Our Father

It's Father's Day! I talked to my brother today, father of my beloved niece (who apparently counts me as one of her friends and I can't because she's too much) and he lamented the commercialisation of the day. That it's just for shops to make some extra cash. Then he talked to our dad, after I'd made him jollof rice, baked spiced chicken, salad, Goulder beer and some cake. When my niece is older and she's taken after her mother's extraordinary talent with baking, my brother will appreciate Father's Day a bit more. His daughter will be able to show her appreciation for him a little more.

It's a day fraught with complex feelings. Absolutely no parent is perfect, some imperfections can never be glossed over. I think of Marek Kaszinski's father and everything he took from his son. Things that can never be replaced. Auden Garceau's father who procreated him and failed to lift a finger to help him thereafter; an absence that cut so deeply it allowed an evil to take its place. Lily Asare's father who drank away her inheritance and her way to escape her horrendous, handsy boss. Pierce Callun's father who's selfishness put his son in the darkest of darkness that he almost missed out on the love of his life. Mical Wentworth's father who brought such evil into her life it destroyed her entire family. The unique pain they suffered as a result of paternal action or inaction is immeasurable. Only a parent can hurt you in ways that last a lifetime and sometimes beyond.

But some of those imperfections are shallow enough to lead to avenues that ultimately bring happiness.

If Art McWorth didn't have such compassion and connection to his father, he wouldn't have skipped out of his mother's wedding and started an inevitable path to meeting Patricia, who wouldn't have seen a photo of him to peak her interest. Without his utterly useless, criminally minded father Rocco Mamione wouldn't have become a lawyer, wouldn't have talked Lydia Atta Mills out of the trouble she got herself into, wouldn't have got Luca Cariso out of Italian prison so quickly and worst of all would never have met the storm that is Anna Taylor. Those children are so much stronger in spite of their fathers.

In a contrast to the evil stepfathers, there are the ones that step into that role quite literally as if they were born to be a father. Wynne Jones' stepfather who became a second and number one father after her own decided Scotland was too much for him and his daughter wasn't enough for him. The incredible Durante Da Canaveze who took not only Rufus Harrison under his wing, he stood between Arlo Vitale and utter devastation without hesitation.

Then you have the unicorns - magical dads.

Helena Sarpong's adoptive father who gave her siblings, purpose, calm and safety. Liam McNamara who built a whole website to talk through sex education with his daughter. Gina Robinson's father who loved and cared for her after her mother passed away with such dedication he became her friend as well as her lone parent. Lonan who killed to protect his child. Madeline Mpoyi's father who got her the hell out of Rwanda with only one bullet wound to show for it. There's another one, but I can't tell you about it because spoilers!

Not all fathers are dads. And not all dads are magical. For those of you that have the later, be ever so grateful, enjoy every single minute with them and pass the joy in remembered story for the next generation.

Island Girl

It’s that time of year again. Love Island time! Every evening (except Saturdays where they get to have a break, go to the beach and try not to crack on with each other without the cameras in tow) we gather via Twitter (Black Twitter UK v Fiat 500 Twitter) to watch, the laugh, to hype a gaggle of girls and a batch of boys find love and maybe win some money at the end of it. It’s fantastic TV and even better social media bants.

This will sound awful unless you understand, but I could watch Love Island in mental peace when there weren’t any black girls on the show. I’ll explain. Last year, Samira Mighty, she of ‘cutsie’ and the ‘yaaaaas’ scream as she got a text fame, was the last girl to be picked. Why? I cannot for the life of me tell you. Except for the fact that she’s a black girl. Her body as a dancer is fire. She connected strongly with the other girls in the villa, especially fan fave Dani but she didn’t seem to inspire the same in the penile of the species. Why? Coz apparently black is a type that men (of all races) are not interested in. The contestants will say this out loud. On national TV. With their whole chest. 

“She’s not my type.” 

“But you said you like brunettes.” 

“She’s not brunette, she’s…” cue awkward gesturing.

It was a disappointing end for Samira, even though she found love in the villa with then beau Frankie, we hardly saw them together to understand Samira’s breakdown when he was selected to leave. The editing made sure their connection was never seen by the light of day. We don’t talk about what happened after. We don’t.

This year we have the gorgeous Yewande. As soon as her face popped up as one of this year’s contestants, I groaned. I guessed far too well where the attacks would come. Her hair. Her teeth. Her mouth. Her sleek physique. But if I tell you the sheer amount of comments about a black woman’s hair in 2019 between 9 and 10 pm BST, you wouldn’t believe me. Brush it; tug it back; do something with it; it’s looking rough. Yewande was another girl chosen last and seemingly none of the boys were interested in because she wasn’t their type. How? She’s crazy smart, she’s got a banging body, and she’s Irish! Yesterday, an Irish girl entered the villa and one of the boys who had a date with her was sparkly eyed because she was Irish too. Guess what colour she was?

