Barber Shop Chronicles / 5th December / South Africa.

 On the 7th of December, I left London to travel through SubSaharan Africa for six week researching a play about barber shops. The project is supported by The Binks Trust, The British Council and Fuel Theatre Limited. This is the first of six journey-logs.

Barber Shop Chronicles / 5th December / South Africa.

Two days before I leave on the six-week research trip across Sub-Saharan Africa, I'm sat in the living-room watching the news. Years ago, when I realised t.v. stations had political agendas and each episode of the news is as curated as any 'reality' t.v. show, I began to boycott them, but for some reason, this night, I am drawn to the box, to the dispassionate voice of the newsreader. As he speaks, he is interrupted by a news bulletin live from South Africa. PresidentJacob Zuma is speaking behind a podium and I know what he is about to say. I have feared this for years. I call out. My older sister comes running from the kitchen and I wrap my arms around her waist. Zuma says that Madiba has died — the first democratically elected president of South Africa, Nelson Mandela, has passed away and I lose my breath.

I am to travel in two days to begin researching Barbershop Chronicles, an anthology of conversations, a play about what men talk about in barber shops. The first stop is Johannesburg, South Africa, and I predict accurately what the conversation will be about. When I land, I'm collected by a taxi driver who works for the British Council and he gives me the first of many lessons I will learn about the country, its many languages and tribes, that JoBurg was a mining town, that Soweto is home to one million people, that Nigerian Christian evangelism is BIG here. I check into the Easy Hotel on De Korte Street in Braamfontain, email the few contacts I have in the city and have a dinner with Milisuthando, aka, MissMilliB - blogger, fashion writer, voice of her generation, really a renaissance woman through and through and through. As we drive, she speaks passionately of the history of Apartheid, the living legacy of that institution, the unbalance of economic power that persists, the hopes and dreams of black South Africans and what she imagines must be done to secure a peaceful future. I ask politely if I can record our conversation and I do so as we speed through the empty Sunday night city streets. Later on we visit Kitchener’s, a popular after-hours watering hole. Mili and I discuss the project and the differences between JoBurg and Cape Town. When she excuses herself to use the bathroom, the bar breaks into Mandela praise and struggle songs, swaying passionately in his honour, the television reeling documentary, after condolence, after solidarity messages. The barman lines up shots of something dark, sweet and fiery for the entire bar and we toast Mandela's legacy.

I meet Shoni the following day, my official 'fixer' for the trip. He is a quick witted, dirty-laughtered, laid back, good natured dude of diamond smiles, who admonishes me after purchasing a SIM card, to put away my phone when walking the streets. 'This is Joburg' he says, 'You must be careful'. But it feels too much like a lazy Brixton afternoon, and that brand of danger I can handle. We drive around visiting barber shops, Shoni doing his best to introduce me and the project to the guarded barbers. I take down names, addresses, dates and times to swing by and the day finishes at Yoeville which Shoni says is the most multiethnic neighbourhood in Sub-Saharan Africa. As we walk, everyone is here: Cameroon, Ghana, Zimbabwe, Tanzania, Nigeria, Malawi, Jamaica, Trinidad, Zambia and more, all spilling into the streets, all mixing their languages with Zulu, Afrikaans, English, Xhosa and more. Shoni suggests we go visit a friend of his and we drive to Greenside, across town, to Mandla's house. Mandla, Shoni's friend, isn't nicknamed 'Street Boss' for nothing. He knows JoBurg like the back of both palms and is plugged into street fashion, street culture and contemporary music. He runs Street Cred, a festival of all that I have listed, and as we speak, it becomes rapidly apparent that we have common ground, that there is work we can and must do together.

