How Do You Spell S-T-E-R-E-O-T-Y-P-E?

How it began (1)
Picture the fiery scene of a volcano. And various stuff. Like a Black guy with a shaved head who says some words, does some stuff and - poof! Something happens.

What happens? Even he didn’t know.

It was a mystery that I’m hoping this story will shed light onto it. Some might call it - a revolution within a revolution of tale telling… (And if not then you may have to discard me; an awful teller of tales… with a ponytail.)

Examples of it
“…What tongueless ghost of sin crept through my curtains? Sailing on a sea of sweat on a stormy night. I think he don't got a name but I can't be certain And in me he starts to confide… that my family don’t seem so familiar and my enemies all know my name. If you hear me tap on your window. You better get on your knees and pray. Panic is on the way…” I heard these lyrics clearly enough through the very big headphones of a White man sitting behind me with a small, shaved head. It is Liam singing and he is sounding awesome even though he’s being transmitted muffled. The bus I was on moves and his voice was lost to background.

(1) I was sitting behind a fat Black man and a thin-enough White lady. He was wearing a big coat, so he may not have been as fat as I could tell. He had round cheeks though. The woman, around 19-20 had frizzy brown hair tied, plaited.
It was the 36 bus on a day in 2003, I think. Being where I am now I struggle to remember the year! Yet other aspects will be crystal. I definitely remember the people carrier I was on packed almost full yet I was space fortunate so had no other sitting beside me. Having boarded after myself, why the lady in front chose to sit next to the big fellow rather than slim me I do not know, but she did and to consequence. Out of his pocket, as I witnessed, a cassette tape slowly fell thanks to vibration.
So, White lady notices the tape and with very lack of warmth picks the tape up and taps Black man on the arm aggressively with it. There was no ‘Here, this fell out your pocket.’ Just a tape slap. It was aggressive but I would not say painful.
The Black man noticed and accepted the cassette. He looked nonplussed. Yet he must have said something, something I did not hear. I only caught what White lady replied ‘No, I didn’t steal it thank you very much.’ Very stern, very uptight.
Black man (I should say boy, he was around 17 but I could not be completely sure) countered: ‘Did I say you stole it though? Don’t get leery with me.’ But he said it with an a - don’t get lary with me. Relaxed, South East London accent.
Anyway, she gets miffed, kisses her teeth, looks at him stating categorically; ‘I’m not getting lary, I’m not a thief, why would I want to steal your tape…’

Stop! So far this is just another day in London. A bus, people with headphones, people from different origins, accents and all mixed with confrontation. Reader; this is where the example of ‘it’ comes into play. You would not believe what she said next. ‘… I hate rap music…’

Well, yes it’s not incredibly offensive to some. Just a little stereotype. Comedians get away with it all the time. But I thought that it was quite bad. Bad enough, without the whole sentence. And sit tightly; let me give the retorted in full:

‘I’m not getting lary, I’m not a thief, why would I want to steal your tape, I hate rap music, man.’

After a fairly slow start: now you’re interested (yet probably also sceptical.)

Why would a White woman say such a word on a bus that was not full of Whites…? I myself am not White. This occurrence was in between ethnic New Cross and ethnic Lewisham, ethnic South-East ethnic London.
So how did that work? Well, I’ll say I do not know… (no, I did not know) but what I do know, a charged situation broke. The small White lady was violently pushed at around the shoulder. She fell off the seat giving a shrilled shriek. The fat Black man called her a racist bitch and the skinny White woman referred to the fat Black man as a ‘Wanker.’ She sat next to me on getting up.

Yes it is surprising that she said a rather inciting (put mildly) word on this bus in this way and so unreasonably, but what else was so puzzling is that… well, nobody heard her. No immediate reaction to the word except from my ears and the fat man’s hands. It wasn’t loud-loud; the guy with the headphones would not have heard, granted. But loud enough – I heard it.
Forgetting the words for the moment, onlookers all did, however, see her buckle to the ground; like the fall of tyranny. That could have been justice? Well, what do I know about racial justice… I could be just as potty-mouthed or minded.

(…You will have to forgive me in slight; the beginning of this tale will always be more jolly sounding than nearer than end, I’ll have to admit. Entertainment and social responsibility is something that I have only just learnt on, being where I am now. If I had kept abreast of a situation across the Atlantic at the time of story I would have understood a great deal more about the power to spread uninformed word through entertaining. A social wonder was creeping the United States back then and at the forefront a man very focal to the efforts of my plot. As I entertain you with literature now, he did the same through another medium then.
I realise I may offend. I realise too: do I have the right to offend for the sake of simply getting my point across?
That aside, you’ll also find out why that it gets me emotional just by the little process of getting ahead of myself. Simple decisions I made on a day of totally bizarre but socially befitting events….
Anyway, I’ll stick to telling the tale in an order…)

(2) I reach Lewisham and am waiting for my bus to Lee - 261. A couple of buses pass by and some youths alight from one and have a similar idea to what I’m doing; i.e. waiting to catch another bus. This group catches my eye; five boys in total; three Black, two White. A Black one speaks ‘Yo, did you see dat video for [insert rap artist] on channel U, blood? Shit was hench, blart.’ Three were philosophical whilst the final, a White one, replied. ‘Oh my days, blart. I saw it too, blart. Dat waz some heavy shit, blart. So hench.’ He waved his forearm with open palm whilst covering his mouth with the other hand.

