The sepia Shirley B Goldfingered timbred voice cannot rally loud enough to save Black Britain’s New Nation. Perhaps none of our cries are loud enough because none of our decibel levels truly matter anymore.
The tones in our voices do not matter because the air has spoken. After all, how can ghosts breathe with no air, as that American songbird sang?
‘Black’ + ‘Britain’ has proved to be an equation that the ghost herself has written. Therefore, a problem with no root at all. Can we answer an equation when we do not understand how it got there?
Like the legend of Mary Celeste, the ghost of Black Britain shall never be forgotten as she lingers in Brixton and Birmingham. Yet, as a fallacy, she will always remain because the people who are part of her forget that she is part of ever cobbled street in London, Liverpool and beyond.
Alas, documenting what the ghost of this forgotten slice of Britain has told me is simple: I am no longer part of her because I do not want to be. My desire to leave her is because she is a mirage, a reflection of a charlatan, because her story no longer exists.
Notes: I wrote this @ 4.15am. Apologies if it didn’t make sense