It’s ultimately disappointing watching this show fail in diversity time and time again. To keep prompting type as a colour. I swear, if one girl this year says “mixed race is my type” I will hurt people. A lot of people. It's stressful as a black woman to watch a healthy, beautiful, intelligent, young black woman have her self esteem chipped away day by day literally because she's not white and blonde. 

Some would query then why I write interracial romance novels, if I have such an issue with people claiming a type. You cannot unequivocally state that an entire race of people is not attractive because of the colour of their skin and call it a preference. That’s wholly racist, and if you don’t understand why, you’re lost. You haven’t met every single black person on this planet to say you aren’t attracted to them.

Further, black women are bottom of the list where dating and marriage is concerned. It’s exactly why I write stories with black women front and centre. With their hair in any type of way. Wig, extensions, braids, relaxed, twists, natural Afro (represent Miss Eva). It’s why I want black heroines to be appreciated for their beautiful skin. For their heritage. Their sparkling personalities and their pillowy lips (long before women with a surname that begins with a K began to extol the virtues of fillers). My heroines are first choice. Are the dream women. The quality that has been missing from the heroes’ lives. The one thing worth any and all sacrifice to keep in their lives.

I’ll persevere with Love Island. Only because it’s like watching tv with a family of comedians who speak my language. But I’ll keep writing the happy endings for black women that seems to continuously elude reality tv. And reality itself.

Music In Me

I saw Rocketman over the Bank Holiday weekend and if you could have seen my face after I came out of the cinema, I'd have been the heart eyes emoji. Elton John, God Bless him and his divaness, put his whole life on screen until the moment he emerged from rehab a bejewelled and bespectacled phoenix from the veritable ashes of his life. The way he used his own music to propel the story and to speak to the emotion each and every person felt in that moment, at that time, was extraordinary. Time used to be that I couldn't hear Rocketman without hearing Stewie from Family Guy pretending to be cool, singing this in his faux British accent, as a gig in a smoky bar. Now, I hear Elton or moreover, I hear Taron Egerton (thanks Spotify!). I feel how badly he wanted to escape. How he wanted to be true to himself. How different he was from the man in feathers on stage. And something I read struck me. Don't write to music. You won't convey the emotion of what you're writing as well as what you're feeling when you hear the song.
Or something similar. Don't quote me, but it was in the same vein as the above. What you're writing won't have the same emotional impact without the music. Look, everyone has writing advice for all seasons. You can't go on social media without tripping over someone starting a tweet yelling "AUTHORS!" I write to music full stop. It's the only way I know how to write. The entirety of Shibah's Monster came to me listening to when I listened to Storm  by Craig Armstrong and A R Rahman. Remains started with Vaults' Premonitions. I wrote a whole scene in Windows around Que Sera, Sera by Sly & The Family Stone. Wynne's Surprise wouldn't have been the same, if I hadn't listened to Jack Garratt's Fire. If I told you how many versions of Verdi's Requiem I listened to for the right soprano singing Libera me  for Verde Bianco Rosso you'd be concerned for my general mental health - also the perfect distraction: "It's for the book!" Army of Me and You's ending chapter has Ellie Gouldng to thank. It was better to cry happy tears, than just sad tears to Explosions. I wouldn't have had a clue what to do with Gabriel in Angel's Baby if it wasn't for Keaton Henson's To Your Health or with Auden's midnight strolls without BoB's Ghost in the Machine in Addicted to Witch. Sympathy for the Devil was a reworked old story that I'd never got around to finishing and without each and every track, I know I wouldn't have finished it. I could see Toni getting off the tube at Brixton while COOL played. Cari knocking the shit out of Pierce outside halls to Deadmaus. The same two sitting in that café while James Vincent McMorrow's Look Out tore at my heart.
I know when I was in the midst of my Sahara Desert (the time of Hank abandonment and all my various issues) I wasn't listening to music. No Coldplay. No Rudimental. No Vaults. No Missy Elliot. No James Blake. No Hans Zimmer. That serious, not even Hans got me out of the pit.
I had these crazy expensive Beats headphones and I was watching film trailers with them. Sad times. I can't recall which song/film/advert started it all back up again, but I know it was my link with music that Hank came back to me and said the immortal words "double decker Routemaster bus". When you read it, you'll know. And without the music, I wouldn't be at the finishing line of what is now the longest Italian Knights book in herstory.
So I say thank you for the music! Wouldn't be here without it. ps go see Rocketman. It's a joyous biography of a man who knows his music.