Now behind them, stood a man with a rainbow striped hooded jacket. He sported glasses and had a serious look demeanour. He was glaring at the boy who spoke. (I say boy for he could not have been more than sixteen/seventeen; nor the rest of the posse.) This White boy clocked the gaze and asked the rainbow man if he had a problem in a manner that suggests a problem could be a physical possession.
So on the ordinary day, in the ordinary world, this issue would have petered with a ‘Nothing’ and possibly a ‘Sorry’ in there also. But what have I learnt in the previous example (and with hindsight also)? This was no ordinary day. The response was as follows:

‘Nothing, whigger.’

I kid you not. Where did this bravery come from? I know, maybe I should query the prejudice or the evil nature of the phrase but instead I mention the courage it takes to call an able bodied fellow amongst group a virtual White slave to a Black man. (And see my previous admission of folly with regard to social irresponsibility!)
Needless to say, the rainbow man was put on the spot for a validation of his statement. He stuttered, started to ignore the pressure, it intensified with the edging of footsteps, he pigeoned backwards and finally he was set upon. The five boys kicked the shit out of the standing rainbow, followed by the fallen, wet-pavement rainbow. There were even shouts of Paki this and Al-Quieda that (You didn’t think the Rainbow man was White, did you?). Totally brutal.

Luckily my bus pulled in and I hopped on negotiating teen spirit, angry old ladies and general fight-sight-seers. It was interesting how that man was Asian given that it started as a White supremacy/Black freedom day. At least for my experience of it. And even though in the muddle of the two conflicts, I contemplated the two unrelated events. Was there a link? Well, one, not everybody was privy to conversations that I was and, two, the more dumbfounding revelation: I’m pretty sure all hate words used were delivered with minimal mouth movement. In fact, I don’t think mousey-frizzy-haired-White-lady nor equally-as-frizzy-rainbow-Brown-man actual spoke the words Nigger nor Whigger. But each was aloud, since the reactions were evident.

I was going to dismiss my finding as nothing more than freakish when, and after only two stops, the bus pulled up and our driver left the vehicle…
(3) People kissed teeth (old Black ladies near the front) and people bite lips (old White ladies near the centre). Some expressed concern out loud with words and expressions such as ‘Char’ and ‘Allow dis, I’m gettin’ off’ (a more younger set of folk).
I just waited in my puzzle, trying to reject the crazy world of South-East London as well as the fact that it seemed like perfect timing to pick out from bag and listen to my MP3 player.
Whilst most of this waiting occurred ‘Lazy’ by Suede floated into my ears. The Verve’s ‘On Your Own’ (acoustic version) followed and three minutes into this track, finally, our Black driver returned with a plain white plastic bag in his hand. He entered vehicle, then almost cockpit and as he did so, an old Chinese lady got on poking his arm furiously. I removed the right headphone. “Fifty pence short, dark man.” She retorted. I was aghast, but kept cool and looked around. Yes, everyone had heard it. I was sure. “Hey fuck you, Chink.” Whoa, whoa! I thought, pulling the left headphone out of my ear to leave me with absolute no hearing impediment. “You no call me Chink, you black Nigger. Gi’ me money.”
There were groans all over the bus. Mixed race teenage girls of around fifteen who had come down the stairs to peer at the commotion exclaimed ‘oh my life’ amongst other comments. The driver decided to increase aggression and shout various phrases commonly tangled in the idea of the lady getting off the bus. Eventually he reached into a side tray in his cockpit and threw a fifty pence piece (assumption) out of the door. “Take it. You Sars bitch… and I… I… I don’t want no fake ass DVDs.” He said ass and not arse.

It had no effect on my friend
I arrived at the Green Estate tower block on the edge of Lee and Eltham. I walked into the tower gardens and to the lift to take me up to level ten. I passed a White woman of around thirty-two, weathered by kids and lack of opportunity and a Black man on his way to a manual job that required overall wear use (scoured similarly). Then two White English youths in their twenties. They were talking to each other as they approached me, looking at me and speaking, quieting down as I approached. The word “Paki” came from one of their lips and no sooner said, the other repeated the same followed by “Bin Laden.” They looked at each other with total surprise; then they laughed and hurried off. I did not look them in the face, became angered and wondered if they knew the correct term for a person of my ethnicity as Bengali. However, and very technically, owing to history, Paki was not far off even though it was in geography. I cursed them under breath, whilst away, with a typical slur I had concocted long ago; Greasy Hybrid-Romans. It is enough to make me chuckle (even if, reader, you’re not interested!)

My friend, Taj, lives with his mother and sister on level ten of this tower. Dirty and very urine smelly on the outside yet extremely nice on the inside of their particular flat, owing to the efficiency and maybe even anal-retention of the lead woman of the house. Taj, hanging out with two busy body females at all hours, developed a very short and curt way of handling conversation. Which is why I was only really interested in staying the short while. I owed him and his family dwelling a visit so here I was. Mother being out, slaving a minimum wage vocation, his sister, stayed in her room (shared with mother) as she would most days. Studying was the excuse, though I never asked. It was a fair assumption seeing as they were living in virtual squalor and spending on Rahima’s education; she was reading Business Management at Roehampton University.

Now my friend I called Taj. Not his real name. He acquired it from his mother whilst he and two friends sat watching Top of the Pops and in particular a performance by the group: the 3Ts. This band was so called after each of the member’s first names; which all began with the obvious letter. Taj’s mother astutely realised that the three boys in the room at the time were also linked by the same idiosyncrasy. So, for the evening, they all picked one of the 3Ts to be, Taj picked… Taj, after he witnessed the child singer throw a rucksack off from shoulder to the stage floor, which was greeted by woos from the mainly female crowd. My friend’s real name is actually Tanay.

