A Parable in Three Parts 

Dedicated to the memories of Heather Imani, Ty, Andrea Enisouh and Stephen Thompson. 

Thanks to the Black Writers; Guild, shout out to Derek who very kindly extend this invitation. Thank you all for being here. And please note in advance that this talk is more anecdotal than academic. For those interested in the nuances of what I’m about to say, I’d be happy to share my PhD thesis with you after this presentation.

As writers – and I’m guessing that most of us here are – we’re taught to favour the perfect opening. A simple and effective starting place. And yet it’s fair to say that in truth, many stories have the benefit of multiple beginnings, or entry points. The same is true of the very reason we’re here. This art form created for us that we continue to build upon and recreate ourselves. So please forgive me for coming at this brief summary of Black British literature from multiple sources, some of which may contradict your own. We all have different pieces of the puzzle. I doubt that any one person can provide an entire picture.            

            There’s also a longstanding reluctance to title ourselves in this way - Black British – particularly in literature. This too came before us and has been discussed at length. Thankfully, in my opinion, that discussion has somewhat faded into the past. I’m in no doubt that will return, although I’d like to leapfrog it in some awkward way in order to favour what with have now. An embrace, a recognition and acceptance. I’m good with that, and I hope for these few minutes we can all be.

            It’s been a long time since I first came into this world of Black literature in Britain, arriving at a time midway between what we have now, and what came before. So of course, the landscape was vastly different. The huge gains and quest for recognition, definition and a sense of aesthetics that articulated the previous 80’s generation, had, I think it’s fair to say, quietened. Thatcher’s Britain laid waste to communities, unions, the working class, and did its level best to undermine the spirit that made up that many faceted tree of Black and British arts too. And yet vigorous seeds were still being planted. We had gathering places much like this. Greater London council funded initiatives like Centerprise, the Black Ink Collective, Bristol Writers, Out of Many Creative Arts Group, and the Peckham Publishing Project were formed. The independently funded First International Book Fair of Radical Black and Third World Books brought writers from the diaspora together in London. There were the publishers Bogle L’Overture and New Beacon books.  We had writers such as Linton Kwesi Johnson and Jackie Kay, Fred d’Augiar and Buchi Emecheta. We had David Dabydeen and Joan Riley, and so many luminaries it would take most of my time standing before you to name them all. I apologise for these omissions. Years later, Kadija Sesay and I would try to compile these names into one anthology, IC3. Even when we crammed as many writers in as we could, it was like trying to catch fireflies. As brightly as the contents of our jar shone, there were so many more in the world.  

           I made up my mind that I would step into this world and attempt to become a writer, knowing some names that came before me, oblivious to so many more. This was the mid-to late 90’s – I’ve seen a few younger writers very kindly talk about my work, and age me up by quite a bit, but let me reassure you – that was the time. It was an era of major controversy, one reason being the company that solidified my reason to step up and become an author – The X Press. They’d published Yardie a few years before and suddenly, when I had struggled to find books about my experience of being Black in Britain, a Black owned company was publishing an extended list. However you felt about those books, and trust me, people had feelings, The X Press ushered in a new wave of Black and British publishing, making substantive changes that are felt today. They were Black and fiercely independent. Repping Africa and the Caribbean, Dotun Adebayo and Steve Pope should not be forgotten or written out of history due to literary predilections.   

            There were other independent Black imprints before and after. Angela Royal Publishing, who introduced us to Leone Ross in 1996 with her novel, All the Blood is Red. Black Amber, who first published Alex Wheatle’s Brixton Rock in 1999, kickstarting his career. Authors published by majors while I was writing my first novel included Andrea Levy’s Every Light in the House Burnin’ and Never Far from Nowhere (Headline), Trever Hercules’ Labelled a Black Villian (4th Estate), Vanessa Walter’s Rude Girls (Pan), and award-winning Diran Adebayo, brother of Dotun, with Some Kind of Black (Virago). And of course, there was Caryl Phillips, who I encountered along the way, yet came to public attention mostly in the 1980’s. Other than those, the Black literary scene of the mid-nineties seemed sparse and lacking deserved attention.

ii

For me still, coming of age during the Hip Hop, Jungle and Garage scenes, I was drawn to an aesthetic that matched my own experiences. I credit X Press for making me believe writing was a worthwhile endeavour because I saw my London reflected in Victor Headly’s work. I’d never seen Harlesden mentioned in a novel, let alone a Black British book. Yet I travelled there most weekends to see my late grandmother Altina, and my mother and uncles came of age in that town. It’s where my mum and dad first met, and where the Black community of the 80’s and 90’s was iron strong, where Hawkeye Records gave the previous generation of Black Brits, those grown in the UK, a cultural soundtrack. When I read about Harlesden in the pages of Yardie I saw the community I recognised given space in fiction for the first time, even though I’d read avidly my whole life. It made me believe the streets I lived in were worthy of validation and at that time, that was such an important thing.