Mandela's passing is everywhere. Posters line the roads and bus stations. The t.v. and radio stations have jingles and snippets of songs laced into every ad break. People call in to talk of nothing less. Points and counterpoints are made about the adequacy of the ANC (the ruling political party) to run the country, the nature of deal Mandela made on his release from prison, the attempt to rebrand Mandela as a peace-loving-turn-the-other-cheek kind of brother, rather than the fiery freedom fighter who not only used violence, but supported Malcolm X's use of force, such that he featured in Spike Lee's biopic of the man. Soweto is home to a large stadium where Mandela's ceremony is to be held. Dignitaries from the entire world fly in, from Banki Moon to David Cameron, President Mugabe to Desmond Tutu, three US Presidents including Bill Clinton. The politicians make long speeches. The sign interpreter gets it wrong. The soldiers and police attempt to maintain order, but in the stands, the people sing. It has rained every day in JoBurg. It pours throughout Mandela's funeral, a lashing rain, relentless in its density and duration. Some say this is an omen, Madiba warning from death. Shoni had told me previously of 'The Night of Long Knives' a prophecy believed by Afrikaners when black South Africans reclaim their country and wealth by force. He says this jokingly, adding that he is not a fighter, doubts it will ever happen but there is a something in the JoBurg air.

In the barber shop though, conversations are also about the every day, for life goes on. Shoni and I get our hair cut at a little joint down the road from the hotel. Abel, our barber from Cameroon is a small man of precise hand gestures. His francophone/African tongue makes rough work of English, speaking in rapid bursts, he explain he is the good brother - referring to the Bible Story - Cain is the bad one. He started cutting when he came to JoBurg, never learnt back home because he believed it was a job for dropouts, he dropped out of uni, left Cameroon to make money, and here he was. But he thanks God, says, it is nothing short of God's glory that he is able to make a living here, to feed himself. Some of his colleagues don't have up to R1000 saved but he does, and will pay for his University fees. In the ceremony, Presidents Mugabe (of Zimbabwe) and Obama (of America) receive the most enthusiastic and generous receptions. SA's president, Jacob Zuma's was as voluminous but negative: he was booed by his own people, on an international stage, the world's media watching. Able says this is bad, we should not have booed our leaders, 'they will go away if we do so'. I ask if he thinks they are doing a good job and he goes quiet as if he believes this is beside the point; they are leaders, we must respect them. Period. On the other hand, Shoni says this is what democracy means, we must boo them! Boo!

On Friday, I visit J's Barbershop. It is near Melrose Arch, a predominantly white-world away from the black-African of Braamfontein and Yeoville. J's reminds me of barber shops in London. HipHop is the soundtrack, barbers wear their jeans low, there are sofa's for waiting clients and clothing rails for of clothes for sale. I speak with Tumi, a private banker who'd been coming to J's for years. After talking about language differences and his varied receptions when travelling to different parts of this country, his tone softens on the topic of romance. A new relationship, a new girl, what he thinks of their future prospects, what his friends think of her, how he has watched her interact with family, that he thinks he has found 'The One'. I ask if he has communicated how deeply he feels, 'Does she know?' And he replies 'No, You have to act tough, can't let her know just yet, maybe after a year' (!).

As part of grant from the British Council, I am to run a creative writing workshop with a group of poets led by Thabiso Mohare, of British Council JoBurg, of Word & Sound - a poetry organisation. Thabiso is a soft-spoken, dreadlocked charismatic man of many talents - most of the folks I meet seem to be multifaceted here. When I first met Thabiso, he'd just been commissioned to write a poem for an American radio station on the mood in South Africa following Nelson's passing. As we drive to his apartment to hold the workshop, I learn a little more of his glowing plans for poetry in Southern Africa. At the apartment, the writers arrive and there are many of them, each with a different voice, aesthetic and approach to writing. After brief introductions, I lead a two hour, thirty-minute workshop on imagery and language. We discuss and critique 'Litany' by Billy Collins, 'The Jabberwocky' by Lewis Carol, and 'The Forgotten Dialect of The Heart' by Jack Gilbert. We discuss what is gained and lost in using words to communicate and greater what is gained and lost in using the English language instead any of the 12 languages of the 12 tribes in SA. After that, we write poems. We read these poems to each other. We eat, drink, nourish one another.

