Wondering through the DVD floor I suddenly came across a ‘Black Cinema Section.’
What actually constitutes black cinema exactly? This section would have been fine if it was all in an African language (like ‘Asian cinema’ is in the Asian languages and ‘French Cinema’ in French) but it wasn’t. Eddie Murphy, Cuba Gooding Jr, Denzel Washington – these are all American, English speaking superstars. Surely these films aren’t ‘black’, but simply ‘films…staring black people.’ And ‘8 Mile’!(?). Oh, the irony. As a black person I was deeply offended, more so due to the fact that it was a section enforced by black people as much as white. This ‘black section’ was exactly what was wrong with London. England. The damn world. People were so busy trying to acknowledge differences they had overlooked that it was exactly these differences that served to pull people apart. It wasn’t empowering for the black race to have their very own section, it was absurd. If you wanted equality, be equal. That went for DVDs as well. Anything else suggested that black people acted a certain way – or liked certain things. Well I’m black, and I don’t like Avirex jackets (they suggest a hardness I don’t possess), and I’m not overly fond of spicy foods (though I can take it. I’m just more of a flavour person). ‘Rio Bravo’ isn’t a ‘white’ film, it’s just a ‘film’, as ‘Boyz in the Hood’ or ‘The Harder They Come’ should just be ‘films’.

I sighed. Another public house-of-purchase had given me disappointing insight.

I wandered aimlessly after that, head down, thinking of the woes. Aimlessly down the streets, aimlessly into shops, aimlessly onto the suffocating tube trains. But I was to be saved!

When I looked up I found myself on Edgware road, the haven of London spirit. Yes, it was dirty, and yes, there was a possibility of running into a hardcore street gang, but if London was the heart of England, it beat the hardest here. Lined with Arabian corner-shops, African food outlets, Subways next to Starbucks next to Kebab shops next to crummy faced whisky bars – this place was alive! The people knew who they were here. Iranian speaking Englishman, Ewe speaking Englishman, English speaking Englishman – Outside of the Hookah cafes people smoked shisha in business suits and Nigerian Kaftan outfits alike (originally an Indian past time that fit so well against the Albion backdrop). Here, England was no one thing, but a mesh of culture that took on the history of a country – almost unexplainable. Almost! These dirty pavements were England, these cheap wine bottles, these angry young rude boys. And ahead of me Marble Arch rose in the distance, behind that, Hyde Park, and behind that, hope. This is London! I thought to myself. This is England!

Yours truly,
The New-Wave Slave

p.s. I apologises for any sentimentality experienced during this read.