Before George Floyd

Cedella  A small amount of aeroplane turbulence wakes me from my slumber. I feel a chill and pull a blanket over me. I take my father's copy of Jane Eyre from my bag, and begin to read the nineteenth century bildungsroman. I meet the characters, Mrs Reed and her children once more. I remember the tragic life of Helen Burns. I think of my Helen, who did not walk until she was sixteen months. I would not let her touch the floor. I would carry her everywhere, for fear she might get hurt. Perhaps I have been over-protective over the years. My Helen is quite unlike Helen Burns. My Helen is disgusted with humanity and foists her misery and contempt on me.  I close my book and then my eyes, to concoct a mix of fantasy and reality. I immerse myself in the undisputed beauty of nature, which temporarily suppresses my unhappiness, enabling me to escape my perpetual, unrelenting existence. I will soon return to unfulfilling, low paid drudgery. Squeezing myself onto an overcrowded Lo...

Helen, June 2005 I concede, ideals and attitudes are changing within the wider society of twenty-first century Britain —slower amongst some, quicker amongst others, but steadfast within my present place of work. Yet, many of us within this organisation, whether Asian or black, were born, or came to Britain in or around the time of Enoch Powell’s Rivers of Blood speech, and the Commonwealth Immigrants Acts. So, it is disheartening to see the aspirations and opportunities of others being quashed by people who have a similar history. I keep thinking of the sacked black Caribbean mother, whose objective was to keep her children alive. What are her family’s life chances now? For many of us, I feel the chances of future employment have diminished.  Why are black people employed in this organisation in the first place? I suspect the organisation has to be seen to be diverse, but the length of time in which people stay in post is less of a priority. There must be a name or phrase, exclusiv...

Through an office window, situated on the third floor, I see the hodgepodge of decaying, red-bricked, Victorian buildings; the roof tops covered in bird excrement, and their foundations melded with the effluence of a bygone time. On warm mornings, I can smell the detritus. Even in twenty-first century Britain, this is typical of the neglected areas of London, labelled by some, as ghettos. This place reminds me of Harlem in the nineteen seventies. I hear Harlem has changed now. I’ve been told it is quite gentrified. I suspect this part of London was considered to be deprived in the nineteen seventies too. But still, in this so-called Cool Britannia, there seems to be a great deal of poverty here.  I hear unsubstantiated rumours that the commercial properties here are leasehold, and that many of the tenancies are drawing to a close. If this is so, then I wonder what will happen to the nail bars, cafes, barbers and record shops. Rumour or not, I can't help noticing that the properties...

It's a warm day and as usual, I am running late for work. I hate the journey, jostling for a space on the train, not to sit, just to stand, to breathe. I try to catch an underground train at Liverpool Street station. I try every line that can take me to work, but there is no sign of a train. Eventually a man's voice on the tannoy states that there is a power surge on the lines. I cannot afford to take a taxi to work, but I have no choice.  When I get to work, there is news of a bomb blast on the London underground. It transpires that there is more than one. My mother works in the city. I call her. She is fine, but insists she must carry on working. As the day moves on, the nature of the incidents unfold. We crowd around a television in an office and watch. Various consecutive explosions, one of the newscasters says. It is still difficult to determine when the explosions began and if they will end. Most of London's public transport has ceased, deemed unsafe. The tele...