Soon it is Sunday. I'd been denied a Visa to Zimbabwe - the next stop on the six-week research trip - so I must now stay in South Africa for a few more days, attempt to get a visa, and in the meantime, seek out Zimbabweans resident in the country, to hang with and talk. When heavy sanctions were placed on President Mugabe for his violent land reform programmes, three million Zimbabweans fled to South Africa. Finding them should not be a problem. At night, I make a list: Things I have learnt:

1: The Night of Long Knives. 2: Samuel Eto'o is the most successful African footballer of all time. 3: Mandela was of the Xhosa people, the runt of South Africa's indigenous tribes. 4: Xhosa folk sided with the Dutch and English when they colonised South Africa. 5: Joop! fragrance sales rose by 80% in the first three months of its PR campaign. 6: The campaign was masterminded by MissMilliB and her team. 7: 'Our poverty is the 8th wonder of the world'. 8: Mugabe is a hero to most South Africans; his use of violence was just in their eyes. 9: The still waters that run deep in South Africa are not still. Not at all. 10: Hunter's Dry is the king of ciders.

Next stop, Harare, Zimbabwe?

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Freewrite // 13 November

A ‘Freewrite’ is a writing exercise designed to see what the subconscious throws up: to write freely without editing, planning etc. There are many variations. I use this one when I lead writing workshops, I ask participants to give 10 random words (which we add in roughly one-minute intervals) and also a half-sentence to begin with. Words: Fire, platypus, death, mountain, beans, magic, unicorn, rocket, fairy, sleep, pitch.

The football pitch was wet. The boys and I sat on the coach, our heads resting against the cool window pan longing for the world outside. It wasn't just wet, it was waterlogged, each blade of grass drowning in its watery grave, its thirst every quenched. Some prayed for fire, that a furnace would descende and dry up the ground for the game to begin. The goal keeper, from the back of the bus explained how a platypus would make a great goalie given the weather conditions and coach explained this was the death of masculinity; in his day, they played through rain storms, they hiked mountains to find flat turf closer to the gods and there, they defied the laws of humanity and gravity. The striker wondered out loud if magic beans would grow to mountain tops, if destiny was built into the language of football at all and the mascot, dressed as a unicorn explained he was made of the stuff, he could make crowds cheer, dance to his every whim, he was magic itself. The boy jeered and dared him to dance the pitch dry with his magic and he rocketed out of the coach to the pitch and danced and danced.

Later, the boys claimed when the skies opened up and lightning struck the unicorn mascot, it threw him up in the air and his white suit burst into flames and fire like a fairy in flight and the others who were asleep woke up and shook their heads in disbelief.

Freewrite // 24th October

A ‘Freewrite’ is a writing exercise designed to see what the subconscious throws up: to write freely without editing, planning etc. There are many variations. I use this one when I lead writing workshops, I ask participants to give 10 random words (which we add in roughly one-minute intervals) and also a half-sentence to begin with. Words: Jigsaw, macaroni, riot, banana, fish, anger, crucifix, struggle, salad, penuts.

The police arrested the old man. A bull ring of squad cars amassed outside his house. Their lights flashing in the august dusk and to further humiliate the old man, the superintendent on the scene had the youngest, blondest female officer lead him out, her hands like a bright vice around his wrists and the old man snarling through the scattered jigsaw of neighbours, applauding as he struggled past. A little girl who would grow up to be a police officer threw handfuls of macaroni as he walked past remembering the riots she'd seen on television, imagining her fists were hurling bits of bricks at the old tyrant. The old man bent over banana-like into the unmarked police car which slipped into the night, a fish into the school of traffic.

There was anger. The old man felt it spreading uncontrollably from his teeth, a vice-like rage, a want for violence loosened in him. Through his opened ripped shirt, he glimpsed his crucifix and quietly cursed God, Christ and all his diciples. Years from now, he'd recall this was when he lost his struggle with faith and the good book. Th rage tumbled through him. He vomited the salad he'd had for lunch in the back seat and watched quietly as it dried into the fabric turning hard, his pupils reduced to peanuts in the dark.

The Butterfly Hotel

So, my five favourite poems from Roger Robinson's new book are: Brixton - the detail, the fluid precision Month One - heartfelt, emotive Trinidad Gothic - sublime Wild Meat - this has inspired a poem As All The Boys Did - breathtaking ending.

Came out recently, published by Pepal Tree and you need this in your life.

Barber Shop Chronicles. Call out.

