The Life and Rhymes of Benjamin Zephaniah

by Benjamin Zephaniah

  We were having a standoff. The crowd was getting more vocal, some telling the police directly that they were reacting to a racist call and were being racist. I could have stayed there much longer, but to make peace and defuse the situation I called Glory’s mother and put the phone on speaker. The first thing she said was. ‘Are you two having fun?’

  The police realised there was nothing wrong and said we were free to go, but it was 2014 and I found it hard to come to terms with the fact that if I, a black man, am in the company of a white child, I am suspicious. Glory could have been my adopted daughter – my baby. After this event I asked some white people who had adopted black children if they had ever experienced anything like this, and they all said, ‘No.’

  48

  THE BLAIR AFFAIR

  When Mikey was murdered Tony Blair was prime minister. I didn’t know him well, but I had met him a couple of times; the first not long after he became prime minister. Black people all over the country were celebrating fifty years since the arrival of the Empire Windrush – the ship that landed at Tilbury Docks in 1948 carrying the first big group of Caribbean immigrants.

  Robin Cook, who was Foreign Secretary at the time of the fifty-year celebrations, had recently told the country that he wanted to bring a bit of colour to the Foreign Office, so as a way of getting the government in on the celebrations he employed a black-run PR company to hold an event at the Foreign Office. That PR company then asked me to perform, and for some strange reason I said yes.

  It didn’t happen to me very often, but this was one of those times when I wondered why I’d agreed. First of all I wondered if, in an indirect way, I was working for the government, and secondly the room was full of people who in other circumstances would order that I be removed from the premises. But I had said yes, I was there, and I only had to perform one poem, and that was a piece I’d written about the voyage, called ‘The Men from Jamaica Are Settling Down’.

  Robin Cook went on stage after me. I knew him quite well from TV programmes like Question Time. He thanked all the black people in the country for coming over and teaching him how to dance, and bringing curries and culture, and then he told everyone that when he’d become Foreign Secretary he’d promised to bring a little colour into the place, but he didn’t think that would involve performing after Benjamin Zephaniah. He said he thought we’d make a good double act and we should go on tour together. Now none of that is particularly funny, but these government types really laugh at these kinds of things, and laugh they did. ‘Ho, ho, ho, jolly good, Robin, old chap.’

  When he left the stage he came over to me. He was one of those people who were constantly looking over the shoulders of the person in front of him to see if there was someone more important to work his way up to. Then he saw Tony Blair, who’d just arrived.

  Blair was too late to hear Robin Cook or myself, but Robin’s eyes lit up. ‘We must say hello to Tony,’ he said.

  ‘Must we?’ I asked.

  ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘He’ll be so pleased to see you.’

  Everyone knew about Tony Blair’s plastic smile. Well, I got it full on.

  ‘I’ve been watching you on television,’ he beamed. ‘My kids love your books, and I can play a bit of reggae on my guitar. We should get together and share some ideas.’

  Robin repeated his joke, about the two of us performing as a double act and going on tour, probably thinking that Tony would react like the assembled ladies and gentlemen, but he didn’t. Tony flipped. His plastic smile disappeared; he wagged his finger at Robin and said, angrily, ‘You’ll do no such thing. That’s a ridiculous idea. I need to speak to you. See me in my office in the morning.’

  Robin stood as if in shock, and quite a few people heard it. For a moment I wondered if this was some kind of act they were putting on, but when I realised it wasn’t, I actually felt sorry for Robin as he walked away, head hanging down like a naughty schoolboy.

  For a while I was really puzzled by this outburst, until a year or so later, when I was in the Seychelles. I had done a couple of performances and was hanging out with the British ambassador (as you do) and I told him the story. ‘I heard about that,’ he said. And he proceeded to explain that it was all to do with Robin Cook being found out for having an affair with his secretary.

