“Here.” Oliver pushes his plate toward her. Offers her his fork.
She takes out her own fork and stands next to him. “Wait, it’s you. From the bookshop. White boy who knows his Langston Hughes.”
“And now my Claude McKay, thanks to you.”
Maud sits next to Oliver. They eat side by side. She’s no doubt had a long night at some shebeen or another. The Blitz isn’t for her. The Brixton shebeens are where she finds her necessary doses of freedom and abandon. “Wait, so what are you doing here?” She speaks with a mouth full of stew.
“He is Oliver. Bram’s friend from Boston.” Lily pronouncesfriendwith just the right amount of emphasis. Maud immediately understands he’s more. “He’ll be staying with us for a little while.”
I smile. My heart feels full. My mind has one question. How long can thislittle whilelast? Forever, I hope.
Nothing less than forever will do.
Oliver. London. 2025.
Nothing could prepare me for the feeling of emerging out of the Brixton Tube station with Bram by my side. We’re greeted by bikes for rent, a bus advertisingThe Phantom of the Opera, Sainsbury’s, old red telephone boxes that no one uses anymore. Street vendors selling souvenirs. And of course, CCTV cameras. I can feel them spying on me. Almost a million cameras in this one city alone. Watching me. Watching Bram. Keeping digital eyes on these crowds of busy people rushing to their destinations. One camera for every ten people in London, apparently. Every Londoner is captured seventy times a day. I anxiously try to do the math in my head. If I only stay in London for a few hours, that’s still at least a dozen opportunities for me to be caught.
“Bram. I’m scared. Someone who has access to all this CCTV footage must be friends with—”
“Wow!” Bram says, pointing to the striking mural of Brixton boy David Bowie. “Let’s read the messages.”
I take in a deep, calming breath as Bram and I take in all the messages written from those Bowie moved through sound and vision.
I miss you, David.
Thank you, Bowie.
Shine bright, Starman.
We walk to Railton Road. I don’t know which punches me in the gut harder, the things that have changed or the things that haven’t. There’s a gated community where a school used to be. The squats aren’t squats anymore. They’re refurbished homes. They probably go for a million pounds. Gentrification is everywhere.To LetandFor Salesigns pepper the buildings. Everything has its price. Thatcher’s legacy.
The record shops are all gone, lost to new technology, rising rents, and the grim reality that this isn’t the community it once was. Reggaeheads used to hang out outside the record shops, gathering materials for their sound systems, shebeens, and blues dances. There are no rebel dykes anywhere. No women’s centers. No Race Today Collective. No anarchist news service. The energy of the place is more comfort than anarchy. There are odes to the past everywhere. The Black Cultural Archives. A poster of Olive Morris outside the Brixton Advice Centre. Olive, a once vibrant activist who changed the world, is now a memory. An image in a window. What once was present is now archival.
“The best of our life is ancient history,” I say.
“The best part of everyone’s lives turns into ancient history,” Bram counters. “That’s not unique to us.”
“I suppose.” I look around. There’s graffiti everywhere. Also advertisements. The words of the ads say things likeFire Broadband Is HereandHot Coffee. The words of the street art declareFree SudanandBlack Power. The contrast is stark.
“Come on,” Bram says. “Let’s get to Chaucer.”
“Doesn’t it make you sad?” I ask. “Why are there bougie coffee shops and Pilates studios where there used to be shebeens, Brixton Faeries, and Rebel Dykes?”
“Maybe because people want them?” Bram looks around. “Everything changes.”
“Except us,” I say, my voice sad and ominous. I can’t shake off my fear. “Bram, is this a good idea? What if we’re caught?”
Bram closes his eyes. “If we let them keep us away from Lily’s send-off, then they’ve won. We have to be here.” He opens his eyes again. They look uncertain as he says, “Besides, maybe they’re not looking for us anymore.”
He doesn’t convince me, but I let him lead the way. Even after all this time, it feels good when he guides me into the unknown. I notice that time is everywhere. It’s on the post office box with its collection times. It’s on the Ethiopian and Jamaican and Greek restaurants with their opening and closing times. It’s on the parking signs. Time haunts me. The way it lurches forward.
And yet, remnants haunt the neighborhood like ghosts. It’s the smells that hit me hardest. The familiar scent of jerk chicken being cooked, fish being fried, turmeric and curry powder. Food, I suddenly think, is our most direct link to the past. Everything else changes. Sounds and sights evolve quickly. But not food. Sure, some trendy chef might deconstruct classic dishes with molecular flair, but it will never stick. As long as there are humans, I bet there will still be dumplings and rum cake. I think of Mother’s recipes. Her meat loaf and green beans. What I would give to taste them again. To be transported back to her love.
We stop just shy of what was once our house. Bram lowers hisveil. I put on a large pair of sunglasses. A floppy hat that falls over my face.
Maud speaks to the group. Her voice is deeper than it used to be. Her hair, once a short Afro, is now in beautiful braids. She holds a woman’s hand. They both wear wedding rings. “Miraculously, the Brixton Housing Co-op still exists,” she says. “One of the few survivors from our time. So much is gone.”
“But we’re still here,” Azalea calls out.