Barber Shop Chronicles.Introduction and call out. October 2013. Inua Ellams

Years ago I heard of a programme to train barbers in the very basics of counselling so that they would know how to handle sensitive things their clients might say. I wanted to be a resident writer at that barber shop in South London, to find out what those stories might be and to write something inspired by those stories. The idea has grown to this project called 'Barber Shop Chronicles' where I will begin in barber shops in London and travel to countries from Southern to Western Africa looking for stories. The continent is changing so rapidly that we of the diaspora communities barely keep up. I want to gather the ways in which the continent is changing (the day to day issues and problems) directly from locals, from the intimate and intense conversations men have in barber shops. Rather than focusing on a single person's story, I'll be searching for themes to build an 'anthology' of conversation that will link communities on the continent with communities in the United Kingdom. When I return to London, I will create a play using what I find.

Help! Between December and January, I will be travelling to South Africa // Cape Town, Zimbabwe // Harare, Tanzania // Dodoma, Kenya // Nairobi, Uganda // Kampala, Nigeria // Lagos or Jos, Ghana // Accra and Sierra Leone // Freetown. I’m hoping to find one or two barber shops in each city, to mine for stories. I will be spending no more than a week in each place, so will need the ground work to be done before I arrive. So, I was wondering if you could help me?

I am looking for a charismatic, welcoming barber who has regular, clients he knows well, places that have a very strong community feel, frequented by both young and old generations, where the language spoken is English, where everything is discussed. No place is too small or too large, everything from tin shacks on road sides to larger complexes are welcome, and the barbers themselves (who will be key to this process) can be young or old. When it comes to writing the play, I can change names and locations of people and paces if they would like to remain anonymous.

Thank you.

Freewrite 26th August. #Greenbelt

A ‘Freewrite’ is a writing exercise designed to see what the subconscious throws up: to write freely without editing, planning, punctuation, paragraph etc. There are many variations. I use this one when I lead writing workshops, I ask participants to give 10 random words (which we add in roughly one-minute intervals) and a half sentence formed using the last word. The half sentence is the starting point for the freewrite. This freewrite was held at the Greenbelt Festival.

Words: Expedition. Pissed. Banana. Origami. Injury. Space. Reality. Cyborg. Fluffy. Carpet.

There was a carpet, a fake persian. It lay half in shadow and half in the light streaming through the windows in the old mosque. Dust clung to the air like old prayers, a withered expedition to God that failed halfway out the mouths of the penitent. The air was pisses off that it held these dead dreams. A burst banana lay in one corner, a moshpit of fruit-flies dancing above it, their tiny wings like origami paper fluttering the dusty prayers. An old woman nursing an ankle injury limped into the space and knelt down on the carpet. The dust gathered around her mouth as she bent over praying, pleading for some other reality, that the cyborgs her grandson talked about might help alleviate her pain. Her prayers were steadfast, honest, fluffy as they soared upwards towards the ceiling where the star and moon watched over the silent waiting city.

Clubbing.

Clubbing.

It begins with shackling necklaces across throats:
the distorted custom of wearing amulets to battle
talismans to war; we are new hunters, wear jeans

to camouflage, clutch mobile phones like spears
journey for the village / town / city square, meet
the rest of the tribe mostly in short skirts, armed

with stilettos, armoured by Chanel. Dusk thickens,
the customary bickering between us commences
through the jungle vines of power lines/stampede

of zebra crossings/night growth of streets bustling,
our ritual is natural, till the traders come. Greater
armed, they divide with such ease that most of us

are taken. Those who resist are swayed by liquor
deals, sailed to darkness where the master spins
a tune not our own. We move stiffly to it as minds

force indifference, but spines have a preference
for drums. Rage building, we make our melody,
fight to find our feet until the master tries to mix

our movement with his song… but the rhythm is
uneven and the tempo, wrong. Against its waves,
we raise voices in anger, fists in protest, dancers

in the tide, militant against the music, a million
men marching through seas. But we still know
how to cross water, the ocean holds our bones;

explains our way of navigating past bouncers
like breeze into the cool air, where clouds pass
like dark ships and find us beached, benched

with parched lips, loose-limbed and looking
to light. Now, the best thing about clubbing
is not this, or the struggle to make hips sway

just so, not the need to charge cloakrooms
as if through underground railroads. No. 
best thing about clubbing is the feeling

of freedom on the ride home.