  The previous Conservative government became known for what some called sleaze, and others called corruption, so when the Labour Party (or New Labour, as it liked to be called then) had got into power they had pledged to get rid of all that sleaze. And they did – for about a week. There was probably lots of bed-jumping going on, but Robin was seen as the first person to bring the party into disrepute. So Tony didn’t want any playing around from his Foreign Secretary. I tried to imagine going on tour with Robin Cook, and it wasn’t happening, but neither was bringing Tony Blair into my band as my guitarist.

  49

  BENJAMIN ZEPHANIAH NO B E

  Call me naive but I thought I should follow up Tony Blair’s invitation to share some ideas with him, so I wrote to him. I wanted to talk to him about the death of my cousin Mikey Powell. I wanted to share the idea of peace-talking as opposed to war-mongering. I wanted to share the idea of a police service as opposed to a police force. I wanted to remind him of what the Labour Party used to stand for, and give him the word on the street. I wrote to him a few times, but I got no reply. I had a lot to say to him. I knew stuff. I was involved in many demonstrations, so I could tell him how a lot of people were feeling.

  Every year there’s a march for the families of people who have died in custody, and I regularly attend. There were also many protests about animal rights issues at this time, which I was also involved in. Our country was involved in two illegal wars, one of which brought over a million people onto the streets, and most of them would have heard of me. So I thought I could really help Tony out.

  At one of these marches I was at the head of a delegation concerned with deaths in custody and it was my job to hand over a petition. A man who thought he was important stopped me outside Number 10 Downing Street, telling me I couldn’t go any further. So I said, ‘Look, Tony said I could pop in and see him, share some ideas and stuff, so tell him I’m here.’ He went away but Tony didn’t come. So when, out of the blue, I got a letter from Mr Blair, I was perplexed. This time it was he who’d had an idea. He wanted to offer me up to the Queen of England; he wanted me to bow before her and receive an OBE. What was Tony thinking? I thought. Did he really know who I was?

  That week George W. Bush was in town, and I already had a small article printed in the Guardian called ‘Dear George’. I was among a group of people who’d written letters about the things we’d like to say to George Bush. I knew I couldn’t accept the OBE – it was against everything I stood for – but I didn’t want to go public on that for a week or two. So I wrote an article explaining why I had decided to reject it, and I sat on it for a couple of weeks.

  The only person to see the article in those weeks was the poet Michael Rosen. I was never confident when it came to writing newspaper articles, and Michael was someone I could trust to keep it quiet and to give me honest feedback. After reading it he pointed out some misspelt words and said, ‘Benjamin, you really have something here.’

  Tony Blair’s office rang my agent to ask what was going on, but she really didn’t know. She had to call me to ask if it was true that I was being offered an OBE, and I said, ‘Yes, but I don’t want it.’ So we left it and did nothing. Then I heard that Tony Blair himself had started ringing around for me, but I told everybody not to say anything. I wanted my rejection to be completely public. I had nothing to hide and I wasn’t going to respect his request for secrecy. Too much secrecy had been the problem with his administration; I wasn’t going to play that game. I wanted everyone to know my decision and why I’d made it.

  When George Bush had gone home, and I felt the time was right, I handed the article over to the Guardian. They published it, for all the world to see, in November 2003. T
ony read it when everyone else did, I guess. I wouldn’t know, as we haven’t spoken since.

  I was absolutely sick of hearing people say how much the OBE and other government honours didn’t mean anything to them, and that they would never bow down before the Queen, but then, as soon as they were offered one, they found all kinds of excuses for their sudden change of mind. Most claim they did it for the kids, or for their parents or, the saddest one of all, for the community.

  I say to anyone who accepts an award from the Queen and says it is ‘for their community’ – don’t keep the award, give it to the community. I knew what I did for my community, and I didn’t need a medal from the Queen to remind me. I hated the word ‘empire’, I hated the idea of empire, whether it was the Romans or the British or Christians or Muslims. In my little mind, anybody ruling over anybody else was wrong. And for those who would say that the Order of the British Empire doesn’t really have anything to do with the empire – and that it’s simply a word that’s been left attached to the award – I say, if it’s just a word and not that important, then they can remove the word. But I still wouldn’t take it.

