It’s not long before the barber gives a nod in your direction to say it’s your turn. You sit in the chair, letting him drape the apron over you which he cinches at the neck. He takes a set of clippers in hand; the buzz of the machine operates at a vibration that speaks to you and encourages you to do the same.
‘Wha’ ya want?’ he asks.
‘Skin fade,’ you say. ‘Keep the top, please.’
‘The beard?’
‘You can shave it off.’
The barber works quietly, murmuring to himself. You close your eyes and allow yourself to drift away. You’re safe here. You are able to say what you want and know it is OK. You know there is a semblance of control here that you don’t often have. You know you can be free here. Where else can you guarantee Black people gather? This is ritual, shrine, ecstatic recital. With every visit, you are declaring that you love yourself. You love yourself enough to take care. And it’s here, in the barbershop, that you can be loud and wrong and right and quiet. It’s here you can lean across to the next man, and state your case, ask for clarification, enquire into that which you don’t know. It is here you can laugh, it is here you can be serious. It is here you can breathe. It is here you can be free. Especially with your barber. What you say to him, stays.
‘How you been?’ he asks.
‘Can’t complain, can’t complain. You?’
‘Just came back from holiday. I was in Ghana.’
‘How was it?’
‘My body is back but my mind is still there.’
‘It’s a special place.’
‘You’ve been?’
‘A while ago. That’s where my family is from.’
‘That makes sense. You’ve got that energy, that rhythm. Everyone is so calm there. They take their time. They eat, they drink, they laugh. They live well. And I tell you something else,’ he says, tapping your shoulder. ‘You don’t have to worry about looking like us when you’re out there.’
‘I hear that,’ you say.
‘That kinda freedom?’ He shakes his head and continues to work the clippers over your scalp.
‘It’s just different,’ he starts up a few moments later. ‘The sunshine. The climate, it makes me want to do things. To be out in the world. When I’m here, winter comes, and I hibernate.’ You both laugh. ‘I wasn’t meant to be here, you know? I’ve been in this country years and years, before you were born. Came here, had my children, my children are having children. And still, it doesn’t feel like home. Doesn’t feel like I’m wanted here. Hmm. What is it you do? For work?’
‘I’m a photographer.’
‘See, you don’t have to be here. You have another half ?’
You pull your phone from your pocket and flash the photo of her on your home screen.
‘She’s beautiful. Want my advice? Find a place you can call home. This isn’t it. It’s hard to just be in this place. So much goes on that you don’t even realize until you realize, you know what I mean? Go somewhere you can be free. Where you don’t have to think too tough about what you do before you do it. Find a place you can call home.’ He taps your shoulder once more. ‘You’re all done, young man.’
Outside, you stand and brush the tiny flecks of dark hair from the back of your neck. A light breeze grazes your freshly shorn head. You begin to untangle your headphones for your walk home, and your barber joins you on the stoop of his shop. He hums, watching traffic pass on this main road. From his pocket, he pulls a bag of tobacco, some rolling papers. He opens the tiny bag, and there’s the smell of something sweeter, something darker, heavy like musk but light as a cloud. You watch as he pinches the tip of a paper and, tucking the bag between his stomach and arm, lines the joint with a healthy serving. He rolls it back and forth, and lifts it to his mouth to seal, humming all the while. The song is a loop, a light number which dances up and down the scales. This is a ritual, you think, as he twists the end and pulls out a lighter. The joint sparks alight on the first try and your barber pulls smoke into his lungs.
He nudges you, arm outstretched, the joint an offering at the shrine. You take it from him and inhale as deep as it will go. You feel your brain go hazy and dark immediately.
‘Careful now,’ he says. ‘Not too quick. This one is strong. It’ll help you forget.’