This friend, Taj (the only of the three to have kept his moniker), continually informed me of the family’s plan to vacate tower to move to a house as soon as sister was up and earning. Lot’s of pressure on her; he only worked two nights a week plus public holidays at a local greyhound stadium and I’ve already mentioned their mother’s limitations. (One not being her cooking. She did cook a mean curry. Any type, she did it. She’d give each to my friend who’d always manage to drive them down to my house in his banged out Fiat. Hence I owed him a visit.)

“If you ask me, Allah is in a testing mood. Blacks, Whites… Jews… and all are being shown for who they are. Worshiping the wrong.” I squeezed my eyelids together hearing the rant in my mind before he even spoke it. Taj did not notice. I maybe should not have told him about the examples I had witnessed. “Everyone is fucking up. Everyone. At the racecourse I saw this pretty Indian girl. Who was she with? A Black man. What the fuck is that? Pisses me off, man. A beautiful girl of our culture with a Negro. Too many temptations… bloody TV has it all the time. ‘Stick to your own kind, lady.’ I wanted to shout at her…”
I sat patiently listening to the Islamic man who worked counter at a betting domain. Yes, I know, I’m no ethnic angel and he is the safest man, taken away from this view. Genuine, caring and really passionate to please, but in this zone he is so flippant. There is no argument against him; he is right you are wrong.
“…At least it is not as bad as the Whites. Oh no, when they take our women they make a mockery of us. They are down the pub telling White friends that they fucked this Indian chick. ‘Did she smell of curry?’ Their friends will be like ‘Eww! Paki!’ Fucking Whites; so racist…
And what is them sell outs walking with White bitchs on their arms? Yes you can fuck a White girl but don’t fucking marry her!”
I was not prepared to point out the disjointed hypocrisies, instead I incessantly rubbed an area of his table top with the wrong end of a yellow and black lead pencil. It did dawn on me, in the examples from my journey to his home; I had actually witnessed the realisation of what this man was saying… but the passionate ‘Bengali-Muslim background’ voice inside me told me that I was right to be calmed in approach and he was just talking hyped rubbish.
We’re not too different him and I.

***
The afternoon was not spent talking of race relations. We got off that topic to debate football and our sad lack of relationships with the opposite sex. We agreed that we both needed a girlfriend to stop our over conversations. It had been two years since Taj had been out with a woman and eight months more for me. We figured that out whilst simultaneously creating trashy dance music on his PC using the program Reason. “You need to get into the Hip Hop scene, my friend, then we can create beats proper. Now you are just wasting my time. I’m a producer waiting for my big shot and it aint coming from this dance shit.” I replied. “Maybe so, but I’m an indie boy… I don’t need computers all I need is a fucking gee-taar!”

We laughed at that. Stupidly. Taking discs from my bag and handing each to him, I told him I had to leave. “That’s porn and those are some films… ok chief, I’m out of here, gotta catch that bus.”

How it Worked
“Bus? Go up the road there and get the train into New Cross. Barriers are always down, brother. Takes only ten minutes max. There is always a train at ten to, going to Charing Cross.” And I bid him a second farewell and thought ‘Fuck it, buses are full of drivers stopping midway to pick up lunch. Trains could be reliable.’ So I waltzed up Lee High Road with a wary nature.

And with good substantiation; I passed a pub, drinkers in the window, all White ‘n’ skinned, laughing and talking. With the sounds of the busy main road, ordinarily I would not hear what these people were saying. In whole, I could not, but their hateful words and sentences I did. ‘Oh, there goes a Paki.’ Or ‘Bud. Bud. Where’s her dot?’ A reference to not only my skin colour but also my long, pony-tailed hair. Not, however, a reference to my religion.
I did not respond, being so stunned. I changed waltz to quickstep to almost run to the station. Once there I donned headphones at platform. I figured, if I could get away from issues and avoid eye contact I could stay out of the affairs of race for at least the journey home. Mistaken, I tell you. Fights were breaking out amongst the youth of the day. With one visible context. Whites versus Chinese (or should I say Oriental?), Blacks versus Whites, even Whites amongst each other, European heritage being the separator. I witnessed a small, frail Black boy being pushed towards the train track by White males twice his size. He was nimble, however.

My heart started racing; this was no place for the ethnic. Some property was afoot whereby the mere thoughts of prejudices were somehow escaping minds. In a world of stereotypes mixed with paranoia, the truth was suddenly willing out. Lips didn’t even have to move. That is, if what I had witnessed was not a swelling of my imagination... I questioned my sanity at Lee train station.

Still, whether it was in my head or not, I decided to get out of here as fast as I could and with limited interaction. Homeward bound. As the train to Charing Cross pulled in, I looked at my toes whilst Embrace played ‘Come Back To What You Know’ in my ears. I pressed an ‘open’ button, I got on and looked at no body; the door window was my only friend. I passed Hither Green, Lewisham and St Johns stations without dealing with a soul. More Verve tracks and also one from Kula Shaker kept me deaf to the outside, until New Cross, where I alighted, walked three feet and heard a lengthy beep. The battery in my player had run down.

