Open Water

by Caleb Azumah Nelson

his dreads like thick beautiful roots dancing with excitement

You would soon learn that love made you worry, but it also made you beautiful. Love made you Black, as in, you were most coloured when in her presence.

Ask: if flexing is being able to say the most in the fewest number of words, is there a greater flex than love?

How does one shake off desire? To give it a voice is to sow a seed, knowing that somehow, someway, it will grow. It is to admit and submit to something which is on the outer limits of your understanding.

Besides, sometimes, to resolve desire, it’s better to let the thing bloom. To feel this thing, to let it catch you unaware, to hold onto the ache. What is better than believing you are heading towards love?

Sweet conversation from sour lips, the salt on the rim of the glass perched on the tongue.

You don’t tell her that the album had soundtracked your previous summer. You don’t tell her that you had repeated the song ‘Brenda’, an ode to the artist’s grandma, so much so that you knew when the bassline would begin to slide under the strum of guitar chords, when the trumpet would riff and reverb, when there was a break, a slight pause where the music fell loose from its tightly wound rhythm. You don’t tell her that it was there, in the slight pauses, that you were able to breathe, not even realizing you were holding air in, but you were. There would be a moment where you exhaled and a small, sad smile spread on your face as you struggled to contain your own loss.

The rush of memories like the tow of the ocean, the recollection of a man for whom love was not always synonymous with care.

This is your brother, partner in crime, stubborn opponent, gentle man.

This is your brother, your charge, your duty, your son.

the discrepancy between what they thought they knew and what was true scared you.

But I’ll be back,’ she says, here and not quite. ‘Maybe,’ reaching towards the smallest stack, a pile you always return to, ‘for some Zadie.’

You want to tell her that you miss her mother, to confess that you lost your God in the days your grandma lost her body and gained her spirit, to tell her you couldn’t face your own pain until now.

When one friend – first-timer – asked another – veteran – what it was like, she said, ‘The ancestors visit us and we let them take over.’ Maybe the ancestors are always within and you let them emerge.

You are safe here, you said. You are seen here. You can live here. We are all hurting, you said. We are all trying to live, to breathe, and find ourselves stopped by that which is out of our control. We find ourselves unseen. We find ourselves unheard. We find ourselves mislabelled. We who are loud and angry, we who are bold and brash. We who are Black. We find ourselves not saying it how it is. We find ourselves scared. We find ourselves suppressed, you said.

The rest of the day, a blanket draped over you, poring over the pages of a novel – Zadie Smith’s NW.

Perhaps that is how we should frame this question forever; rather than asking what is your favourite work, let’s ask, what continues to pull you back?

The happy ending is never universal. Someone is always left behind. And in the London I get up in – as it is today – that someone is more often than not a young Black man.

‘You drink Supermalt?’ ‘Absolutely not. That drink is horrid. My cousin gave me this shirt.’ ‘How can you not like Supermalt?’ ‘It’s like a whole meal in a bottle. So heavy. It doesn’t taste good either, tastes like …’ She shudders, as if whatever she is trying to recall is traumatic. ‘The Ghanaian in me is offended.’

They say many residents describe a man fitting your description. They ask where you are going and where you have come from. They say you appeared out of nowhere. Like magic, almost. They don’t hear your protests. They don’t hear your voice. They don’t hear you. They don’t see you. They see someone, but that person is not you. They would like to see what is in your bag. Your possessions are scattered across the ground in front of you. They say they are just doing their jobs. They say you are free to go now.

You fit the profile. You fit the description. You don’t fit in the box but he has squeezed you in.

You wouldn’t accept their apologies, nor their extended hands, because even these are weapons in the darkness.

In your kitchen, you wonder what your tears are for: the loss of him or the loss of yourself?

To give desire a voice is to give it a body through which to breathe and live. It is to admit and submit to something which is on the outer limits of your understanding.

Now, it is a permanent fixture, and you’re clocking in to clock out.

It’s a strange turn of phrase, you think, being allowed to breathe, having to seek permission for something so natural, the basis of life; in turn, having to seek permission to live.

It’s one thing to be looked at, and another to be seen.

It’s enough to be in this room, in this space, where those who are usually looked at, and objectified, are seen, heard; can live, laugh, breathe.

The film you saw together that evening, Barry Jenkins’ If Beale Street Could Talk, undid you.

others wanting to co-opt a word they dare not say in your presence, like they have not plucked enough from you;

You would like to be bulletproof. You would like to believe the shots will never penetrate. You would like to feel safe.

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.

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.

The tune is so sweet, like that of a bird who has learned to fly in his gilded cage.

You flash the smile of a king but you both know regicide is rife.

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

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.

Uncle Wray and his Nephew making an appearance.

Flashes of darkness, where the light was leaving him. There was no blood. Death is not always physical.

‘What you listening to?’ ‘Dizzee Rascal.’ ‘Classic.’ ‘Seminal. No Dizzee, no me.’