Читать книгу No Win Race. A Story of Belonging, Britishness and Sport онлайн

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The New Cross Fire had been vague but haunting to me. I knew of it, but without detail. ‘Thirteen Dead and Nothing Said.’ The Brixton ‘riots’ had been more vivid. But my mind could not absorb the extreme violence and rioting taking place in my city. I was only eight and didn’t know much about anything. All I knew was that I had never seen the night distorted so alarmingly as I watched the images on the news of overturned vehicles set alight, and blackened and shelled buildings. There were hundreds of police cowering under riot shields, pelted with Molotov cocktails and bricks, distressed black people dragged by coppers in riot gear, a pub with an erupting roof, incessant sirens, rushing crowds and confusion.

The morning after the uprising, the streets were dusty and empty, as though desperate for sleep. The skeletons of cars threw mournful shadows. Shops and houses were doorless, windowless and war torn. Brixton looked haunted and exhausted.

On the final day of the ‘riots’, I was having a late afternoon bath when my mother entered the bathroom. I stepped out of the bath while the washing machine, which was in our bathroom, was convulsing. My mother helped me dry myself. As I stood there, damp and naked, I said, ‘Mum, I want to bleach my skin white.’