I felt that extra nakedness, even though I knew I had a spare triple AAA somewhere in my bag. This was no time for hanging around with a Brown face. I walked through opened ticket barriers noticing the top ends of my footwear were wet; kicking up rain puddles. I turned onto the high street walking at an almost Olympic pace. I caught up to a couple, who looked like students at nearby Goldsmith’s University. They themselves were more deft than I and avoided a large pool of water to enter a fish and chip shop. Two Black youths almost crossed their path to get to Dixy’s fried chicken shop next door. I was annoyed I noted this, I even slowed down. I heard one of the young men as he noticed the student couple; “Why these White people want fish and chips all the time.” As an instant retort I thought ‘Why do you Blacks love fried chicken?’ I ran out of view as one of the boys turned his head. Thinking is dangerous.

And I continued running, not looking back. I’m not the fittest so only managed to get to Iceland supermarket before I had to stop. I walked evenly enough with reticence in the gathering of my breath especially for another break for home. As I approached the inappropriately distanced second tube station within ten minutes walk: New Cross Gate, yet more angst was demonstrating. A White police officer in a lime green British Transport Police issue visibility vest argued with a mid-twenties Black man about the validity of his ticket. A Rastafarian Black man, late thirties perhaps, stood close to proceedings continually protesting his right to sell what he wanted. “…Sir, this is property of Network Rail. You cannot re-sell any ticket already purchased by another member of the public.” Said the voice of the BTP. “I can seel what I wan’. You c’yanno’ take me away for earnin’ a livin’, mun.” The Rastafarian.
“Officer, can I go. I didn’t know you couldn’t buy a ticket like this. I’ll get one from the machine.” Mid-twenties Black.

I braced myself for fireworks. I had to see the conclusion. I had stopped my journey home. A masochist, some would call me. A sadist, others. However, and perhaps with hindsight, though I do remember thinking at the time, it dawned on me for the briefest of moments: was I wrong to think ill of the situation? Why should I ‘brace myself’ for the ‘fireworks’ of prejudice just simply because there was a White and Black confrontation? Not even race related. Because:

a) This was no ordinary day.
b) It happened.

After deliberation and the constant swing from man to man, taking parts of innocent protestation from two parties, the White officer broke. To the Rastafarian he shouted “Look you Jamaican cunt, you can’t sell it. End of story, man.” Both Black men in the conversation paused and looked flabbergasted. The dreadlocked man added, “You c’yanno’ call me a man, mun. Nor justice, mun.” He said this loud enough for an adjacent officer, who was dealing with another, a train hopper no less, to leave what he was doing and interfere in the mix. “Sir, calm down. I was standing right there and he did not say anything like that. Don’t make things up.” The mid-twenties illegal ticket purchaser, completely flummoxed, placed his hand on the intervening officer’s upper arm aggressively. “Don’t sell your race out, man. He fucking said it. I heard it. He shouted it, how could you not here that? Nah, that is liberties.”

It got even more belligerent as some pushing and shoving occurred and more station staff and transport police started to separate victims of this social anomaly. All onlookers, which included myself, were frozen in the sheer rawness; the blatancy of events. That is, all except one woman. Not a police officer, yet she was in amongst the men, trying to stop the fighting but, and here was my draw: also trying to explain it. This was novel. “Look… don’t… ignore what he saying. I can’t explain it but he never said it… but he did…. Ugh! Just stop bloody fightin’, please.” Her more-than-Australian accent, along with the words she spoke were ignored by all. Except, yes, me.

***
In a police van the two and more went. I watched the Separator collect her ticket (legally and from a machine). She was going to travel but not before I received answers. “Excuse me… er… what’s going on?” Like Marvin Gaye but without the sweetness in my chords. We had an initial query; a debate on the relevance of our meeting. I tried to explain what I had witnessed and it’s absurdity and she did agree. After persuasion, I was free to accompany her down flights of steps to the beginning of the East London Tube line. The train was not at platform.

“You’re better orf goin’ home, you know. This is where it all ends… well, in a few bloody minutes when I get off the bloody tube.” Her accent was pissing me off, a kind of Chinesey-Australian affair. “Fuck you. You’re face pisses me off, buster.”

What kind of a term was buster? Only old people used it… And yes, she did just answer me back, even though I did not speak to her – I thought to her.

So I asked her how she did that and surprisingly she let out easily, forgiving my complete rudeness. “It’s a bloody spell… a witch doctor did it. In Africa.” I pretended to be surprised holding the farce strong. But then it did make so much sense. I asked her… how? “Some bloody fuck’ead made it so that everyone hears what other people are thinking… but only when it’s ta do with bloody race or ethnicity. Hence I heard what you said about my accent and I hope it keeps pissing you off.” More sense in a completely erratic fashion. I replied: “But that would mean that we’d all be in some serious shit. London is like a minefield of total prejudice… and half the fucking time nobody says anything, they just think it and you know they’re thinking it but you don’t say anything and neither do they.” I paused making sure I had made sense (erratically). “Wait. How do you know all this?” I quickly looked around thinking the very worst: candid camera game show, a frame was in progress and I was the sucker. “Yeh, struth. That’s the problem with this city but I’m going to stop it from spreading.”

She was back to her initial point of being able to stop this problem just as the train pulled in; it would wait there for five minutes before leaving back up where it came. I faced a decision; slink off home and hope she would be successful. With this option I could face the city in the morning believing this lady had done her job, safe in the knowledge that my stereotypes of Blacks, Whites, fellow Asians and other would stay where each was meant to belong, deeply embedded in grey matter. Or if she did not succeed, perhaps London’s stress would be relieved by the venting of frustrations from that which could be seen. The differences between humans. We all never get along anyway, so why not verbally bash each other without the need for abstracts. ‘You cunt.’ Becomes ‘You White cunt.’ There would be no need to wonder who is a ‘cunt’ any more, or how to tell the difference between a ‘non-cunt’ and a ‘cunt,’ because skin colour now told us and without all the hidden mind your Ps and Qs.

