Perth 1

The journey was 17 hours long. London, Singapore, Perth. I still don't understand why flight works. It is a metal bird. METAL and BIRD cancel each other out, they are not reconcilable. There is the gathering of speed, the plane is a wild animal, engine tensed like muscles. We leap into the air and I can't stifle the wild squeal of childish delight that whistles out of my mouth. Dan, a property developer from Manchester who sits beside me, laughs. We met just thirty minutes ago and he has told about his work, his love life, his pet Jack Russell and this holiday, taking three months off. I tell him I am impressed and hope to be able to do that, how relationships of mine have failed because of my unhealthy work ethic. He says this is also new for him, his first time not working in 16 years. Over Warsaw, Dan points out that we are 35,000 feet up, it is -58 degrees outside. On the T.V. Screen, he shows me the skycam, essentially, a camera strapped to the tail of the plane on the outside. At this height, we can see the curve of the planet, we are so high, Earth is bent. The night before I left, I went to a poetry event and listened to a gorgeous 10 line poem about dreams. How there are big dreams and little dreams. I forget the fine details, but it went something along the lines of a farmer dreams of a plough, a president dreams to his secretary, who dreams to his cabinet and soon, there is war. A man dreamt of crossing a field in the air, and we cross continents now. I consider the little horrors men do, how we divide and concquer one other, and consider now the evolutions, the hundreds of thousands of men it has taken to build ships for the air. A toast to those who dream big.

The reasons are complex, but I have not left the United Kingdom in just under a decade, in just under ten years of touring and trawling theatres, stages, trains and buses, searching, I think, for a place that I belong to. Once a rare while, with deepest conviction, I find such a place: in the tiniest of moments when I am conscious of being alive and simultaneously conscious of *thinking I'm alive, AND aware of everything else around me. Sort of like water suddenly being aware that it is wet. Over the weekend, I discovered I squandered away an opportunity to have such a place frequently and for a lifetime... I have a greater fear; that I might see as much of the world as I hope to, and realise that I might not belong anywhere specifically. Always at these points I think myself ridiculous and switch off, change topic to something more tangible and real, like rent. Something I can put my finger on and fix. I've been running.

I am in Perth, I am told that the closest city is on a whole other continent; there are places here where you stand, the stars look out to different parts of the galaxy. There is endless desert, water and you feel like you are at the edge of the world. There will be no place to run. I am absolutely terrified of what I will find there, but I'll go and seek that thing out.

Inua goes to Whitstable, Kent. // Candy Coated Tour

08/12/11 - Kent. I have no idea what to expect, again. I push the doorbell outside Peggy's house and wait, huffing into my cupped hands. She has a perfect smile, the kind Hollywood would pay for I think, as she leads me past her front room to the kitchen chatting lightly. When she speaks, I hear a diluted American lilt and things click into place. Peggy was in New York in November when I was planning the tour and I got the sense that she spent a lot of time there. She introduces her husband Graham who shakes my hand warmly. An actor and singer, has a very relaxed vibe about him and like a leech, I siphon his demeanour, shrug off my jacket and try to make myself at home as Peggy insists. They have a beautiful house, like something from a catalogue a pairing of wood & marble, neutrals & greys. Satchmo, Peggy's cat whose coat suggests a tuxedo, prowls about the slate floors meowing for her attention. She pays as much as she can dishing out the just baked dinner of vegetarian shepherd's pie. It is delicious, just right. I add a few twists of black pepper and go back for seconds. As we eat, we speak of how spending cuts have affected the arts world, how some theatres expect actors to work for free, how commendable Nick Hytner's run as director of the National Theatre in London had been so far.