He opens his mouth as you take another pull, and he begins to sing. The tune is so sweet, like that of a bird who has learned to fly in his gilded cage. The flame smoulders in your hands and he passes you the lighter. Another pull. Deeper, darker. All the while, he sings. His features slack, the noise deliberate. He moves his shoulders in a slow rhythm, and you do the same, rocking side to side, as his voice gains volume, as the fire smoulders in your hand, as you stand outside of the shrine, as you complete this ritual, soundtracked by his ecstatic recital.
The next toke takes you from joy towards a darkness. You begin to panic, and listen for the barber’s song, but it only leads you deeper, darker. It’s an easy route. You are in sudden pain. You thought you had sealed off this path today but you are being confronted with your ache. You stroke each of the dogs’ heads and watch them cower at your gall. You’re descending at a hellish pace but there’s no fire here, the fire brought you here. In this nightmare, there is only water lapping at your feet, nipping at your heels. Show me your scars, the monster asks. Show me where the snake wrapped itself around your arm and sunk its teeth into soft flesh. You roll up your sleeves and show him the holes littering your limbs. Come out of the shadows, he says. There’s no solace in the shade. Show me where it hurt, he says. Don’t wait for the water to rise. The water won’t save you. You look down and see a warbled reflection in the ripple of the black depths. God has many faces. Many voices. A song in the darkness. Have faith. Suck at the snake’s bite, spit out the venom at your feet. To swallow is to suppress. To be you is to apologize and often that apology comes in the form of suppression, and that suppression is indiscriminate. Spit it out. Don’t wait for the water to rise. Don’t apologize. Forgive yourself.
‘Careful now,’ you hear again, and you’re dragged from the reverie. The flame smoulders in your hand. Your barber is still singing, sweet as a songbird.
‘What are you trying to forget?’ you ask him.
He takes the joint from you, pulling smoke into his own lungs. He steps out from the shade of the building into a shaft of sunlight.
‘I don’t know. It’s a feeling. It’s something deep. It’s something in me.’ He laughs a little to himself. ‘It doesn’t have a name, but I know what it feels like. It hurts. Sometimes, it hurts to be me. Sometimes, it hurts to be us. You know?’
You understand. Often, you’re not given a name. You would like to take the liberty. But even if you don’t name yourself or name your experience, it remains. Rising to the surface, oil swimming in water. You want to lay claim to this life you lead. Here, standing next to this man, the sun slipping through his glasses, splitting the light in his clear brown eyes into yellow, red, hazel, green, you aren’t scared to say you are scared and heavy. You hope he is encouraged to do the same. You get the feeling he feels how you do sometimes: like you’re bobbing and weaving in the ocean and it’s a fight you didn’t sign up for. You don’t want to go under. You can swim in water, but the oil will kill you. You don’t want to die. This is basic and audacious, but you want to lay claim to it while you still can.
You prod the pain in your left side and want to be made light. You pray with every action this will not be the day. Every day is the day, but you pray this day is not the day. Your mother prays every day that this will not be the day. You hear her through the bathroom door, praying for her sons, even as you play rapper while you swim in shallow water. No one has bars harder than your mum as she prays for you every day that this will not be the day. You know that this day could be the day but still you laugh it off when your partner says she’s concerned for you to travel at night. You
flash the smile of a king but you both know regicide is rife. You wash off dark soapsuds in the shower and pray that today is not the day. If you give a name to this day does that mean this life is yours? To name: basic, audacious. Lay claim, take power, take aim, this is yours. This act is like bringing a butter knife to a gunfight. You want to play rapper so you can say, I know that line went over your heads. You want to lie in darkness beside your partner and talk death like you have nothing to fear. You do not want to die before you can live. This is basic and audacious, but you want to lay claim to it while you still can.
Leon, the barber, beautiful man, wise as an oak, dreads flapping with excitement, stubs out the joint and announces he has a present for you. You follow him back into the barbershop. He heads to a bookshelf in the corner, the shelves themselves bending in the middle under the weight of the stacks. You don’t remember seeing other people enter the shop, but four men wait patiently on the long sofa pushed against the wall. Leon riffles quickly, knowing where each book is, and pulls one out, handing it to you. You read the cover: The Destruction of Black Civilization by Chancellor Williams.