              Because I’d been raised in such a vibrant musical community I went in search of its literary equivalent. I lost many hours searching the classified pages of The Voice for publishing companies, which in a roundabout way is how I met Alex Wheatle, engaged in his own search. But it seemed no good. The companies I tracked down rejected me, or didn’t publish fiction, or publish at all. It got to the point where it felt like the scene I was looking for didn’t exist. While coming to the end of my novel, I still hadn’t found anything. One tiny, classified advert led me to Centerprise Literature Development Project in Dalston, almost a last hope. I phoned the number and my call was answered by Kadija George, their Black Literature Development coordinator, who sounded passionate and lively on the phone. This was everything I looked for. She invited me to come to the next literary event she ran at Centerprise. 

            Listen. I cannot express how excited I felt to sit and hear writer after writer express themselves on that small elevation of stage. In fact, I don’t even think there was a stage. It was probably something my young eyes imagined. I saw Adisa the poet performing, and I might have met Roger Robinson, who had long flowing locks in those days, though I may be conflating that with another event I did there. I was introduced to Catherine Johnson, and down the line when I was published, I had an event with Jacob Ross and Dotun, then a later one with Diran. I‘d found Black literature in the way Christopher Columbus discovered America. It was always there. In one phone call I’d gone from being an isolated writer to part of a community that cared and dialogued about writing, read avidly as I and revelled in the Blackness of others. I discovered what had been true of music was of literature too. There was an underground, a seam of talent unwitnessed by the mainstream, untapped yet vibrant, unrewarded yet alive. It was space where I could mostly be my uninhibited self, though I was usually the youngest around, if not the youngest published at least. There weren’t many people of my age range or experience in that space, so while I thrived from all that good energy, I continued my hunt for a scene driven by my peers.

            London was an interesting city in those days. Moulded by various rave scenes, nostalgia for by-gone boozy literary salons, and the newly US exported slam poetry scene, hundreds of literary nights were found all over the city. You could pretty much attend a different event every night of the week, and still not see them all. Though they were quite racially segregated at times, multicultural events existed as well – after all, this was the era of a New Labour government, in power from 1997-2010. Owing to these various factors, events run by Black British programmers thrived.

            For me at least, and I know for many others too, this live literary circuit was an unsung hero of Black British writing. Coming at a time when very few authors were being published by mainstream houses period, next to no Black women; and as for poets – well, you could forget about it – this scene did the heavy lifting not taking place in corporate board rooms and offices. In my first year as I published author, I realised that following the run of official promo for my debut novel, opportunities dwindled. Having Columbused this underground scene - yes! I’m staking a claim for Columbus to be used as a verb by people of the diaspora. To Columbus – a discovery of what is already there - I put myself forward to read at thousands of events over the years, everything from big festivals to the venues in pub and shop basements. 

In those days, important work was being put in by Apples and Snakes and Spread the Word, who gave me my first official reading at Brixton’s Eurolink. But there was also Jonzi D’s Lyrikal Fearta and Apricot Jam. Soul Food was a huge affair, taking over the Tabernacle on Sundays. Hosting bands, poets, authors and comedians, it was an absolute roadblock. Although poetry ran tings in these events, you’d usually find prose writers up there trying out new work, reading short stories and chapter excerpts. Patrick Neate’s Book Slam packed in more fiction and showcased international writers like David Simon, co-creator of The Wire. Likewise, John Paul O’Neil’s Farrago wasn’t Black run, but you were more than likely to find writers of colour on his stage. Kadija Sesay tirelessly curated live events and workshops for Black British writers all over world, while Kwame Dawes ran the Afro Poetry school, and Dorothea Smartt led Word Up! from the Women’s Café at Centerprise. Yes, there were politics and all the happenings associated with a thriving arts scene – I’m not going to rose tint it – but for the most part everyone just got on with making work, and making things happen. There were impromptu events all over the city, and it would become common to see writers experimenting with styles and new work that didn’t necessarily align with the literary projects we were known for. I read a lot of flash or micro fiction in these days. Roger Robinson published a whole collection of surrealist stories – Adventures in 3D – and read one, The Tree, at my second book launch, Society Within. It tore the place down.

