My Royalist mother would have been smiling down at me from her seat on the right-hand side of God, as the taxi arrived to pick me up to meet the Queen at Buckingham Palace. Today would have been her seventy-third birthday, so I hope she’s still smiling down at me as I write this little missive.
I thought moving to Ghana was a dream come true. But after only a week in the bright and stifling glow, the heat had not been kind. Was I having a nervous breakdown?
If things had gone to plan, Ephraim Lewis would have been a household name. Music execs spent millions trying to turn the boy from Wolverhampton into the British Michael Jackson. Then in 1994, Ephraim jumped from a balcony in Los Angeles. The secrets of his brief, troubled life only emerging a year after his death.
America may have its Spike Lee, Toni Morrison, Tyler Perry, Oprah Winfrey or Danny Glover, to name a few, but the recent success of British films at the box-office has brought with it no significant or corresponding improvement in the profile or fortunes of our black writers, actors and movie makers.
Who would know that this little plot of land in the heart of Saint Catherine, Jamaica, was once home to the first examples of genetically bred cattle anywhere in the world?
Revisiting the scene of a distant memory can be a tricky business. One is never quite sure, if the ghost is you, or if the place is ghostly. The net effect of this is like wandering through a dream wide awake, very eerie.