  The right-wing press used Trevor Phillips, who was then the head of the Commission for Racial Equality, to attack me. The commission, which was set up to support black people, was becoming an embarrassment to many in the community and Trevor was beginning to be seen as a stooge, which was rather sad because he was once seen as a progressive community activist. His attack on me might have been an attempt to help his friends in the media, or to get involved in the debate, but it backfired badly on him. The tabloids love it when one black person attacks another, but I was a bit bemused by his criticism because he had my number and could have called me if he had something to say to me.

  The black community, and the wider community, really rallied behind me over the refusal. A week after my letter to the Guardian I counted over 3,000 letters, and then there was a short delay until the second wave arrived. These were from people based abroad, and in came another 3,500 letters. So I’d written one article and received over 6,500 letters, with only three being negative. Compare that to the government who invited letters from the public when it held an inquiry into the honours system, and they received 100 letters. I even had letters from people who said they’d accepted honours because they didn’t know how to refuse them.

  Channel 4 asked me to go into their studio to talk about my rejection of the OBE on the day I should have been picking it up. I said I would do the interview but the TV crew would have to come to where I was, and I was spending the day with a group of children and supporters in a bookshop in the East End.

  The interview was with Jon Snow. Coincidentally, Jon had also refused an OBE, but not a lot of people knew that. In the studio with him was my good friend, the journalist Yasmin Alibhai-Brown. Yasmin, to my surprise, had received an MBE some years before, and she was now challenging me about my position, saying that she accepted her award because it was an honour from her adopted country, and that she thought it was recognition and young Asian women would look towards her for inspiration.

  But I told her young Asian women were already inspired by her – many had told me so – so she didn’t need some sort of royal or government approval. The programme was live, and it was a lively debate. Then, at one point, as I was mid-sentence, she interrupted and said: ‘Benjamin, Benjamin, stop, stop. You’ve convinced me. You’re right. I’m giving my MBE back.’

  A few journalists and others said afterwards that they’d never seen anything like it. When live on air people tended to hold their ground and, even if they change their mind, they don’t admit they’re wrong until after the programme. I really respect Yasmin for having the guts to be so honest live on air.

  The next day she wrote an amazing article about how she felt. It posed the question, ‘What do you do when you want to give your OBE back? Do you knock on the door of Buckingham Palace and say, “Hello, here’s your OBE, Your Majesty. I no longer want it”?’ It was a great, humorous article. She did get some criticism for giving it back, mostly from people who said she shouldn’t have taken it in the first place, rather than waiting for inspiration from me. Some suggested there was a whiff of hypocrisy in taking it and then returning it, but I thought she showed real courage.

  I was also spoken about many times as a possible Poet Laureate – both before and after the OBE episode – but I’ve always made it clear I wouldn’t accept it. I had some sympathisers who thought that being Poet Laureate would be a good thing because I’d represent them really well, but I still say no. It’s a job where officially the Queen, or whoever sits on the throne, is your boss. You have to write poems for the Royal Family and their royal events, and yet you’re not expected to criticise them. It is this being unable to criticise them element that I can’t stand. The poet should always be critical. As well as all the praising a poet can do, the poet should also criticise the country, criticise the weather; poets should even criticise themselves.

  As I’ve previously stated, I’ve worked with the British Council, which some may call part of the establishment, but in reality most people don’t know the ins and outs of the organisation. The so-called ‘Head of State’ is the patron of that organisation, so when I turned down the OBE I made it clear I had nothing against the Queen personally. I’ve met her; she came to one of my poetry readings at the Royal Albert Hall, and I remember thinking that she couldn’t help being born into that family. It must a burden for her. She was stiff and false, though, unlike Nelson Mandela, who was also present. He was open, smiling, huggable. He danced as he walked towards me, whereas the Queen marched.