As it happened, I took option two: go with the girl.

Whose name was Oki. It sounded Japanese, to which she responded (and I did not ask, per se) that the name was mainland Chinese in origin. Peking (where else?). Where she had grown up for seven years until moving on to Melbourne. She had been travelling for the past six months solid before getting embroiled in this here circus. From South Africa to London.
She was in my versions of pretty, all clothes worn prim, slim and proper. No creases. Mainly safe, dark shades but with hints of brightness; pinks and light blues. She was also wearing black and thin rimmed spectacles where in the left corner existed a silver bow. Out of place and a bit stupid, for glasses. No doubt she thought it was ‘cute.’ I grimaced, waiting for a response. But I did not get one. Sexist stereotypical comments did not seem to transcend minds.

“It’s also about the conversation.” She spoke carefully, maybe acknowledging my previous, silent faux-pas. “You have to be involved in the conversation to hear what’s being said; either being spoken to or eavesdropping or something like that. It’s why the dark officer never heard the White one.” I wondered whether ‘dark’ was racist. “I don’t think it is. His skin was darker than the White man’s skin.” Now this could get annoying… and scary, I thought. So I tabled the challenge. “I think I’m going to end up insulting you… again, so how do we stop that?” She looked at my chest, at what was dangling and noted the information she needed. “Let’s listen to our Walkmans. Sort of ignore each other. We’re getting orf at Colindale, where we are supposed to meet a guy who knows what to do. Next stop we getting orff at is bloody Canada Water, got it?”
She reached for headphones which were dangling like mine and placed them in each ear. She searched her person for the device that played her music and I found myself in awkward area. I wanted a little more information on what we were doing but this curt woman was being rather one sentence like. I searched my bag for spare battery and found it. “What you listening to?” I managed. She replied. “Hip Hop. Rap.” For some reason I laughed a little; she was a bit to cute and cuddly for big Black men. Or was that the point? “It’s not just a Black thing… Have you not heard of Jin… ‘the Emcee?’” in sarcastic tone. To which I smirked and said no. She queried and I replied that I just did not see her as a rap kind of person. “Who is a rap person?” Really not the conversation on a day of improper stereotypes whatever my visualisation; which was: she was a petite clean cut girl, with a bow in her specs, who was half Aussie, half Chink. “Half what?” I tried to stop myself from the thought but I said… no, thought it again. Chink. “Fuck you.” I thought of other terms; Gook, Slope, Slit. “Put your farking earphones on you farkin’ Brown Indian, then look away from me.” ‘Brown Indian?’ Wasn’t very creative.

To the sound of ‘Fade Away’ by Oasis we made it to Canada Water. She led the way down escalators to northbound Jubilee line. Waiting two minutes we boarded a train to Stanmore, getting off two stops further at London Bridge. Still we did not speak and I did wonder exactly why I was traipsing around London town with a woman I had just met. Why else but the male attribution error?
As we walked corridors, stairs and more escalators, I saw another why. A group of Black youths (hoodies, baggy clothes and all) harassed a middle-aged White man in a grey suit (ironed, unstylish, briefcase and all). He was flustered and tried walking, at pace, away from the absconders. “…can a monkey talk even, rude boy? Eh, ‘ow am I a monkey? Go on then? Tell me then?” I heard one say from my right ear, having removed a headphone.

“It’s not wise to do that.” Oki spoke, doing as I did with her headphone. “Where are we going?” I responded. “Northern line, northbound… but to Edgware, not the others.”

“So who are we meeting?” I felt that I sounded like an annoying child with ‘are we there yet mother’ type questions. “Some guy who is gonna stop all this commotion.” There were more questions I wanted to fire but to change the format I grabbed her dangling ‘phone. “…you can French kiss this clenched fist, Diabolic, a one-man brigade spreading cancer plague. Fist-fucking a pussy's face, holding a hand grenade. So if I catch you bluffing, faggot, you less than nothing. I just had to get this stress off my chest like breast reductions.
[New Voice] You motherfuckers are nothing, you cannot harm me. I'll resurrect every aborted baby and start an army. Storm the planet, hunting you down, 'cause I'm on a mission. To split your body into a billion one-celled organisms. Immortal Technique will destroy your religion, you stupid bitch. You faker than blue eyed crackers nailed to a crucifix. I'm 'bout to blow up like NASA Challenger computer chips. Arsenic language transmitted revolutionarily. I'm like time itself, I'm gonna kill you, inevitably. Chemically bomb you, fuck using a chrome piece. I'm Illmatic, you won't make it home like Gerome's niece. I'll sever your head diagonally for thinking of dissing me. And then use your dead body to write my name in calligraphy. This puppet democracy, just brainwashed your psychology; so you're nothing like diversity without equality and your crew is full of more faggots than Greek mythology. Using numerology to count the people I sent to Heaven, produces more digits than 22 divided by 7. You’re like Kevin Spacey, your style is usually suspect. You never killed a cop, you’re not a motherfucking thug yet. Your mind is empty and spacious. Like the part of the brain that appreciates culture in racist. Face it, you're too basic, you not going to make it. Like children walking through Antarctica; butt naked…”

