Two Poems by Akila Richards

To celebrate the publication of our summer special issue, Wasafiri 114: Windrush - Writing the Scandal, guest edited by Henghameh Saroukhani and John McLeod, we are pleased to present two Windrush-oriented poems by Akila Richards. In the poet's own words, 'Exhibit Z – Windrush Home' is 'Mr Louis’ invitation into a Gallery celebrating his life, with a twist at the end' and 'Sister Berta Reminiscing' 'is a fortifying account of her experience arriving and living in the UK, interlaced with the community’s courage, resistance, and joy'. Together, these poems offer glimmering portraits of individual lives within the Windrush generation. You can also listen to Akila read out 'Exhibit Z – Windrush Home' here.

Exhibit Z 

Windrush Home 

Mr Louis hunched in braces blue, drags up, driving on The Underground. 

Peers into the lit up gallery above. Serene ones hold crystals

filled with golden hues, liquid jewels.

Mr Louis numb from forty-two years onus, made illegal again bonus.

Steps into conditioned air, is greeted, the long-missed brother.

Is invited to the leather chair.

Mr Louis with burnt amber drink turns his face to a flickering screen.

‘Home’ glow black letters. Appears a nation of beaming faces in celebration.

Friends slap hands, mother laughs. Bright is the old country road.

Mr Louis is honoured with thunder ‘Yes dread! Come true!’ They enquire.

How many children? What he loves? What makes life worth living?

His favourite moment ever? Where to now?

Mr Louis snaps off his braces, grows tall, tells all. Six boys. Holding hands.

Purpose and our grace. Washing under the stars with crickets thrilling.

To walk above ground, before sunrise, into a new day.

Mr Louis steps high, jacket flies. Sings the long songs. Syncs to rhythm n’ rhyme.

The serene ones surround him, join in. Swing and ring Ska tunes.

They echo until Pressure Drop* late into the night bright.

Flashing red and blue. A skipping schoolboy noticed Mr Louis.

Lying up three gallery steps, still warm.

The ambulance exhaust stutters, as they pick him up.

*Borrowed from a popular ska song ‘Pressure Drop’ by Toots and the Maytals. 

Sister Berta Reminiscing

I was born dancing feet first breaking waters and kicking back the invading dread. It never stopped.  

Sista Berta they call me a hurricane rallying the chorus of my fore-parents my sisters and Ijahmans. England was so big then eh in biting pink and the lush green so bitter. I met Mary my strike back the empire friend. I did not understand her Irish lilt she not my Jamaican cadence. But we sang and hummed our dumplings and potatoes into hot stewing solidarity. My dark rum and her malt dissolved the coat of our tongues and cleaned up the whitewash. And with oiled knees we kicked down the dread and dented valleys into this land. We translated our h’iland from oileán and choppy Mummy Wata time in between. Yes I.  

Often I satta with my sisters, Ijahmans and people dem. InI deciphered the bias on limp hostile paper. We chewed chicken bones, splintered this world business sucked out our invisible between the lines of our pride in other spines. Back then, only when we faltered over stones dropped in our way, papers ill documented, ideed and branded us again, criminals, illegals and impaled us as taboos in their heart of darkness. Decades later they un-invite our Black hard labour, evict our British to Windrush. Passports deported from their tea dance masquerade. We ground dignity into our skin to house our future and pardner, remember pardner - our business. We over-qualified and still we never quite - not no – ever shifting. Gangs terrorised our magnificence on the streets and in legal chambers, police ‘stop and search’ our human kind and locked up, locked in, locked out, lock down and beat it - some died. Still do. And the schools cut our bright wins with razor classist tongues until Saturdays woke up early morning in our homes, schooling. We birthed enough and rushed through streets like a back-a-yard storm, funneled up our worthiness, brimstones flew, fire grew and we scorched off hate. Hmmh media came flashing then. Our faces looked good, light caressed our foreheads and lit our Christ like hearts in passion. Alla-we were once word-power chanting truth.  

Behind darkened windows we breathed, cleaned off and nourished our soul nation, to catch a dance between troubled nights and hazy mornings. We tripped the light. We toughened thighs and widened our hips till, we bust through Nottinghill. Carnival steel kicked the threat to back side. The world whistled and joined from all directions. Our joy was on stage with sky scraper speakers. Even wind Oya and Mummy Wata calmed to heavy honeyed dub waves, kissed by rainbow rays. Until next time. 

We blessed and grew our youth to kallaloo, erudite jewels with emerald wings. See us strip harsh strings off their backs, to not get caught as bait. Listen. Faith is a daughter working like a lawyer for justice and freedom. Rebel is a son the activist for commune unity, watering the seeds and the weeds. Truth is a father, knocking the last door, relentless, to clean the last colonial mess. Love is a mother until we no longer look like struggle. 

After all these years England seems small now, white chalk coastline crumbles, paths loose their way down hill and dig up bones from brown skinned folks. Hmmh. We only came back, from way-way back, our backs reaching from back- a-yard a bridge to now. You not learned the lessons yet eh?  

No matter let the spirit take me, raise me. Ijahman play the deck! Sisters and fore-peoples join me to kick it up ‘bone to soul’ new dust, see it levitate. A New You. Buoyant. And remember … we never drowned.