Freewrite // 1st of May

A ‘Freewrite’ is a writing exercise designed to see what the subconscious throws up: to write freely without editing, planning etc. There are many variations. I use this one when I lead writing workshops, I ask participants to give 10 random words (which we add in roughly one-minute intervals) and also a half-sentence to begin with. Words: Chocolate, Yellow, sky, cardboard, door, scent, blue tack, gravel, dog, bowl.

For a moment, I forgot what the wind feels like, what it is to run with something infinitely faster, lighter and barely of this world. There are parts of earth that are liminal, things we only see in the briefest glimpse, and are gone, a blink's worth of words: the faint faded taste of chocolate on a lover's tongue and you wish you were there before. Or finding an old book book yellowed at the edges and wanting to have held it white and just pressed. The sky is filled with this liminal energy, clouds, those gatherings of water hold faint traces of all who have drank before. When it falls, rain on open mouths, hard faces, cardboard in alleys, roof tops, reservoirs, its the dead falling all around us. The rain drops on windows are warnings, the door is splattered with screams. The after rain scent is of wounded soldiers, blue, tacked to the living, they are clinging, sinking through our skin, through gravel to the soil of us. A dog barks, lonely and knowing into the heavy dusk and the curved bowl of earth waits to drink again.

2012: A Snapshot

Earlier this year The Houses of Parliament and Apples and Snakes commissioned me to 'crowd-source' a poem democratic engagement and parliamentary representation. On Twitter, Facebook, here on my blog, in workshops, on bus rides, at the optician's, in supermarkets I asked questions and this is the by product. Thanks.

2012: A snapshot.

A pub on stilts. Its shadow: long and dark,
cast along the tall grass, St George’s cross
ripples in breeze, a tartan kilt dangles off

a window sill, a sky ever stuffed with rain,
one red dragon - half sunk on the horizon
is how I picture the United Kingdom.

There are steps carved of wild wood and
old stone, they shake but master the weight
of all who come. Hung over the fireplace is:

a stuffed bird, sketches of veterans, framed
paintings of chalky cliffs, ceramic castles
adorn the mantle-piece, and if you listen

to those closest sat, whose voices rumble
out of broad chests decorated with medals
you’ll hear stories of days gone by,

when men were men and that was that.
The pub sits on stilts. By the long counter,
Miriam, 25, wise for her age, giggles

but finds enchanting the frayed man
who yells in opposing voices; she finds
truth in the rough quarrel of his tongue.

He yells: his voice is never heard, then
yells: he is just misunderstood and Liz,
46, seeking solitude, asks him to be quiet.

For her, we are snowflakes; our leaders
stand in blizzards, their task is difficult:
to sculpt us into beautiful. Further back,

in suits, tapping at computers, measuring
the slow gait of growth are the savvy mocha
drinkers, tech heavy heads who talk rapidly

of financial liquidity, the cost to the nation,
the worth of things. Dan thinks of whispering
to his unborn twins. He is with the fathers;

they nervously seem to count loose change,
frown, then order one drink. The cleaners
stop their second shift: a cup of water before

the third and overhear journalists speak of
finding ‘dirt’. For all their fancy talk, one thinks,
they don’t know the meaning of the word.

Tense are professors. By the dart boards,
they wonder if the veil will fall, if students priced
from tuition fees will cease to fill UCAS forms.

These young ones fill the centre, feel ignored,
battered, berated, bullied, bored by those who
speak for them. Betrayed by flashing bulbs,

some huddle into headphones, their heads
bound to driving beats. Their conversations
turn around music; how bass alleviates

the weight of their world, how sparse snares
hold their sense of loss, how rappers speak
best for them in this pub that sits on stilts.

By the juke box, the writers try to mix
free speech with unflinching sincerity.
The pastors preach their God’s true word,

scientists break what puzzles us. Athletes
shrink from alcohol to meditate on starting
guns, the gold, silver and bronze that call

for muscular perfection, turns the world
to our capital where identity gleams with
questions: Who are we? What's our thing?