“Wow. That’s pretty strong stuff.” I told her, looking at her rather smooth, baby like skin. She did not resemble the hardcore talk the two men from New York (accents told me) were rapping on the record. “Hip Hop is the only music that’s got that edge. You know? What do you listen to?” I ignored the question. “What edge? Grown men shouting… wearing furry jackets…?” (Having seen Busta Rhymes do such.) “…And talking about violence… er… shooting people and… cars?” I had not only ignored her comment but so too the guys on the audio (though there was violence).
“You aren’t listening to the right stuff. Half that shit on radio is paid orff by record music execs who want you to hear what you hear because they want to continue the bloody stereotype… they are going on what they know makes money. Fairdinkum, the idiots that rap total stupidity about guns, drugs and cars just fuel the… well for the best phrase from one of the rappers you just heard; a ghetto-bred-capitalistic-mentality.” Big phrase to which I just took in without contemplating it; what do I know about the music industry currently? I still bought CDs and didn’t download. “Rap has to be the best medium to get the words of the… well, the street. The people who live in the real world… anybody can rap. Not always good, but you can rhyme about anything. You don’t need to be able to sing or play an instrument.” I thought of Taj and, or course, my guitar. “Struth, yeah. There are a lot of idiots out there and they are the ones with the deals from the majors but you have to listen to the right rap…um… people like you heard; Diabolic, Technique… er… Jean Grae, C-Rayz, Wordsworth, Tonedeff… um, Canibus… and even, even you Brits have some; Klashnekoff, Skinnyman and the bloody Poisonous Poets… and Roots Manuva.” Now I was being bombarded. “Rap is a phenomenon and these guys are spittin’ somethin’ else. More than any other genre… What do you listen to?”
A question which I was not ready for, so I mumbled Rock ‘n’ Roll. “Oh… well, not so bad. But it depends. Is it stick-it-to-the-man rock or that sorft pop shit?” I honestly was not sure, I was a man stuck in a mid to late nineties Britpop gyration that was so Northern England influenced I even spoke like a Northerner at times. It seemed ‘stick it to the man’ but then I remembered reading that Noel Gallagher had used extracts from a speech by Tony Blair for a song. I did not answer but instead thought of Jack Black.

“What’s your problem? You never seen Crimewatch Bombay?” Was followed by laughter. An Asian (best guess Pakistani) called out to a couple. He was with three other Asian friends, all male; the couple were young and White and were sitting opposite. “Allow it, man. Aint worth t’umb-pin’ breda in front of his girl, you know.”

It was at this point that my concentration let slip. I thought typical thoughts that were for another day. It was the use of language. This guy was Pakistani, not Black. Just like many before him he was living the dominant culture of Blackism. He himself did not ‘hear’ me, but (and it was a shame) that his observant friend ‘did.’
Suddenly, I was the rainbow hoodie man all over.
“What did you say? Hey, this fucker said something... Fuck you, he aint Black. Why you gotta say that?” And then another added, whilst information spread amongst the four. “Some sell out punk. You like White men, innit faggot?” And more. “Yeah, my man is going out with some Chinese bitch. Confused Asian. Stick to Brown skin, mate.”

They laughed amongst each other but did not continue the assault. I was extremely anxious whilst the train pulled into Bank station. Oki had seen the potential trouble, grabbed my forearm and we stepped off to wait for the next one.

I felt the low from the adrenalin high grip me. I said nothing for the final forty minutes of my journey. I contemplated going home, not wishing for any more of this agonising torture. The Black and White of this world. For years it was these two behemoths of race that fought with each other; just the two. No room for Brown, Yellow…
Not White or Black? Then pick a side and fight. For all my Rock ‘n’ Roll; had I picked White? For all Rap and R ‘n’ B listening/jive talking Asian fans; had they chose Black? Was there more to fight from a third perspective or was the obsessions of the world ready to hide all other races under a huge carpet labelled ‘Neither?’
Overwhelmed I sank deeply; I had previously figured the harmlessness of following around an attractive girl. I had forgotten how close to danger I was: at any point outside of one’s shell in London. Four youths against one was not good odds for me and all this after being five minutes from my home.
On the new train, I tried to keep focused. Anything like Tube adverts for travel insurance, protein powders and universities. I caught nobody’s eyes until a while in when I fixed Oki’s. To the tune of Pulp’s ‘Sorted For E’s and Whizz’ she mouthed asking me if I was ok. I nodded, smiled and looked away. The stop was soon enough. Maybe I had made the right decision.

How it began (2)
(…I would note my change in tone. We are reaching the close and I am most saddened by what I will write. This is, in affect, my life story. A day in the life of a ‘without Bengali’ man (owing to the fact that this culture has regretfully past me by). Still, I have the responsibility, having dragged you this far, to entertain. Onward…)

Apart from the two of us, no other person (that I saw) alighted at Colindale. Some panic took me away from the issues of the day and to how I would talk my way out of the fact I did not have a ticket. Oki had bought one but I had not. Still, the situation was resolved by the fact there were no barrier guards, nor gates in closed position. We walked through and out of the exit turning right, as per her instructions. “We’re gonna meet the guy at McDonalds down the road. Outside, on the benches outside.” I visualised wet wooden benches whilst wrapping headphone wire around my MP3 player. There were hardly anybody on the streets and it did make me wonder about the severity of the problem. Were people in their houses to avoid disasters? Or was it simply a quiet day in suburbia?

