Unseen

by Reggie Yates

  Upon returning home after living and working in the Kenyan slum of Kibera for seven days, I was faced with the typical and expected questions from friends, work colleagues and family. ‘How was it?’ and ‘how did you survive?’ were the openers, which garnered the stock response, ‘how long have you got?’.

  This was my first time in this world. It wasn’t my show, my name wasn’t in the title, but it was the first time I was consistently being asked to be me. Completely. On this occasion I was neither presenter nor contributor, I was somewhere in between. As one of four ‘faces’ fronting the two-part special aiming to raise money for the slum, I was allocated my own self-shooting director. As both the director and cameraman, his job was to ask questions from behind the camera, but he also insisted on making eye contact below the viewfinder, going back and forth with me in conversation about what I thought, felt and was learning.

  His name was Sam Wilkinson, and he’s a director I’ve subsequently been around the world with. We’ve since found ourselves in every situation imaginable, but this red dirt hillside in Kenya was where we first met. His pasty legs and short shorts left me with no option but to take the piss. It would have been rude not to. The geezer was wearing tight blue gym shorts with a yellow trim for god’s sakes. To make matters worse, he had on matching long socks and a T-shirt.

  My inevitable anxiety due to our surroundings and my total ignorance as to what lay ahead was quickly killed as we laughed. A lot. I laughed at his outfits mostly, but instantly I was relaxed and something new started to happen on camera. This was the first time anyone had asked me deeply personal questions while rolling and, to begin with, I didn’t get it.

  And yet, in conversation with Sam, I began to forget the camera was there. We were getting to the heart of a situation and allowing any frustration or anger I felt, motivated by the poverty or illness I was faced with, to show on screen. I’d never before had the opportunity to explore my reaction to very serious issues in this way. That, and having my director’s pale beanpole legs to laugh at in the toughest of moments, made for a totally new feeling. I had to do it again.

  Crying on camera for the first time and allowing myself to open up about family, and my own journey in relation to the young men I was living with challenged me in a way I had never experienced in my personal life, let alone on camera. I saw myself in the people I met and was able to truly share how that made me feel.

  This experience unlocked a desire to push for further challenges and opportunities to make factual TV. I was hungry for situations that could only lead to something positive for the millions watching at home. But when faced with the next opportunity to do so, my old friend self-doubt paid me a visit, and that bastard brought a suitcase determined to stay a while.

  That opportunity came around a lot quicker than I could have imagined, in the shape of an offer to front a factual series unpacking autism through the prism of musical talent. It had been literally a matter of months since returning home fried and heartbroken after my time in Kibera. What I’d seen and experienced had taken a personal toll and I hadn’t quite worked out how to understand or make sense of my experience and subsequent feelings.

  Having had enough time to find some level of normality after what was – as dramatic as it sounds – a life-altering trip, the idea of diving head first into another area I wasn’t familiar with just felt wrong.

  Sat opposite the then-controller of BBC Three, Danny Cohen, I was adamant he didn’t know what he was on about. The film I had just made was telling an African story. I had felt connected to Kenya. As the child of Ghanaian immigrant parents I understood the concept of missed versus seized opportunity first-hand, just by looking at the journey of my grandparents and their desire to make a better life for themselves and their children. But now, as a follow-up, he wanted me to explore autism?

  Autism was a word I didn’t even know how to spell. I’d had no connection with the condition, no first-hand experience of it and saw the series as nothing more than an opportunity to get it wrong publicly. How could I front a factual series on a subject I knew nothing about?

  Yep, self-doubt had really made himself at home. With my monologue as to why the experienced channel controller knew absolutely nothing finished and out of the way, I finally shut up to hear the most simple and silence-inducing response; one I’ll never forget. ‘That is exactly why you’re perfect to do this film.’

  His point was that the reality of living with autism is something families around the world deal with quietly and behind closed doors. Simply put, if you’re not affected by it, you’ll never truly know about it. With that being the case, me fronting the film would instantly make me fresh eyes to the condition and a mouthpiece for the audience.

  He knows his onions that Cohen bloke. There really isn’t a lot you can say to that level of clarity, so applying that perspective to my role, the conundrum of host, reporter, journalist or presenter all went out of the window, and I placed all my chips on attacking any subject matter as myself. This felt incredibly exposing yet freeing at the same time.

  It was 2010 and my career was about to make a huge shift I hadn’t seen coming. The best thing about this moment was none of it had been planned. I was about to start a whole new stage of my career but had no idea what it would entail.

  The series on autism saw me experience the realities of living with the condition while preparing the contributors for a musical performance with a live band in front of a studio audience. The series was a challenge, but the fact I was learning about both myself and the condition on screen caused the industry and the audience to take notice.

  As a result, in 2011 I was nominated for my first Royal Television Society award in the category Best Presenter. It was a huge wake-up call. I’d pushed myself and been rewarded for it. For the record, when I say rewarded I mean nominated. I got me suit, went to the big night and watched Professor Brian Cox walk away with the award. Thankfully my ‘It’s fine, it’s fine, he’s great isn’t he’ face had been well rehearsed, so I was smiling while crying inside, but no one knew.