‘Thank you,’ you say. ‘I’ll bring it back next time I get a cut.’
‘Nah, man, that’s all you. That one, that’s a book I return to a few times a year. It’s my favourite gift to give. I have plenty copies. Keep it, lemme know what you think.’
You smile, and as you go to dap him, the enormous glass window of the shopfront shatters, glass raining to the ground. The chaos is immediate. Every man is on his feet. You take stock: a figure, black T-shirt, scrambling across the floor. You recognize this man, you’ve seen him bopping around ends; no, you know this man, you have shared space and time with him. But there’s no time to tell this story. Right now, you’re concerned with what lies on the other side of the shopfront: five men demanding access to the young man who fell through the glass. They’re shouting and pointing and the glint of light from something in one of their hands clenches your body, twists your spirit. You can hear Leon telling everybody to calm down. You can hear the young man panting. You can hear the men in the shop shouting too, protective. You can hear fear. You can hear sirens in the distance. You can hear panic. Those outside the shop are unrelenting, but refuse to cross the threshold of this shrine, the barbershop. I don’t know you, man, you’ve got the wrong guy, you hear the young man say. His name comes to you: Daniel. You can hear Daniel’s fear. The sirens grow closer. All those present grow more fearful in the presence of the siren because when they, the police, are close, you lose your names and you have all done wrong. Those outside the shop are unrelenting, they want Daniel, they are shouting at him to come out, come out before they come in. But the sirens are growing closer, and they want their liberty more than they want Daniel. Three of them start to shift. One remains with the glint in his hand. It must be his grievance. The others insist it’s not worth it and tug at him to come, let’s go, let’s go, they say. He gives in, his face contorted, unrelenting. This is the face of a man who will try again another day. They scramble and scarper. The room takes a collective breath as you wait for the police to arrive.
When they do, the chaos is immediate. They’re shouting and pointing and the glint of dark light from guns in all of their hands clenches your body, twists your spirit. You can hear Leon telling everybody to calm down. You can hear Daniel panting. You can hear the men in the shop shouting too, protective. You can hear fear. You can hear bodies being crumpled. A knee on a crooked back, a book folded in on its spine. We haven’t done anything, we haven’t done anything, you hear Daniel say. They do not listen. You are heavy and scared. They pat you down and riffle through pockets and ask what it is you’re hiding. You want to say the ache, but you don’t think they’d understand. Not when they are complicit. This goes on until they grow tired, they grow bored, they lose focus, there is a call somewhere else. Just doing our jobs, they say. You’re free to go now, they say.
‘Are we ever?’ Leon asks.
There’s an anger you have. It is cool and blue and unshifting. You wish it was red so it would explode from your very being, explode and be done with, but you are too used to cooling this anger, so it remains. And what are you supposed to do with this anger? What are you supposed to do with this feeling? Some of you like to forget. Most of you live daily in a state of delusion because how else is one meant to live? In fear? Some days, this anger creates an ache so bad you struggle to move. Some days, the anger makes you feel ugly and undeserving of love and deserving of all that comes to you. You know the image is false, but it’s all you can see of yourself, this ugliness, and so you hide your whole self away because you haven’t worked out how to emerge from your own anger, how to dip into your own peace. You hide your whole self away because sometimes you forget you haven’t done anything wrong. Sometimes you forget there’s nothing in your pockets. Sometimes you forget that to be you is to be unseen and unheard, or it is to be seen and heard in ways you did not ask for. Sometimes you forget to be you is to be a Black body, and not much else.