At that same launch Marsha Ambrosius and Natalie Stewart performed their second ever live P.A. as Floetry. I remember the noise of appreciation that greeted their new sound. Alex Wheatle read the opening chapter of East of Acre Lane. There was 3+1 and Phenzwaan, Dorothea Smartt, Patience Agbabi, Zena Edwards and El Crises – who I used to call El Nino, cos he would always blow the place up - and hundreds of other poets. It was a mix and match of influences, and while we didn’t particularly sit down and have meetings to define what we were doing, instinctively from us all, a particular thing was emerging. A kind of aesthetic. Which was strange because nobody sounded like anyone else, while at the same time, everyone was influenced by a similar pool of art they liked and didn’t. It was exciting, fun. Writers communicated in small groups and large, swapped ideas, but mostly dialogued about we were feeling. There was a sense that what was being done was not for outside approval – not disdainful of it, it’s safe to say everyone wanted that eventually – just immersed in the sheer intricacies of expressing ourselves through work. 

I was talking to the music producer Fusion not so long ago and told him that I didn’t truly appreciate what we were doing at the time. Which is true of us all to some degree, because no one was documenting, or curating in any dogged way, we were just doing. In a way I’m saying these things now because I hope that speaking it into being will keep those actions of not so long ago alive, and some of you who were there or heard about it will remember too, and add in the many, many things I’ve forgotten. Also, I suppose, I’m hoping that wave of energy, something that felt like forever but in reality only lasted 3, maybe 5 years max, might carry over into this new era, what we have now. Because in my opinion, when the trends shifted and mainstream publishing largely left Black British writing alone, it was our ability to hone work at live events, dialogue with fellow artists, and give each other a strength of belief – that kept our literature afloat for decades to follow.  

iii

I’m guessing we all know what happened next, right? Let me go over it briefly in case some don’t. Despite initiatives like the SAGA and Caine Prizes, independent publishers breaking new writing, the flourishing live lit scene and the high-profile publicity and sales of Zadie Smith’s debut, mainstream publishing seemed to struggle with the prospect of real inclusion.  On the surface, things looked good. Myself and Kadija George edited IC3, the Penguin Book of Black British Literature, the largest collection of Black British writers published in one volume to date. Following that Kadija edited Write Black, Write British in 2001, with a corresponding writer’s conference taking place at the Barbican that same year. Black women writers, perhaps in the wake of Zadie Smith’s huge success, began to find more publishing opportunities. Most prominent were Diana Evans, Helen Oyeyemi, who both published debut novels in 2005, and Chimanda Ngozi Adiche whose short story won the Caine Prize in 2002. Still, there were only a couple of Black agents who I knew, and precious few editors. Those who existed rarely worked in mainstream houses.  

Looking back on those days, it seemed as though what had happened to women writers in the 90’s started happening to men. Many responded pretty much like Grime artists and went underground. Some writers gave up, true, but to be honest, most went back the blank page and began doing the work with even greater passion and vigour. Individually, Black British writers seemed to take stock - of themselves, their influences, what they produced. Possibility had been awakened, self-belief never died. There were self-run initiatives like Malika’s Poetry Kitchen, keeping the lights on for Black British poets since 2001. Sable LitMag debuted. Authors ran workshops in schools, libraries and jails up and down the country, formed collectives, published new writers in any form they could. We got our hands dirty and did the work. I personally ran and co-ran at least three forms of initiatives during that period, from fiction classes at Shepherds Bush Library (in the building that’s now the Bush Theatre), to the Tell Tales short story project with Nii Ayikwei Parkes, and the Almasi League fiction and drama workshops in Newham. Bernardine Evaristo spearheaded 2005’s Free Verse report, exploring why so few Black and Asian poets were published by mainstream British poetry imprints. Between us, we challenged and probed and took stock. We refuted publishing’s reluctance to include us, because we believed in our ability to create art. 

Even so, by 2011 the optimism in the mainstream publishing industry that greeted the new millennium; a vibrant new guard of highly visible writers, not just in fiction, but also theatre - a literary star in the form of Zadie Smith, and a stunning, vibrant live performance scene – began to fade. Led by writers of colour, reports were commissioned and published to substantiate these claims. The Ethnic Diversity in Publishing report of 2006, and Writing the Future report launched at London Book Fair in April 2015, proving that Black British writers and other ethnic minority writers, were still, apart from notable exceptions, being marginalised. And yet 2016 saw the launch of the Bare Lit Festival, founded by Samantha Asamadu, Henna Zamurd-Butt and Mend Mariwany. Many of you would have been there, and again, the opportunity this gave for writers to meet each other, dialogue, and share aesthetics hadn’t taken place for this generation of writers ever, if at all.   