  Off the back of the exceptionally well-received documentary on autism, another series presented itself pushing me in a direction that I, at the time, believed I would now be more than prepared for. How wrong I was. That series was Tourettes: Let Me Entertain You.

  The first two films were straight documentaries (much like the autism series), exploring the realities of the condition while preparing the singers to perform with a live band in front of a studio audience. The series culminated in a final episode where the now trained singers, all sufferers of the condition, made it on stage and performed.

  In shooting the factual episodes with my director Sam (minus the short shorts), I got to know the cast, their families and see first-hand the challenges Tourette’s inflicted on their daily lives. On some level, the word ‘challenges’ doesn’t even begin to explain the reality of what I became frequent witness to. For some of the parents, the stresses of medicating their children into a state of numbness left them with no choice but to go without the relief offered by the drugs.

  The unfortunate result would be a constant stream of physical or verbal ticks causing all manner of social and educational challenges for the child they were desperately trying to protect. This real-life predicament stirred up all manner of emotions within me, while I desperately tried to retain a level of impartiality. Throughout filming, the encouragement I received from Sam – who was once again on directorial duties – was to engage and verbalise those feelings no matter how uncomfortable displaying my frustrations on camera might feel.

  Initially, the idea of behaving this way on camera didn’t sit well with me, as my history and training had been to not only deliver someone else’s scripted speeches – albeit personalised ones – but to remain in control at all times while sticking to the script. Room for emotion or the requirement to connect with a subject matter wasn’t ever discussed in the years spent as a regular face on mainstream entertainment, or
during the thousands of hours fronting live children’s TV.

  This was me finally understanding the role Danny Cohen had twisted my arm to originally fill. This was me for the first time, speaking on behalf of the people just like me sat at home watching, and truly becoming a mouthpiece for my audience in all of its shouty, questioning, inquisitive glory.

  In making this series, for the first time I truly found myself fully unaware of the camera falling into a position of protector toward contributor Ruth. To be clear, as a fully independent and socially active woman, Ruth has and will never need protecting, but due to some of the reactions she was getting while shooting in public I went on to totally forget myself. Ruth, to this day stands as one of the most interesting people I’ve met due to her incredible lust for life, regardless of her impediment.

  Living with severe motor and physical tics, Ruth was unable to contain sudden movements of her arms and sometimes legs as well, while the verbal element of the condition showed itself by triggering her to scream the offensive or inappropriate. Sam and I met Ruth in Camden Town to go shopping and walk the famous market while getting to know each other, but the pressure of the camera unavoidably sent her tics into overdrive.

  As teenagers flocked upon the camera’s arrival, Ruth’s tics received the predictable reaction of laughter and ridicule. As a response, I jumped to her unwanted defence. I hissed and snapped at the sweaty teens, calling for sensitivity and respect, much to Ruth’s amusement. This was the typical reception she receives on a normal day out and, on her part at least, heartbreakingly expected.

  Much to Sam’s pleasure, the skirmish unfolded on camera, causing me to confront my reaction to Ruth’s reality. It was in that moment that I had no option but to stare directly into the barrel of the unavoidable. This wasn’t just the contributor opening up about their life and the stories behind their behaviour. These films were grounded in my own process of self-evaluation and discovery, leading to a level of understanding gained through the eyes of their experiences. By discussing the issue at hand in the most genuine and immediate way possible, I was learning on screen with my audience.

  Sam smiled that massive cat-got-the-cream smile directors only pull when they know they’ve shot a moment that won’t end up on the cutting room floor. He smiled that director grin not just because the film suddenly came alive, but because he knew I was hooked.

  Earning incredible reviews and praise, the Tourette’s series opened the door to further explore a new lane in factual programming as, finally, I had begun to believe what I’d been told years prior by the channel controller. My role had in one series jumped from being primarily about presenting to unexpectedly being much more about letting go.

  When I was first offered the opportunity to make documentaries, I was initially convinced my point of view as a young black working-class man with a history in music, drama, children’s TV and entertainment would not make my films remotely credible. But through the understanding gained from conflict and challenges on screen, the very things once seen as a weakness would become my strength on camera, as I represented the eyes of the everyman and voice of the audience.

  Sat opposite several production companies, the meetings all opened with versions of the same question. ‘What is it you’d like to do next?’ By shedding everything I’d learned as a TV host, and opening up to a new relationship with the camera, contributors, content and – most importantly – the audience, the next step had begun to show itself.

  With the challenges of the Tourette’s and autism series still fresh in my mind, I knew that bringing my own history and relationships to any subject matter could only make for something the viewer could relate to. In my limited history with the documentary genre, I’d already experienced a myriad of people and situations to last a lifetime all causing me to challenge my own convictions and, at times, restraint.