Some murmur gently quiet themes of food,
beer, football, equality, a shifting cloud
of answers fill this pub that sits on stilts.

The economists, shop keepers, postmen,
midwives, bus drivers, the pharmacists,
mechanics, most want the simple things:

The farmers, chemists, bankers, plumbers,
chefs... the endless list want better healthcare,
decent housing, jobs and truth above all this;

Truth of headlines. Truth of law. Truth of
taxes. Truth of war. Truth of power. Truth of
knowledge. Truth of who and what corrupts.

The pub rocks on stilts. The doors creak with
a passport’s opening, immigrants come;
strands of songs rise from their hopeful lungs

and outside, if you happen to walk along,
if you gather up our raging symphony,
if you catch our twisting varied tongues,

if you listen to our many songs, we will
teach you all the world’s knowledge:
the complex right, the complex wrong.

Ahmedabad four.

The last leg of The14thTale is to Ahmedabad in the Gujarat region of India. Right after the workshop at Pune, we hop on a plane and Rob, Preeti (of the British council) and I fly to Mumbai to meet Christina my producer from Fuel, and we carry on from there to Ahmedabad. It is further up north and the weather is cooler, such that we reach for jackets as soon as we exit the airport. In the morning, we go to visit the theatre. It is called Natarani and it is an outdoor amphitheatre. I have never performed this play outdoors and all sorts of new fears assault me. I began working in theatre after a bad experience in Glastonbury Festival where I read poems to a drunk/high/wasted audience who cared nothing for words, with rain, wind, far off bands, screams and loud laughter crashing into me, I ran to theatre because indoors, I could control silence, sounds, light... even smell. Natarani meant none of that and during the first sound test, the passing traffic, rustling trees, dogs barking and birds arguing above bested my voice and we agreed that I would use a stage mic. Rob gets to work and Pretti and I leave for a little bit of shopping. Ahmedabad is known for having the best fabric in Gujarat and the shops do not disappoint. It is tough to choose. The clothes are earthy coloured, patterns are just DOPE! I buy scarves and shirts for me and mine, and we hurry back to the hotel to rest before arriving at the theatre for the show in the evening. Before I am to tell the tale again, there is a tryptic of India dance performances, the first is classic, others contemporary. Christina sits beside me as these masters take the stage, the women wear marine-blue fabric adorned with bells and intricate jewellery, just stunning, the light and their movements are precise, each muscle controlled to perfection. The audience roar and backstage, I thank them for their work. 30 minutes pass and it's my turn.

It is safe to say that I have troubles. I am not accustomed to using a microphone. It keeps slipping down or up my face, or rubbing against my skin. My throat dries up in the night air and the lump between my chin and throat grows irritating during the play. I try to focus, to tell the story rather than 'act' the story. I take my bow, thank the audience and disappear off stage not entirely pleased with myself. When I surface, Rob who controls the light and sounds says simply 'that was hard work' and I nod. He has seen the show more times than anyone and knows it well. To everyone else, the show went well and I thank them for their compliments. Dinner is served on a gorgeous restaurant on a rooftop and the next morning I go to the British Library in Ahmedabad for my workshop.

There are about 20 participant, all of them female. The one guy who turned up freaked at their numbers and disappeared. The workshop is on imagery and metaphor and I focus on 'Litany' a poem by Billy Collins (google it, there is a three year old kid who recites it from memory on YouTube) and the participants get, and love the poem, such that towards the end, it descends to chaos as they suggest their own interpretations and I have to yell to get them back on track. After I break down the construction of is poem, the task is to write their own versions of this poems and they come up with some stunning stuff. The lady who makes the peace sign below, writes about Facebook and keeps us guessing till the final line on the final word.

After the workshop, it's a whistle stop to the hotel to grab bags, dash to the airport, fly to Mumbai, land and get to a clinic to see yet another doctor about the alien life form growing behind my chin. In the waiting room of the private clinic, Preeti and I talk and I discover that we have much, much more in common than I thought at first. The conversation is deep and shallow, personal and general, poignant and playful. She speaks about her husband and family life, I swap similar stories and soon, we are the last people in the clinic. The doctor calls and he is an old friend or Preeti's. He examines me thoroughly, prescribes my medicine and I thank him for his time. We stop by a pharmacy. I spend my remaining rupees on medicine and though it feels far too soon, we say goodbye to Preeti and part ways promising to cross paths once again.

