Phoenix Café, Brixton
On the bus a child nestled into the crook of his mother's arm. She was a Black woman with simple hair: Afro hair in a bunch. Her child’s was plaited – looked like a girl with eyes shut, nestled into that duffle-coat hood.
The man in front told his child: 'Sit down like a good boy. Be good – look at her,' pointing to the child behind.
The woman with the bunch looked tired. She barely moved. 'It's a boy,' was all she said.
'I'm sorry,' the man said. 'Be a good boy like him.'
So the little boy sat down in the seat, quiet now, no longer up and awake pointing out things in the window as the bus went by.
The woman pulled her child to her; looked down at his plaited head. She wore a black, market coat. No nails. No hair. They got off in Clapham and went into the Pentacostal church.
The man pulled a sack of Argos stuff from the luggage bin. It was green, seethrough plastic. Very large. I could see the jutting corners of boxes, threatening to tear the thin green plastic of the sack.
He said 'thank you' to the driver and got off the bus. The boy ran alongside him. He wore a little red shirt with white stripes.
The sun was coming and going. There is love, I thought.
