Caryl Phillips - Foreigners

Question by Detective Superintendent Fryer; answer by Sergeant Kitching. 27.10.70

Q: Where have you kicked his [Oluwale's] behind? [In] What doorways have you kicked his behind?

A: Under Leeds Library in Commercial Street. In the dark doorway next to the Wine Lodge in Bond Street. Brills in Bond Street, Bakers in Trinity Street, in John Peters in Lands Lane. Bridal House in The Headrow, the Empire Arcade in Briggate, and Trinity Church in Boar Lane.

David, you wandered hungry and sick through the heart of a city that has now pedestrianised itself. Today there are no cars. It is all reserved for pedestrians, like you. But back then it was different. 3 a.m. 18 April, 1969. Clutching old newspapers that kept you warm on cold Yorkshire nights. You are sleeping in the doorway of John Peters Furniture Shop on Lands Lane. Sleeping peacefully in the heart of your 'clean city', and again these two men come and begin to abuse you. They shout and they kick you. They are forever moving you on from this place, and tonight they are very angry. Will they urinate upon you again? No, this time they merely shout and beat you, but you escape and run up Lands Lane towards the main street, The Headrow. Leeds' grand avenue. You turn right into The Headrow and run down the hill towards the doorway of the Bridal House where you often like to sleep. The only shop doorway on The Headrow that is illuminated, a place where everybody can see you. 397 The Headrow. Opposite the Odeon Cinema (which has now closed down). Today, in the window of the Bridal House, there are two white plastic models with silver decorations on their heads. The fully garbed female models flaunt themselves in the window, and female pedestrians stop and smile and look beyond your open-air bedroom. David, if only you had turned and gone up The Headrow and away from the city centre they might not have discovered you. But you came to where you knew they would find you at the Bridal House, and you squatted on your little stone step on The Headrow. The most open place in town. Fully illuminated. Just a short way up The Headrow from Millgarth Police Station, and on every policeman's route home from work. They pass by your bedroom without mirrors, and you are not hiding. Just sitting quietly in the heart of your city trying to stay warm and out of harm's way. Today the 'H' on the sign 'Bridal House' is hanging askew. But your house has not fallen down. Three doors away there is now the Housing Advice Centre for the homeless. Through the window I can see some black faces; miserable thin faces looking for shelter, people who are eager to be rescued. The window boasts a sign: 'We might just have what you're looking for.' Tracksuited, sleepless, desperate men. Asians, blacks, whites. Next door is Big Lil's Saloon Bar for broken drunks who are down on their luck, and beyond Big Lil's is William Hill the bookies. Sad new world. You did not need these places. You did not fail. You stayed in the doorway of your Bridal House. You eventually curled up next to happiness. You slept with the joyful brides, but once again they found you, and attempted to beat the life out of you, and so you ran and instead of going straight down The Headrow towards Millgarth Police Station you turned right into Vicar Lane and you ran for your life in the direction of Call Lane, but still they chased you, and you knew that this time they would kill you, and so you ran furiously, but they came closer, and closer. Twenty years in England had taken some wind out of your sail and you could hear them pounding the pavement behind you, and so you ran straight from Vicar Lane into the narrow entrance to Call Lane but they were getting closer and your legs could no longer carry you and then, as Call Lane turned to the right, you saw a narrow gap between the warehouses and you passed into this gap. It was five o'clock in the morning and you ran into the gap, my friend. You ran into Warehouse Hill. You ran towards the river, their hot, desperate, breath on the back of your neck. You ran.

