Taking Root

I was frankly fed up of spending every day watching the news through my fingers or swearing at the radio. I was sick of retweeting stories of racism and intolerance, whilst the hostile rhetoric from mainstream politicians was given a free-pass and broadsheet column inches.

Roots is an attempt to keep myself sane. To retain a modicum of belief that people are fundamentally decent and that we need to find new ways to reconnect and rediscover our collective common sense.

It’s a very lonely time to be a chipper idealist.

I’ve always been called out on my optimism and the fact I fervently believe that happiness is an essential measure of the success of a society. My spirits were dented when Unicef reported in 2015 that UK children were some of the unhappiest in the world. Utterly shameful, but even worse,  as a country we literally did nothing about it. A collective sad shrug and then back to our smartphones.

The mental health, hopefulness, emotional security and interconnectivity of people in this country is in crisis. Services are stretched, communities are divided, resources have quietly disappeared, fear and mistrust is high, the younger generation have been sold out politically, economically and professionally. We mock the amount millenials spend on their coffees – they need those quality stimulants to stay awake in their dreary zero-hour contract jobs.

Roots is a simple concept. Help people find each other without fear. Help to initiate conversations in a country where social awkwardness is our treasured national trait. Help residents talk proudly about their homes and heritage without looking and sounding like union-jack clad, card-carrying UKIP members. Ensure that the cultures, beliefs, and anxieties of those whose lives differ from our own are authentically heard and, where necessary, respectfully challenged. Using fact to counter fact, in safe spaces where people are civil, curious, occasionally vulnerable and most of all committed to ensuring all voices matter.

As I write this, we’ve just been turned down for our seventh funding bid and I feel deflated. It’s hard to convince anonymous funders in large offices far away that greater dialogue and demonstrable compassion iis work deserving of their money. I’ve sat round these tables when funds are being allocated and I know the pressures of trying to evaluate the worthiness of one ‘vital’ project against another. Kids are killing each other in major cities and we’re asking for money for conversations and kindness – not as instantly compelling, I know this, but without that dialogue and patience, very little will ever change.

Brexit is looming; with both government and opposition demonstrating the emotional intelligence of a vintage hat-stand, it’s time for the ordinary people to gain collective courage and create their own change. A belief that leaders motivated by self-interest and party political preservation would suddenly find solutions for the common good, is intensely foolish.

We have been touched by the number of ordinary people who donated to our crowdfunder and helped Roots get underway. Ordinary people who took a leap of faith in us, dug deep and helped us sow a seed. I place my faith in real people who live in ordinary communities, who understand struggle, who have compassion for those on the periphery and are willing to spend time (and their own money) working collectively to find a solution.

And if funders won’t fund Roots, we’ll do the work for free. It’s worth it.

There’s never a box in funding applications to demonstrate your level of passion , commitment and integrity.

There should be.

Midfield Magic

9th June 1987 – John Charles Bryan Barnes signs for Liverpool from Watford. There’s a famous picture of him with the other new signing Peter Beardsley, posing against a wall. Scrawled on the wall is some racist graffiti.


This signing, this racism, this man and this football club changed my life.  Liverpool fans are often accused of mawkish sentimentality and laughable hyperbole; but in all honestly watching this man, going to Anfield for the first time and learning to love a game I could not play, gave me, an awkward-looking and awkward-feeling 11 year old black girl from Bradford a much-needed black superhero.

During my teenage years, as John owned the left wing, the presumption was that hormones had taken hold and I had an understandable crush on a very attractive man. And I did – of course I did but it was always more than that; John (Never Digger, never Barnsey, always John) represented something bigger to me, before it was a concept I knew or a global Twitter hashtag. He was Black Excellence – personified.

He is now caricatured in the UK as the affable smiley footballer who performed on THAT segment on ‘World in Motion’ and I wince that he is asked to perform it on request on bad ITV gameshows with lazy grinning hosts. He sighs, obliges, smiles – and everyonIMG_0314e joins in the fun and ‘raps’ along:

“You gotta hold and give…”

Inside I’m screaming ‘Ask him more!!’ He is one of the most intelligent British footballers of my lifetime and we’ve reduced him to a C-grade celebrity, trapped in a 1990 New Order video, encouraging us all to ‘get round the back’.


I went to the World Cup in South Africa and John Barnes was a pundit most days on their national TV television and he was a revelation. His analysis of the game was fresh, challenging, incisive and articulate. Where are his stints on Match of the Day?

I was the only black kid in my Yorkshire primary school. My parents made a (very Nigerian) calculated deduction that a semi-rural school, with strong discipline, high teaching standards and farmland all around, would be the perfect educational environment for their firstborn.  Although I learned a lot about resilience and fortitude and the necessity of humour to deescalate tense situations; I didn’t enjoy the social isolation, racist bullying, the endless cruel nicknames (I’m still triggered by BA Baracas and Rustie Lee), the bullies’ siren call to my arrival in class – ‘Brown Girl in the Ring’.  The fact that I was automatically given the role of the Black King in the Nativity when I auditioned in for Mary. Being taught by the class teacher how to dance solo in paired country-dancing lessons, because all the boys refused me as a partner. These minipop micro-aggressions for a little girl were a all bit too much.

