MEMORY LANE
Caleb Azumah Nelson celebrates the restorative love of a shared community
I’m in the business of nostalgia, of time travel. I want to ask, was anyone in Peckham during the early 2000s? And if so, do you remember my Auntie’s shop, on Choumert Road? She stocked everything that people away from home, trying to build something here, needed. Yams and plantain and kenkey and fufu powder, garden eggs and okra and scotch bonnets, dried fish by the box, Supermalt by the crate. She would send stuff back home too, allowing people to ship pieces of themselves for their loved ones to hold. Even though the walls of her shop no longer exist, sometimes when I’m walking down that very street, I find myself overcome with something like melancholy, like mourning, or like joy.
In south-east London, we’re a hopeful bunch. I think this is because small miracles are a daily occurrence. Like springtime, sunshine, blossom falling from the sky, walking from my family home to Bellingham train station, the music in my ears interrupted by the double beep of a horn, a car pulling over as the slow dawn of recognition washed over my features. Out clambered Adrian, all smiles and joy, and after a playful greeting, we found ourselves looking back, back, back, tapping each other with urgency, asking, do you remember, do you remember? We exchanged timelines and histories, mourned our silliness, mourned our youth. Memories of schooldays spent in fervour, of kicking ball in long and sprawling summers, bumping trains to find space where we could plot and gather. He spoke of Peckham, of Damilola Taylor Centre and Rye Lane, of drink ups and gatherings and the shops you might duck into to buy a little taste of home, maybe some plantain crisps or a Supermalt. As he spoke, I found myself overcome with something like melancholy, like mourning. Like joy.
I know I’m not alone. I know, a few years ago, when I was tired in that way that sleep can’t solve, just tired, and I was mourning my silliness, mourning my youth, and I took a bus from Bellingham to Deptford, to a darkened room where live jazz rang off into the night, I know the people gathered there were also in the business of nostalgia, of time travel, and with each movement, forward, back, forward, back, we were not just remembering but forging ahead, building new routes, taking in new miracles. I knew this before a friend introduced me to another woman and we spoke of south-east London, where our world begins and ends. I knew this before this new friend pulled me into a tender embrace and told me how glad she was we had met, and we split away, not taking each other’s details but somehow knowing we would meet again. And by some miracle, a couple of months later, we did, and now we meet often, all smiles and joy and laughter, and after a playful greeting, we find ourselves looking back, back, back, tapping each other with urgency, asking, do you remember? Maybe these aren’t miracles but signs of a hopeful community, one that dismantles solitude. Regardless, I know that when the time comes to split, I might find myself overcome with something like melancholy, like mourning. Something like joy.
‘Open Water’ by Caleb Azumah Nelson (£12.99, Viking) is published on 4 February.