I type this on a Piccadilly Line train back to my home after a long flight. I will meet my sisters and parents and give them gifts, tomorrow, I shall meet my lady and do the same. Weeks after, two or three at the earliest, I imagine my subconscious will spit out an image that is symbolic of the last eight days. Perhaps in its dissection, I will discover an epiphany. Something bright, patterned, hot, spicy, that reeks of people and place, perhaps it will hold a poem.

Pune Three.

Pune three. Pune is a whole other kettle of fish. It is one of the satellite cities of Mumbai, a four hour drive past mountains, over rivers, past lorries, motorbikes, coaches, people carriers and taxies screaming past us and less often, us past them. I fall asleep for most of the journey. Something of the rocking on roads, regardless of how bumpy, lulls me to sleep. I wake up when we stop outside a filling station/food court and, for want of a less patronising phrase, it looks 'authentically Indian' same clash of bright colours, of patterns, aroma and sounds, tucked into the humid night. It feels so familiar, so picturesque and typical of the exported idea of India, that they oddest thing about the experience is the Korean pop song 'Gangam Style' blasting from a bad speaker. We are staying at a university campus for our time in Pune and there is a music festival going on. Rob and I go down and attempt to get our individual grooves on to the band, but it finishes quickly and we return to sleep for the night.

In the morning, I'm dropped up at the British Library in Pune which is similar to the Free Word centre in London, and prepare for a morning of 'media interactions' - essentially, interviews with various journalists. The first guy I meet is Rohan Swamy, about 22years old I think. I am first struck by his name, which I hastily mention was used in The Lord of the Rings trilogy and Rohan successfully hides the yes-I-have-heard-that-many-times look on his face, but a hint of it comes out of his voice. It is raspy, quick and his English is brilliant, perhaps better than mine. I like him instantly and we spend about half the interview talking about him and his work. He promises to send me a short story of his and we step outside for pictures, shake hands and he leaves. The next journalist is more reserved and old fashioned in the sense that he does not record our conversation, but makes small notes as we talk. The final interviewer just hands me a white sheet of paper with three questions, points a digital SLR at me, pushes the record button and asks me talk. I do so. We shake hands and downstairs, I wait for the taxi to take me to the theatre and arrive to find Rob hard at work.

The theatre is beautiful but the stage is too far away I feel, to easily recreate the sense of intimacy that The14thTale truly comes to life in. It worries me. Despite how well the show went in Mumbai, I am nervous about clarity and meaning, how parts of the show turn on a single word and if it is lost, the moment is lost and as both writer and performer I want to try and avoid this at all costs. I begin to think of the text and how to make it more local. Are there any words I can can ground in India? Are there culture references that have equivalents here? I find that though 'Lynx' is the prevalent deodorant in England, here, it is 'Axe'. They do not use 'McCleans' as much as they use 'Colgate'. I change 'tubes of red acrylic paint' to 'bottles of red paint', 'supply teachers' to 'substitute teachers' and after the cue-to-cue check to ensure the lights and sounds are working in order, there is 10 minutes to warm up before the show goes up.

The show goes down to a round of applause. It is by far the hottest space I have ever told the story in. The fans were switched off as they interfered with the play and in the dressing room afterwards, my shirt is entirely and supremely soaked with sweat. I collapse into a chair in the theatre after the show and thank the audience members who stayed to see me. I sign a few books and thank Marukh. Without her the show would not have happened, she runs a theatre company and school here, helped with marketing and a part of me thinks her blood flows through everyone who came. I think of her as the unofficial mayor of Pune. She seems to know everyone and their mama. Marukh, I say, I'd like to see a doctor; there is a swelling between my chin and my throat that seems to have sprouted the day I landed and steadily grown bigger. It is late Saturday night but Marukh reaches for her phone and calls a doctor who happens to be her neighbour, who isn't in town, who calls his assistant, who comes to meet me the following morning at Marukh's house.