There must have been ten minutes of road that led us to the fast food restaurant on which Oki told me about her chance meeting with a witch doctor’s son in Johannesburg. He detailed a curse that had been placed upon several cities around the world and that there was one man who had responsibility for the placement of the act along with (in true reactive fashion) the ability to lift it. The more she talked, the more I was lost in a sceptical look on her life. I believed her susceptible and naïve. I told and convinced myself that I followed her in pursuit of her attractive features. Even if the case, with her commitment to cause, what exactly had me convinced she felt the same?
Susceptible and naïve. We’re not too different her and I.

We stepped into concrete paved dining area through some surrounding planted bushes, getting feet a little muddy. Evening now yet still the water remained from afternoon rain and so not surprising all but one of the wooden benches were free, most wishing to dine inside the well lit (and marketed) hell hole. “We don’t need to buy anything, do we?” I enquired to a very distracted Oki. She walked to the only man seated. “Are ya David?” She spoke to a skinny but tall Black man in a beanie hat, zipped top with jeans who was smoking. He dragged and replied in a Southern American state accent. “Yerp. An’ a hot Asian? If my wife could see this she wouldn’t be happy.” He smirked, coughed and extinguish the fire offering us seats..

“Stop the curse.” Oki fervently told him. “Dayam. To the point. That’s feisty. I like it.” He paused with a disgruntled look on his face. It changed to a humorous position, then he straightened it. “I gotta ask, say… don’t you… do you guys recognise me?” I looked to Oki to confirm but she did not, she just shook her head. I did too. “Aint that a good’un. It’s all me fever in the States… you sure you don’t know me?” The ego of an American. “And yes, I heard that. Dayam, the world hates us. Oh shit.” At which point he giggled.

“Stop the curse… or spell. You started it, you gotta finish it.” Oki stressed once more. She was getting very irate. Me? I was still in a little shock that I was here listening to this. There were two mad people to deal with now, not one. “If I could, I would. But what the fuck do I know?” He shrugged both shoulders and smiled playing the cheeky innocent. “Besides, it’s healthy right? All that pent up… oh, angst in people. Let it owt.” I noted his red eyes and haze look, he was possibly high.

“Look, David.”

“It’s Dave, my mom calls me David.”

“Dave, this is fucked. There are people getting in trouble. Minds were meant to be like… private. Private worlds, mate. Don’t you know?”

“Wait. You Auz-stralian? You aint South African?” Dave was not too quick with the accent.

“Does it matter? Stop skirtin’ the issue – your being totally irresponsible with this. Now stop it at once.” I’m sure she must have reminded Dave of his ‘mom’ with that sentence. “Ha! All ‘em folk call me irresponsible and on a social level for the stuff I do. Now, it’s actually true. Is that irony? Oh snap, you don’t know why that’s funny! You sure you don’t know me? Either of you… ok, forget that. Listen, I am socially irresponsible. I know that and I am trying to make ay-mends for some of the stupidity and blatant ima-tu-rity, that I guess, I’ve shown to alotta folk. I’ve shown them alotta reason… well, alotta reason to make insinuations about certain… shits. I mean try putting yourself in my shoe. I was getting paid for the comedy and folks was diggin’ it, you know. A little too much, apparently. You got White folk laughing at what Black folks been laughing at. Aint no privacy no mo’… Did I have a responsibility? Well yes I deed. But that aint mo’ than most folk. Yes I’m raw, raunchy and all that. Iss-saul taking pee out of cultures… cultural phenomenon… ray-cial stereotypes. I done all that… but I swear, to my son and my fuckin’ new born; I did more than just play a fool of comedy. I moved shits on, bitch. I’m quoted as a phenomenon my fucking self. Man, fuck dat man that wants to say that I taken down Black folk. Yeah, I know some White folk be walking around mouthing off that they Rick James or frontin’ like… like they know Black folk just ‘cause they watch my show… man, fuck dat. Everybody gotta eat, right?”

A rant out of nowhere, I thought. He had such passion but in a docile manner. He was concerned and lost – dispirited, yet collected by a summation of thoughts that he may have gathered over time.
Was he famous? What did he mean by ‘his show?’ I was not a huge movie fan; nor television, but I had never seen this gentleman in my life… and there are not that many famous Black American men to confuse me – so that was not an excuse. Oki retorted something that I did not see coming. I immediately was zoned out of the following:

Oki: …slow motion better than no motion.
[pause] Dave: …I walked in the creeeb, got two keeds and ma baby mama late.
Oki: …Uh-oh, uh-oh, oh-oh
Dave: …So I had to did, what I had to did cos I had to get
Oki: …dough-oh, dough-oh, dough-oh
[pause] Dave: …I. I know I could make it right. If I could just swallow my pride. But I can’t run away. I put my gun away – you can’t fron’ on me…
Oki/Dave: … And I. I know I could make it right. If I could just swallow my pride. But I can’t run away. I put my gun away – you can’t fron’ on me

Dave nodded, Oki smiled and with that the two looked the best of friends. Dave even added. “And you don’t know me? I was on that track, son… Dayam, you needed to check the credits on that shits…” More nodding and laughter.

I broke up the happy party. “Wait. Why are we here. Isn’t there something we’re here for… like a curse?” I didn’t believe it myself and I’m not sure why I said it but I was gradually separating from the pack; dragging myself back into the situation for having travelled London to be here was just. “Yeah, that’s… that’s an apology right there. I didn’t mean for all this shit. I just came up with the idea… I thought it could be a sketch or som’in. But this dude had me smokin’ the wil’est shit and it was over. Done. Don’t mess wit dat African… voodoo shit.”