  Wealth is one thing, and most people want wealth (usually for all the wrong reasons), but who wants to live a life unable to walk down the street or to simply get lost without a load of minders knowing where you are? I’ve always considered this a rather sad existence, but I don’t feel sorry for the institution of monarchy. I find it difficult to respect an institution that has its roots in class division, robbing people of their lands, subjecting people to slavery and claiming a divine right to rule. Then there’s the fact of their privileges, their undemocratic positioning, their arrogance, their love of hunting, their support of evil wars, their ill-gotten fortune and their lack of accountability. Not much really! So why would I want to be their personal poet?

  Hereditary privilege does not a meritocracy make, and I’ve always thought we are being hypocritical if we criticise countries that don’t allow people to vote for their head of state when we can’t vote for ours. My family is royal, and my mother is my queen. There are thousands of royal families around the world, and many live modest and humble lives with no wish to rule over anyone. So never mind the family, but damn the monarchy.

  As every new laureate turns up, they say they want to change the role a little bit, but the bottom line is that it’s an antiquated role that compromises you. If you don’t mind being compromised that’s fine, but when the caged bird sings of freedom, it doesn’t mean it’s free. Every laureate claims he or she wants to bring something fresh to the job, and wants to connect to the grass roots, but they never do. I have no wish to leave the grass roots, work for the establishment, and then try to reconnect with the grass roots. It’s back to front, the wrong way round. The grass roots is where my heart is. Nuff said, so here’s a full stop.

  50

  GOING COUNTRY

  Since my break-up with Amina, I’d been slowly renovating my house with the help of friends. We’d put up new wallpaper, put down new floors, painted the woodwork and spruced up the garden. I think deep down I had to do this to make the house more ‘mine’ than what had been ‘ours’. We did a grand job, but when it was all finished I sat back and thought it was nice but something was nagging at me.

  It wasn’t the house, it was the area; I wanted a real change. I knew in my heart of hearts that what I really wanted was to live in the countryside – in one of those villages you see on postcards where there’s a pub, a church
and a post office, and people say good morning or good afternoon to you before they get into a deep analysis of the weather.

  When I was a kid we couldn’t afford holidays, so we went for days out in the Malvern Hills with Pastor Burris. I was the kid with his face at the car window. As soon as the doors were open I’d be off, marvelling at everything around me – the animals, the trees, the sky. I’d always longed to live away from the city. I now had freedom. I didn’t have to ask anyone what to do. I wanted to live in the countryside and now I could just do it.

  At the end of 2006 I very quickly found a place in a small village in Lincolnshire. It was the kind of village I had been dreaming of, and it worked out perfectly. Angela, the woman who was selling the house, wanted to move out really quickly and get off to Australia. I was about to start touring in South Africa, so I needed to get in quickly. So together we moved much faster than the estate agents could get their act together. Within a month I was in.

  Being in a village gave me everything I’d always wanted. I still had time to spend in London and, if anything, I probably appreciated London better. I could enjoy going to community centres, concerts and theatres there but, at the end of the night, or come the weekend, I could drive away from it. I started noticing the difference in the air, as I’m very mindful of pollution levels. If I go jogging in London I can taste the pollution at once. My life was rooted in the city, and my political perspective came from the inner city, but when I moved to this beautiful little village I began to understand rural issues. I learned about communication, the transport issues that cut people off in the countryside and rural poverty.

  As if to help me on my way, the BBC asked me to present a couple of TV programmes about life in the countryside. With the help of their researchers, coupled with what I was hearing from people around me, I began to see a community in crisis. This wasn’t about millionaire farmers complaining about the European Union, or the lack of help they got from the government; this was about young white people who felt hopeless and saw no future if they were to stay in their villages.