That year also saw the publication of The Good Immigrant, edited by Nikesh Shukla, a former Tell Tales author, and the co-founding of the Jhalak prize by Shukla and Sunny Singh – two very important events in the history of Black British literature and British Literature as a whole. While in the same year, independent publisher Crystal Mahey-Morgan wrote an article for The Bookseller to claim she published the only Black British debut male novelist that year; Robyn Travis’s 2015 Mama Can’t Raise No Man. An estimated 1000 debuts were published by UK imprints. No one publically refuted her claim. Since then, Morgan and her husband Jason have added a talent agency to their publishing arm, OWN IT! securing deals for a great many of their clients, including myself.       

            It’s these broad shoulders each one of us stands on. Those people in turn stand on the shoulders of that previous generation, the Emechta’s and Riley’s, the Selvon’s and Salkey’s, Markham’s and Brathwaite’s, La Rose’s, Huntley’s and Gilroy’s. This must never be forgotten. We are a people who honour those who came before us, ancestral or otherwise. Things have changed a great deal since my early days. As we reminisced about publishing IC3, I asked Kadija what she felt had changed most between then and now. She said, and I’ll paraphrase; ‘Up to 2015, I knew all the Black writers … And then afterwards, someone would be published, and I wouldn’t know who they were.’ 

            I’m not going to try and list you all for precisely that reason. And because it would be like trying to teach your Grandmother how to kiss teeth. Many of you are here now, and you all know who you are. I hope it’s enough to know that you not only make your ancestors proud, you make the living proud too. I’ve been honoured enough to have the privilege of telling fellow writers this on many occasions. We know how hard you’ve fought. The struggles, the lonely days and nights, the sacrifices. We know how much it means to you. 

            In a recent interview, Linton Kwesi Johnson said of his own era, ‘There was the idea of trying to forge your own aesthetics, rather than looking for approval from the gatekeepers of literary art.’ He goes on to speak on the importance of finding a language that reflects our everyday lives. Linton was a major influence on my own work, and so I’ve long held the same position. There’s never been a doubt in my mind that we had an ability to terraform the landscape, and we would find ourselves in positions hard fought for by those before us. Going beyond the dreams they may have had for themselves, in their times. The most important thing for me has always been, ‘when we get there, what will we do with it?’ These times of success and abundance are amazing and welcomed, but if I had the gift of one granted wish, if would be that we remember our art. 

So, I implore you all. I’m not sure everyone will hear me, but I’ll try. Do not forget aesthetic. Keep art in mind. Commercial publishing deals, awards and the allure of fame are all part of the world we inhabit, but these simply exist to aid the individual. I would argue that they do very little for the collective, or to promote long-lasting change. What’s more, they can be taken away. Many of us have seen it before. Change happens on the ground, at the roots of us. The one thing that will sustain us is our dedication to an aesthetic that exists like air, unseen but vital. Despite funding, despite mainstream awards or validation, only this will provide us with a means of communicating to the world which is self-sustaining. On our own terms. Class based omissions marginalise our own artists within the marginal. Cliques and nepotist judging panels only benefit the few. Creating art that panders to an outside view of who we are brings singular, short-term rewards, but it will never restructure an industry. The next generation of artists are watching. Do we want them to see us emulate the wider society around us, a world of PPE scandals, a morally and racially violent Royal family and a resignment honours list that rewards the most uncaring? A focus on craft and the continuous exploration of our expression is the key to sustaining our art beyond a moment, or even an era. The act of writing is so much more important than the job, or the career of being an author. Not just to yourself, but for everyone to follow.  

            People who know me may have heard this story before or seen it in print. If so, please bear with me. In 2016 I visited the Australian Film and Television school. It was a visit to discuss inclusion and what they could learn from the UK, who they imagined were light years ahead. And yet I came to a city where the Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Programme had, in consultation with the Indigenous community, developed 10 Indigenous writer/directors in visual storytelling going back to 1993. Six had been supported in making short films. From 2001/2 they funded documentaries and drama, and in 2006/7, as the Indigenous department, the made substantial investments in film and TV drama. Key to this project was placing Indigenous creatives in full control. The only funding awarded was given to productions that had an Indigenous creator, director, and writer. After that, they were left alone to create what they wanted. When I eventually spoke on the panel it was only to say how much I believed we could learn from them. 

What we should strive for more than money and attention, is the freedom to express ourselves in various forms, thus creating our aesthetic voice. I believe that voice is the key to our creative autonomy, our saying what we really mean. Not worrying what people may think of us as a race or moulding ourselves to be marketable to others. Part of this may involve remembering how you Columbassed this art form, much as I did previously, and the generation before us – an artistic response Caryl Phillips calls Passing On, and which I believe truly means Sankofa. There’s nothing wrong with bearing witness to the fact that new territory came from learning of the past. Because the most vital thing we can do is enable that the generation after moves forwards, in the manner that we have been enabled, for so long.