There was no real pause before the following:

“It’s not voodoo.” A voice from behind us all; from the surrounding bush a Black man had emerged and traversed concrete to get to our bench. “This is a religion that is beyond Western words… well, maybe not Charles Johnson.” I did not know what to make of this, I was anxious; in his right hand was a chrome gun.
“Nigger, put that shit away. Where you think dis is? Harlem? Dis is London, man.” Dave told him and then added “Man, you gonna fuck up my high.”

“You? What are you doing here?” Oki started. It seemed, again, I was the odd one out by a country mile. And it wasn’t even a Black thing. “What the fuck is bloody goin’ on?”

“Tell me, what do you know about revolution?” The newest stranger posed, who I assumed was the son of a witch (pun intended) from Johannesburg. We all remained silent for five seconds until Dave broke it. “Sheit, don’t be cryptic, man, tell us then.”
“Revolution is the birth of difference.” He continued in South African accent. “What we have on this planet is ‘umanity as we will never know it. no purity, no ‘onesty, no truth… nothing. What is there in ‘onour? Everything that we need to further the future. These White men purged lands for what? Their own greed, what is left? A stinking life for’rall… especially mother Africa. I’m here to change that.” Queue more silence. The eerie kind. I really wondered aggressively as to why I was there. “You,” Oki, “you started the curse, not ‘im, didn’t you…? Wait, how can this spell do anythin’ for revolution? This is fucked but there aint no bloody revolution stuff from it. Fuckin’ stop it. Stop it now.” This was a very seriously hostile stance for an unarmed woman protesting to an armed male. “This is the tip of the ice berg, bru. Dave, I used you. I gave you your wish to test the idol… the source. Now I know the power, now I know what my people can do.”

Wait - revolution. What was this man trying to change?
Out of all the thoughts of terror, bizarre coincidence and implausibility, my mind rang none of each. What I did think: of all the people with such grandeur, I could not envisage the man any other colour than White. “What - you think a Black man can’t rule this planet? Man, fuck you.” Dave told me. “Wait. What the fuck, Onyaye? Fuck no, man. This some power trip you messin’ wit. Fuck this… dayam. That’s some powerful African shit you gonna fuck wit.”

“Revolution, as I said is the beginning. There needs to be anew.” Onyaye boomed. “And with birth, there is a necessity for death.”

How it ended
“For the world to circle onto the new dimension we must rid her of the previous. To spread new stereotypes… quite apt, I must say.”

“You riddle speaking motherfucker. This aint no time for jokes, what da fuck you gonna do? I’m getting nervous, man. And I know it aint this weed.” No it wasn’t. Both Oki and I were feeling the same anxiety.

“This test is not complete. All power is limited by the knowledge of it. if we do not know of it, we will not fall for it. Of this spell, curse, if you will, those who know of it will command it. You, Dave and Oki. You, I do not know your name but I assume you know too. Do you?” At this point I should have said no. It may have saved me. But I nodded… I fucking nodded. “We all share the power. With our knowledge, we let the power grow between us. We are the reason curses, spells exist. We are also the reason revolution can exist.”
Through the riddles he made an obvious sense. We all know of stereotypes; all having the power to use and abuse prejudice. But whether we do or not is controlled by our own selves. Our appropriate of situations. This curse/spell/thing has just messed with the semblance.
Still, the revolution bit was definitely a blur. “So, you are saying, without the people of the world, this power cannot exist. That is, like, the stupidest… obvious stuff I’ve heard. So fucking obvious.”

“Oh shit. Don’t fuck wit a man with a gun, son.” Dave spoke. “But the ponytail gotta point. Why say shit we all know? How we gonna stop readin’ people’s minds and shit. Iss getting’ on ma motherfuckin’ nerves.”

To which the reply was cold, calculated yet also illogical. “By your deaths. You have all spread the knowledge, you’rall die and the knowledge dies along with the power, bru.”

I got up, I could not sit on a bench at a fast food restaurant debating my death. Staring a certain ill-fated future is not something you do seated. As I got up, so did Onyaye. He pointed the pistol at me. Nothing flashed by me. Not my life, not anybody else’s. “Werwait,” I spoke. “I have nothing to do with this... w-what the fuck?” Oki joined in the defence. “Yeah, he isn’t even supposed to be here. I just met him. You haven’t even been to Sarf-faf-rica, right?” This time I answered no; five minutes too late. “So how can he spread the knowledge if he had… no bloody knowledge of it… in the first bloody place?” Onyaye was calmed in pulling the gun head; read-to-fire. “We can learn to spread knowledge. Stereotypes are learnt and passed on. It’s a dangerous game but that is the power.”

Panicked, I responded. “What fucking power? Fuck, if I can spread it, what about everyone else? I can’t be the only one. You going to kill them too? The whole world?” Too late.

The trigger was pulled, but not before Dave had pushed Onyaye’s arms. I scrambled across the bench table to assist him, feeling but not hearing the piece blast out once more. I was harmed but it did not affect my motion in the struggle to turn fire upon my shooter. A bullet rung off into Onyaye. I’ll spare you the note as to where I got him but he did fall, dead.
I fell, breathing erratically. I saw Oki slump. She tried to crawl to me. Dave, who was clear of it all was in a state of total fluster. Curse words sailed from his mouth. He knelt down and told me something that I could not make out. All I could do was hope. I hoped Onyaye was correct; with the source of the spell dead; would too the spell?

And yes, people do seem to die in revolution; in this case, three.