She lives in a closed compound as colonised by greenery as it is by mopeds (the default mode of transport in Pune) and dogs. The young doctor arrives, grabs the girth under my chin, pokes and prods it, says it is a glandular infection, prescribes some medicine and leaves quickly, Marukh thanking him for his swiftness as an aunt might thank her nephew. I get a taxi to the pharmacy and race back to the campus for the first of the two workshops I am to deliver today. The first starts 40 minutes late and I rush through the 'Poetry for Performance' workshop and get another taxi to the the second venue for the 'Crafting Personal Narratives' workshop. This goes much, much better. I break down themes, personal experience, structure, inciting incidents, trigger, conflict & response, climax, resolution and return. I explain how all stories have this structure but they are remixed, reordered, told from multiple perspectives, in multiple of ways and there are such things as open endings that don't tie up the story, but suggest there is more to come. Endings such as this one...

Mumbai Two.

Mumbai 2. The show goes well. The14thTale struck again as a testament to the universality of relationships, of fear, anger, mischief... The coming of age story came of age again in the theatre and the audience laughed in all the right places - I say this because in a country where English is not the first language, it is the most obvious maker that the story is being understood; And when on stage, naked with your emotions, alone beneath the spotlights and the audience is sat in the dark a distance from the stage, you need to know the story is being followed. They laughed in the right places and I heard enough to carry on. Enough of me. After the show, I step out and dusk has come over the city of Mumbai. I rush to the larger theatre to see Akala and his Hip-Hop Shakespeare company and they tick every box in the book; they are entertaining, passionate, powerful.

The next day, I check out of the hotel early at 10.30 to deliver my first poetry and performance workshop with AVID, an education initiative. There are about 15 people packed into the air conditioned room and everything goes as planned. The bits of wisdom I share were siphoned off workshops from Jacob Sam-La Rose, Roger Robinson, Malika Booker and Apples & Snakes - the poetry in education organisation who trained me years ago. There is nothing like a Spoken Word, Performance Poetry or regular Poetry reading events in India. Or if there is, it is so small that none of the participants in the workshop are aware of it. I dish out my email address and answer questions on how one might be started. Sabina, from the workshop, turns her ready smile into a frown as she laments its absence, says that there was once a rich oral tradition, and now there is nothing...

I imagine it is to do with language in India. They seem to be as numerous as they are in Nigeria, if not more. There are roughly 250 there, but I reckon in this country of a billion people it is double that, and English complicates the problem: it is the official and commercial language and Hindi is the National language, though in Southern India, you can be lynched for speaking it. I am to leave for Pune, one of the satellite cities of Mumbai and as I say my goodbyes to the organisers of the festival here, we begin to discuss language and how it affects name. Quasar, who saw The14thTale in Edinburgh 3 years ago and brought me here, Q says that the renaming of cities was carried out by a nationalist and right wing party. Bombay was the name imposed by the English, Mumbai was its original. This party wants India for the Hindus, no Muslims welcome, no other faith. Arzanne, who stage managed my play, says that for this reason, she will always call it Bombay, fuck the right winged ones. But it works both ways: do you call it Bombay because you are proud of your Indianhood and Multiculturality? Or Call it Mumbai because you are proud of your Indianhood, and given the legacy of English rule, its Multiculturalilty?

Some of the people I meet call it both depending on who they speak with, or which language they speak. When speaking Hindi, they call it Mumbai. When speaking English, Bombay. Theoretically speaking, language is largely completely and utterly useless. It is so rudimentary and unpolished a form of communication that sometimes to me, to write poetry which relies on specificity, is a pointless task. If I say the word 'love' for instance, it is based on my past relationships, my emotions and memories associated with the word. If I dated a sumo wrestler, Love is a big strong squishy thing. If a listener dates a ballerina, it is a flippant, fairy-esq creature. We come at the word with different perceptions. To write then is to HOPE, and nothing else, to HOPE that the reader gives the same meaning to my words. When I say Bombay or Mumbai, I mean Lagos, Nigeria, I mean hope, I mean the struggle of identify, I mean a battle of languages, I mean... I guess then, poetry?