*

Warehouse Hill is little more than a narrow gap between tall warehouses. A short cobbled hill of perhaps thirty yards that quickly dead-ends at the river. To the left is Warehouse Road and more warehouses. To the right is Leeds Bridge, where the city was born. In front of you is the River Aire. You did not jump, David. There is no evidence that you could swim. You did not jump. Today there is a safety barrier which is four feet high. A black metal barrier to prevent people from accidentally falling in. But not then, my friend. Back then you could fly down the thirty yards of Warehouse Hill, miss the cobbled turn to the left into Warehouse Road, and get very wet. But not you, David. You did not jump. Today, on the wall, there is a sign. It reads: 'Aire-Calder Navigation. Before the railway age, the making navigable of the River Aire importantly made Leeds an inland port connected directly to Hull. Cheap water carriage was vital for the successful export of the cloth marketed and finished in the town. Opened 1700.' Perhaps, David, the river tried to carry you away to the east and back in the direction of Hull. Twenty years in Leeds is a long time. Perhaps the strong current, down here at Leeds Bridge, was intent upon carrying you all the way back to Hull, and then back to the safety of Africa. Away from your home.

' Remember Oluwale '.

Graffiti on the wall by the Hayfield pub on the corner of Reginald Terrace and Harehills Avenue.

*

I was living in Sheffield when the case went to trial and I thought, 'Goodness, I know that guy.' It was David. I was outraged that the police would target him in the way the newspapers said they did, and behave with such unbridled brutality. Obviously they had a personal vendetta against him, but the David I knew was stubborn and was never a man to back down. I knew he would have refused to play second best to these people. David and I first met when we were about fifteen. We were part of the same group of about six to ten guys who ran together in Lagos. At Christmas and Easter we used to dress up in fancy dress; you know, a cowboy on a bicycle or something like that. We called ourselves the Odunlami Area Boys' Club and our dream was to escape to England, for the war had 'officially' educated us about that place. Olu had an uncle who ran a hotel called Ilojo Hotel in Tinubu Square, and sometimes we would meet there. Then eventually, one by one, we all sought out ships to stow away on and we made our way to England. I was lucky for my captain let me work my passage painting the ship, and when we docked in Birkenhead he handed me over to the immigration officer but he told the man that I'd worked my passage. Eventually I made my way to Yorkshire where I'd heard there were good jobs, and I got work at the Hatfield Steelworks. I couldn't believe it but Olu was also working there. David had the same no-nonsense attitude about him, and I was really very happy to see a face from Lagos, but I worried about him. He wouldn't let anything go. Nobody was going to do this or that to him, and his attitude was always getting him into trouble. If a foreman said something wrong to him, it would be 'fuck off ' and there really wasn't any point in talking to him. I tried. I would say, 'Hey, Olu,' but he was a stubborn, fighting man who simply found it impossible to back down and work the system. I worried about Olu. We all had strong heads as youngsters in Lagos, but maybe Olu's head was a little stronger. When I heard about the case I felt sick. I was shocked to hear that he had been reduced to sleeping in the street, but I knew that Olu would never back down and let these people humiliate him. Maybe that's it; he was a little stronger and more determined. But I didn't know that he was sleeping in the street. I just didn't know.

Killingbeck Cemetery is ludicrously overcrowded. The cemetery equivalent of a ghetto. Its location opposite St James' Hospital suggests that somebody is in possession of a strange sense of humour. The cemetery sits on York Road. The old Roman road to York. On this desolate patch of land trees have been planted as though they were a hurried afterthought. To the east of the cemetery houses are clustered tightly together behind flimsy wooden fencing. Children wander through the cemetery, using it as a short cut on their way home from school. The cemetery lacks gravitas. Abandoned flowers are dying on stone slabs. The children are oblivious of the significance of what lies all about them. They laugh. And then I see it. Your tombstone. It stands at the crest of a hill and lists slightly to the right. You are at the top of a hill, but 'David Oluwale' appears at the bottom of a list of ten names. And why a Roman Catholic cemetery for you? Was there something in the pocket of your wet coat that suggested this? Your blue bead necklace with a crucifix? Your grave is full. There are nine others. In death you have fulfilled a promise made at birth. Here at Killingbeck Cemetery there is no more land for graves. Soon there will be no more burials in this place. Everybody can rest peacefully. You have achieved a summit, David. Climbed to the top of a hill, and from here you can look down. You are still in Leeds. Forever in Leeds.