My parents did well. They bought me empowering books about Black History, told me I was descended from African Kings and Queens. Came down to the school to re-educate teachers and help shift the culture. Taught me to challenge racists and move on up. Told me I was beautiful and put up pictures of black stars around the house. They gave me ‘the lecture’ about needing to be 20% better than my white peers to reach exactly the same destination

(ALL black kids know this lecture – and it’s true. Use Obama vs Trump as a simple case study).

I couldn’t see it though. I couldn’t see the fruits of that 20%. Oh sure, there was Michael Jackson, but he wasn’t REAL. He was just a magical American sprite conjured up by Nubian Gods to bewitch us all. He could Moonwalk for Gods’ sake. Michael was out of this world. I needed a black hero very much IN my world and Floella Benjamin just wasn’t cutting it.

JB arrived in style. With a rough-looking afro. Like MINE. (Mama Shirley’s hair skills were pretty rudimentary and wandering around rural West Yorkshire looking like a little Angela Davis didn’t help my longing for pre-teen cultural acceptance).

JB faced racism. If Adam (yeah dull Bradford cretin, I used your real name – sue me) in my class could be rude about my looks, surely I could stand tall when John Barnes could win matches single-handedly, whilst opposition fans rained bananas down on him. Actual bananas. They bought and brought fruit to a game to unleash on a grown-up man and he still persisted in showing them up, scoring wonder goals that made grown racists cry.

JB was articulate. I’d been taught to debate and have strong opinions at home. Tea-time would often be my dad holding court about Russian politics or the latest Nigerian coup. I was expected to have an opinion and be heard.  Then at school, the bullying took away my voice and dulled my confidence. Hearing this beautiful, powerful, talented man, speak eloquently, have humility, and exude intelligence helped me re-find my words, my self-belief.

JB scored a mesmerizing Brazilian goal. In Brazil. Watching live as my guy samba’d through that Brazilian defence in the Maracana stadium; their fans  hailing him as one of their own, confirmed to me that he was a hero worth having.

I’m now 42 and my adoration of JB has well surpassed what is reasonable for a grown woman with all her faculties. I’m now caricatured as the creepily-obsessed single woman who loves John Barnes due to his 1980s thighs, Strictly Come Dancing Samba skills and questionably ambitious sartorial style.

It was always about more. He was my hero when I needed one. I met him recently and he joked, ‘yeah, I bet I was your favourite player because of those little red shorts’.

I nodded and played along because I couldn’t find the words to tell him that he actually helped save this young black girl from believing that she was less than the blonde girls in her class.  That he inspired me to believe in myself and to recognise that black could be beautiful and clever and talented and could fearlessly take on the world.

Thank you John Barnes. For all your black magic.



Mid May

I woke up at 5.40am this morning.

I no longer set an alarm clock but my body clock is still unable to let me lie in beyond 6am. Unemployment was not supposed to be like this.  I seriously contemplate going for a quick jog before the sun comes up and yet instead,  I find myself watching YouTube videos of Graeme Souness’s career highlights.

I clearly need some structure back into my life so I set up this blog site and then watched some more Liverpool legends’ footage. I’ve basically given this week over to mentally preparing for the Champions League Final on Saturday. Social Change can sometimes be placed on pause.

Next week I intend to hold my breath and deep-dive into all the things I wanted to do and say when I was the CEO of a childrens’ charity but couldn’t because charity law is an ass. The very people who are closest to the issues of crippling social inequality and best-placed to comment and advise, are muzzled by  archaic stifling laws into never expressing a faintly political view. I found this endlessly frustrating and counter-productive. It’s almost as if the government don’t want those with passion and expertise to have a powerful voice on the change needed to improve the lives of those on the margins.

I’ve become so jaded and detached from the UK political system that I no longer watch, listen, trust or care. There are moments when a politician fights hard to change an issue close to my heart (take a bow David Lammy), where my fires are briefly stoked but generally I’ve turned off from the broken system with its wolfish players. Where once I would have been greedily devouring the news first thing every morning, I’m now watching classic Sesame Street clips online and trying to decipher obscure 1970s Scouse football chants.

I’m hoping that my stepping off the edge – leaving the security of a comfortable job that I love; seeking meaning, integrity and truth in something new, won’t prove to be as foolish as it sounds.

It could be but as the great Graeme Souness once said: ‘Working with people on a field, really turns me on.’

I can’t ask for more than that in a new role really.

Starting again

Things I’m excited about:

Having weekends back

Having a life

Not being a boss

Not being bossed around

Not wearing hoodies

Being able to openly dislike (almost all) Tories

Living off my wits

Getting fit



Getting fit

Paying my own phone bill again

Having to negotiate pay as a freelancer

Not more free stuff because no longer an official do-gooder

Having to explain what I do

Not working with young people