Peng black girls in my area code.
The rise of black British women in South East London.
In my hood you will find the loud sound of police sirens echoing against your window keeping you awake at night, intertwined with the muffled noise of children weeping next door, as your neighbour continues to get thumped by her violent partner.
Across cities and towns in England, council estates are crowded with old Edwardian buildings full of unspoken tales overflowing with secrets that turn you from the blink of an eye into a woman from a girl.
Coming of age in South East London meant seeing the corner of our streets filled with off-licence stores open till late, and doctors’ offices filled with sixteen-years-old pushing babies in prams.
Our roads were filled with tranquil lanes crammed with young black boys on cold street corners of Britain’s capital selling marijuana in search of manhood and masculinity.
The sun refused to shine light on the struggles our mothers went through to provide us with safe spaces we could call home. In desperate pursuit for some type of stability and contentment in our daily lives. Regrettably our days were filled with early morning trips at police stations and court rooms. Many a nights, we spend moments in silent prayers, soothing our mothers from the chaos their sons brought to their front doorsteps.
Another law-breaking case, a mothers’ son serving a punishing sentence for making the irresponsible decision to dabble in petty crime.
As a third-generation immigrant child, growing up on a broken system of welfare handouts, you quickly learn to adapt to fit into an environment that is not suited for anyone to survive in. You will find many obstacles in your way that alter the direction of your life, and that is before you even leave your front doorstep.
In our adolescent years, we all knew of someone who had either been slaughtered at the hands of knife crime or was in jail serving time for a reckless decision they had made.
If like me, you grew up in the inner boroughs of London, you would know that our city is a place where young black men are more likely to be murdered or be serving time in prison before they reach the age of thirty.
It is a deeply saddening reality that young black boys remain utterly oblivious about the aftermath of their actions, and the effect it leaves behind on their loved ones. It is often a black woman somewhere in a city or town in England, silently picking up the broken pieces left behind.
Across news stories and headlines in England, you will find black women at the forefront of society fighting for the rights of black men. Imprisoned to the false narrative and idea that we are the saviours of black men, we have frequently in contrast found ourselves combating masked battles alone.
It is profoundly inconceivable for a black man to fully get a comprehension or a faint idea on the difficulties black women face in various segments of our lives.
The mis conceptive narrative for young black boys that often is displayed in our society is filled with deceptive truths. We are told that young black men do not have sufficient role models who can guide them to differentiate right from wrong actions due to the absence of fathers in black household. Whilst in parallel, young black women are expected to navigate and parent themselves to make the right choice when it comes to their lives.
From an early age, black women are taught that their power lies in remaining strong. This often leads black girls and black women alike to discard displaying their femininity, and in its place involuntarily find themselves falling victim to displaying the angry black woman typecast.
Looking back to the past, at eleven years old, new beginning were on the horizon for yours truly. Starting a brand-new school in a foreign country meant sitting in classrooms mutely unable to comprehend the English language.
At school, I was fortunate to have met a young Nigerian girl named Abimbola Onasugun. ‘Bimbo’ the name white girls in our class had given her in year 9, like me had come from a single parent household.
A witty black girl, familiar with pain and disappointments. She would often share dreams and aspirations of the future, during chicken and chips sessions on the front of my mother’s doorsteps. Ambitions that we silently dreamed off encompassed a life that would take us both beyond our borough.
I was unaware of how through the remarkable bond we shared, I was being taught the essence of what black sisterhood meant. A young black girl filled with an abundance of magic; she was the first friend who understood me for the black girl I was.
We were entirely unaware that over the coming years we would soon become like two black peas in a pot, attached at the hip, having survived the same struggles of life.
Memories of the past takes me back to sacred moments in my adolescent years where I had spend after school trips to Morleys best fried chicken in south, running around in Airforce ones to uncharted postcodes.
Many a days were spend on the east side of the river, moments where we had spend our days skipping school to chase juvenile boys. After school trips racing through the London underground in hope of chasing our dreams.
We were young black girls in dire need of direction, escaping the darkness on our estates making the most of the hand that life had dealt us.
There is a sense of innocence you carry when you are younger. You do not quite notice the absence of wealth, and that in comparison to others, you are living a life that society would classify as ‘underprivileged’.
Many a times, there were moments our beloved mothers disappointingly could not afford the idea of purchasing luxury items in our households.
Whilst that was the case for many households across England, black mommas somehow knew how to make magical miracles out of nothings.
Birthdays were not the worst days. Instead each year, celebrations filled with magical memories were being made across council estates and boroughs in London.
Whilst affluent children in other cities and towns across England might have had more playthings, trips away across continents and borders. We had an abundance of love in our homes, that was something no number of materialistic gifts could ever compare to.
As a grown woman in her thirties, time has allowed for me to experience an abundance of memories across the years. Some filled with happy moments, and others I would rather not recall.
Whilst I have always despised the concept that we are a product of our environment. It is imperative for I, to acknowledge that for a large chapter in my adolescent years, London has formed me into the woman I am today.