  With a newfound confidence in my journey and the value of my honest perspective, learning with the audience on camera became a priority. Finding a personal connection to a subject matter, which could then lead to the scab of any issue being picked in the most balanced way possible, was my motivation to push for a project that would allow me to immerse myself in surroundings I was very keen to explore.

  It was 2013 and I decided to put out a very clear message in every meeting I went to. My focus and sights were placed firmly on the continent that not only is referred to as home by my mother and father, but is the home of so many unanswered questions. A few months later, my journey as a factual filmmaker would truly begin when BBC Three commissioned the series Reggie Yates: Extreme South Africa.

  CHAPTER 1

  HOPE FOR HIRE

  religion

  rıˈlıdʒ(ə)n

  noun: religion

  The belief in a god or gods and the activities that are connected with this belief, such as praying or worshipping in a building such as church or temple.

  In my limited experience, the recently religious can shift the dynamic of a solid relationship by pulling every chat into a conversational cul-de-sac using variations of the following: ‘And that’s why you need to give yourself to Christ bro’.

  Dude, my car broke down, my dog just died and I’m pretty sure this bump is a corn on my little toe.’ ‘Well if I were you, I’d give myself to Christ bro.

  To be clear, I’m not saying I have anything against religious people. What I am saying is ten-a-penny preachers have a particular talent for getting under my skin.

  I have a strange and long relationship with faith and organised religion as, like many people, worship was introduced into my life and quickly normalised as a child. I say normalised, but I still remember being no more than seven and totally fascinated by the idea of holy water. I struggled to understand why I was the only person who found it kind of strange that tap water waved over by a pastor now held spiritual value.

  My north London start wasn’t that dissimilar to my classmates. It was working class, Arsenal supporting and driven by a hunger for a better quality of life. This was, of course, while I was at school. At home, life was very different.

  Behind the yellow door on the second floor, 17 Birkenhead House was a West African bubble. What we ate, the language used and, more importantly, how we prayed was all Ghana. In this way, the home I grew up in was very different to that of my classmates; in our house a perfectly blurred line connected culture and religion. Church was what we did as a family. Some families went bowling, some flew kites – we, on the other hand, would go to church on a Sunday morning and leave at dinnertime.

  We were Pentecostal Christians who attended all-day church and I had the squeaky cheap church shoes to prove it.

  Now, don’t get me wrong, the Ghanaian Pentecostal church we attended ran long, but it was anything but boring. West Africans as a whole aren’t known for our timid nature or delicate patter, so with our church made up almost entirely of new-to-the-country men and women, worship was always carried out just as it was back home. Loudly.

  My first visit is still clear as day. Walking into the packed and makeshift place of praise was an assault on the senses. The overpowering smell of anointing oil filled my nose. My shiny church shoes squeezed my toes while a live band accompanying the wails of prayer filled my ears. With clear direction by the all-powerful pastor, the jammed room swayed, waved white hankies and stamped the ground in unison in an effort to push satan further down.

  As the room reached fever pitch, headwrap-wearing aunties head to toe in their now sweaty finest begun to hit the ground one by one. The Holy Ghost had struck and possession coupled with loud speaking in tongues filled the room. My first experience of ‘the Spirit’ was when it chose to take Aunty Linda. Now Aunty Linda wasn’t the smallest in voice or stature, so when the spirit took her, it also took her plastic chair with a loud snap. With broken seat pieces either side of her convulsing body, Aunty Linda was possessed and the whole church knew about it.

  To go from this unapologetic world of Pentecostal worship as a kid, to
being steered exclusively by the values of Islam in my early teens was a culture shock and huge left turn.

  The short version of the story is my mother got remarried to a Muslim man when I was eleven and, as a household, we became Muslim overnight. The sausages, bottles of Baby Cham and deli paté suddenly vanished from the fridge as a whole new set of rules quickly established themselves, changing my relationship with god again.

  Who was this new god and why didn’t he speak English? Pray how many times a day? Wear what on a Friday? Confusion doesn’t even begin to describe my tiny mind exploding with the information overload. Unsurprisingly, this led me to a change of lane. The moment I moved out at eighteen, I decided that religion in whatever form it might take would be something I’d give myself to when, and only if, it felt right.

  With my big sister becoming a born-again Christian and younger siblings identifying as Muslim, you could say I’m the raggedy, godless black sheep of the family. Having this title hanging like an unusually dark cloud above my head, my connection with faith or lack thereof had always niggled away at me.

  For my Muslim mother, me finding my path spiritually and embracing a faith (preferably hers of course) has consistently been the unspoken want bubbling beneath the surface. Funnily enough, my own desire to connect with something bigger than me had been increasingly taking up more and more of my headspace, when the opportunity to look at religion in South Africa landed in my lap.

  Was this chance to explore faith and religion on screen fate, or the lord working in mysterious ways? I was game either way as a very personal set of questions could potentially find an answer in a professional opportunity. Stars aligned, or, as my big sister would say, ‘Look at God’.