A few hours later, you’re walking up the road to grab a patty from the Caribbean takeaway. You’re hungry for the sweet yellow pastry, filled with spicy meat. You’re hungry for comfort. So you’re walking, a route you take every day, along the main road of Bellingham, when you see Daniel, cycling towards you. He dismounts as he reaches the Morley’s, and he daps you with a wide smile on his face, his hips moving in time to whatever spills from his headphones. It is like all has been forgotten. It is like you can let go of that anger for a moment. His pleasant rhythm is infectious and you two step around each other, before laughing and splitting away, he heading into the chicken shop, you a few doors down. Inside the Caribbean takeaway, a dub bassline rocks the windows. You spy the cook tying up his dreads in the kitchen before emerging into the main area, crooning, ‘I’m still in love with you,’ interpolating the classic. It makes you think of her, of playing this song, holding her neat waist, pulling her close, closer, feeling her smile as she lets the back of her neck settle into your chest.
‘What can I get for you, brother?’ he asks. You decide, on impulse, to treat yourself to a serving of mac and cheese. You watch as he packs some wings into a box as an extra, and when you try to pay for them, he shakes his head.
‘I can tell you need some good food,’ he says. You pound fists, and depart.
As you emerge, you are greeted with a sound the colour of James Brown’s scream, pale and broken. Something has seized the body of the person the scream came from. The sound lasts seconds but only grows stronger. And then, for a moment, there is silence. There’s commotion, panicked movement, a car speeding away, a bike laid on its side, the owner laid out on the ground. You’re running towards him. There’s surprise on his face because he allowed himself to forget about today. And who can blame him? You reach for his hand and ask if he needs anything. He doesn’t dap your hand this time, because all his strength left him with that scream. He doesn’t laugh or smile or cry. We need an ambulance, someone says. There’s a lot of blood, you need to hurry. The young man on the ground shakes his head. You didn’t realize you were still holding his hand but you let go now. His rhythm is infectious and you are stood stock-still. You have known him by many names, but today he was Daniel.
25
‘What’s your trim saying?’
You’re sitting amongst your own mess, holding the phone to your ear. When you came home, you trashed your room with the furious ease of a tornado. It was juvenile, and good to feel in control of something, but now she has called and the dust has settled and you have run out of things to say.
‘Hey – you there?’ she asks.
‘Yeah.’
‘I didn’t hear from you. I was a little worried but I thought you might’ve got caught up in work or something.’
‘Something like that. Sorry.’
‘Don’t be silly. How was your day?’
‘OK,
’ you say.
A pause. ‘Are you all right?’
You begin to sob, gasping for air. You’re suffocating in your own room. You hang up the phone. You are hiding your whole self away because you haven’t worked out how to emerge from your own anger, how to dip into your own peace.
She calls right back.
‘What’s going on?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Nothing? You don’t sound OK. That sound you just made . . . just talk to me, please.’
‘There’s nothing.’
‘It doesn’t sound like nothing.’
‘There’s nothing.’
‘You’re not being fair. I’m really here just trying to check you’re OK because I care and all I’m getting is nothing, nothing, nothing.’
‘I don’t know what to say to you.’
‘It feels like you’re pushing me away. Like there’s something wrong and you just won’t tell me. It’s felt like this for a while.’
‘There’s nothing.’
‘You’re not being honest with me. I can’t do this if you won’t be honest with me.’
‘There’s nothing. Can’t you just drop it?’
‘Fine. Whatever.’
On the line, static; the dam has burst, and anything else said will be drowned by the sound of rushing water. And like that, a joint, fractured, broken.
The line goes dead and the ocean has stilled.
You stop calling. You stop returning her calls. A few days later, you turn off your phone entirely. You’ve been keeping her at arm’s length since she moved to Dublin, and now, you push, knowing she can’t just make the short journey across south-east London. You push, knowing it’s easier to retreat than showing her something raw and vulnerable. Than showing her you. You live in a haze, cool and blue, light with anger, heavy with melancholy. You live at a pace in which you are unmoving. You live as a version less than yourself. You sob often, suffocating wherever you go. You are hiding yourself. You are running, stuck in place. You are scared and heavy.
Open Water Page 11
