KAAI Theater as part of the brilliant Spoken World Festival. I even dared to hope that I may be able to get my book signed, which would have been good enough. Watching Baraka, age 77, interacting with Williams, 39, was a lesson in contemporary black history and intergenerational dialogue and taught us all just how much we can learn from our elders and wisers. 

To be able to sit down with the great man over a beer (his) and in the collected good company of old friends and a new one was an education and a privilege. Baraka spoke to us about his life and times and expanded on some of the topics he’d raised in his performance and during his conversation with Williams and Flemish journalist, Frank Albers.

He spoke about how he was kicked out of the US Air Force and thrown in prison for one of his poems; about how he and African-Americans in the civil rights era looked up to African leaders back in the day but now there’s no one left to look up to; and about how African-Americans need to learn to be more sophisticated in their critiques of the first black president (although he's not feeling Tavis Smiley and Cornel West at all!). 

He told us how, in the Sixties, he empowered his New York community by sending out buses loaded with books, art and music to make culture accessible and engender pride in culture; his experiences of speaking his truth around the world and performing his poetry to diverse and, on rare occasions, hostile audiences; and his run-ins with the establishment even to this day.It was a revelation and a pleasure and we talked long in to the night, eventually leaving the theatre at just after one in the morning. The show officially finished at ten forty-five. 

I’m often asked why I don’t go into politics given that the political interests me. My reply is always that I’d like to contribute to changing the world and engaging in the political discourse in ways that are more natural to me. Last night, Baraka and Williams reinforced for me that my way is through words, written and spoken. Not that I was in any doubt but they served as a timely and powerful reminder. The event also reminded me - us - that living in Brussels has its benefits. The opportunity to get close to renowned international artists is definitely one of its lesser known advantages.

I thank God for the opportunity to engage in conversation with someone who has lived a life and did something with potent it and I pray that I take from this encounter the lesson I was meant to take. I pray that there are many more opportunities to learn from the wisdom of elders.

Read Somebody Blew Up America, the poem that got Baraka fired from his Poet Laureate position in New Jersey after 9/11.

Africa rising: The hopeful continent

From this week's Economist:

THE shops are stacked six feet high with goods, the streets outside are jammed with customers and salespeople are sweating profusely under the onslaught. But this is not a high street during the Christmas-shopping season in the rich world. It is the Onitsha market in southern Nigeria, every day of the year. Many call it the world’s biggest. Up to 3m people go there daily to buy rice and soap, computers and construction equipment. It is a hub for traders from the Gulf of Guinea, a region blighted by corruption, piracy, poverty and disease but also home to millions of highly motivated entrepreneurs and increasingly prosperous consumers.

Over the past decade six of the world’s ten fastest-growing countries were African. In eight of the past ten years, Africa has grown faster than East Asia, including Japan. Even allowing for the knock-on effect of the northern hemisphere’s slowdown, the IMF expects Africa to grow by 6% this year and nearly 6% in 2012, about the same as Asia.

The commodities boom is partly responsible. In 2000-08 around a quarter of Africa’s growth came from higher revenues from natural resources. Favourable demography is another cause. With fertility rates crashing in Asia and Latin America, half of the increase in population over the next 40 years will be in Africa. But the growth also has a lot to do with the manufacturing and service economies that African countries are beginning to develop. The big question is whether Africa can keep that up if demand for commodities drops.

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