I discover that Peggy is a writer of plays and novels and we discuss structure and the difference between both disciplines as Graham packs for a trip to London for an audition the following day. The guests begin to arrive, they are personal friends from the local writer's group that Peggy seems to be at the heart of. Some are strangers for Peggy's mailing list who knock on the door, and find a seat. The show begins. Peggy invited Tim, a friend and film maker, to begin the night and he shows delicate, emotive footage of birds haunting a dusk sky. After, he hands out thin strips of paper adorned with a single question and asks us to answer out loud without using any of the words written on the slips. I answer: 'I was 12, I gave my best friend money to buy a bar of Snickers, grabbed one off the shelf and stepped outside the shop to wait for him to pay. When he walked out, he had a Mars bar and my Snickers in his other hand. We ran away'. Tim records our answer and hopes to stitch them into one long story. The applause dies down, Peggy introduces me and suddenly, it is my time to hold their attention.

I take the high chair close to the glass sliding doors and with my back to their garden, sit still and speak to them poetry. There are only two love poems in the book, I read one and watch as Peggy clutches Graham's hand on the counter and he responds, squeezing her's back. Anita on my left leans in. Caroline, an english language teacher sits up right in rapt attention and I carry on riding the silence, filtering it with the rhythm and musicality I try to pack into my poems, hoping each one settles where I aim. It is a leap of faith every time. Finally, I am done and sign books for those who have been moved. A older man comments how he never, ever, goes to these sorts of things, but he'd been trying to keep his mind open so he came, "and you have opened my mind" he says. Graham runs for London, the guests thin until Tim, Anita, Zoe and Vinita are left. We gather in the kitchen and talk of narratives, film, t.v. series and theatre. Tim and Anita talk for 30 minutes non stop about a show they saw at the Gulbenkian Theatre called 'Going Dark' about a man who works in a planetarium, who is going blind. I tell them the show was produced by Fuel who produce my theatre work and Tim and Anita say after hearing my poems, it makes perfect sense, they see how I fit in such a company.

Zoe is a human rights lawyer and I mention a casual interest in human rights violations resulting from climate change in developing countries and she lights, up describing a growth in funding research on that exact field of law. Soon it is midnight and such brings sleep.

I wake up late, and after a light breakfast of toasted muffin, opt to walk through the town of Whitstable. It is picturesque and I get the sense everyone knows everyone here. There are small shops and a hand-painted to quality to most of the shop signs. I nod across the street to an older gentleman and he nods back, walking by an Optometrist's whose lone employee wipes the window with genuine happiness. I think this odd, then I think it is odd that I think this is odd. I walk further out leaving the tight roads and slow bustle of the town, walk out to Whitstable harbour where the North Sea touches the beach. I'm at the edge of England, there is no land left. I play one song, 'Swim Good' by Frank Ocean and sing along into the cold fresh sea air. Then, I let Mos Def's 'New Danger' album run, remembering something a poet friend said about hip hop 'you have to extract it from the urban element that created it and let the countryside illustrate it' I quote that too often, and think it is true, but for the first time, I wonder if he'd missed something. Surely, the oceans and sea know us better than hills? We are 70% water it flows inside us and those watery, flowing blank canvases will contrast the constraints of concrete better than trees. I return to Peggy's to grab my things, thank her for her hospitality, for holding the Kent leg of the tour, and promise to keep in touch. Making for London, I wonder if I have it in me to write a batch of poems about how cities meet the seas. As if in response, Kent answers with a sign:

Inua goes to Nottingham // Candy Coated Tour

07/12/11 - Nottingham. The legend always comes to mind of the men in emerald tights led by the sure-shot handsome one of Loxely, Robin, his hood and his band of merry man. Back when I was a snot-nosed short blur in Nigeria, I watched the series religiously on Saturday mornings. These warm memories dissolve into the hissing trains, cold drizzle, chain stores, traffic and harsh lights of the city. Jim, who is my guide to Maresa's house (where tonight's reading will happen) shakes my hand and speaks quickly bringing me up to speed on the plans so far: those who are expected to come, on Deborah Stevenson - a friend we have in common, and about his work. There is a lot going on here poetry wise, and Jacob Sam-La Rose's name punctuates each batch of sentences. Jacob is a friend of mine, an old teacher of Deborah's, an editor at Flipped Eye and a mentor of Nilofer's - Jim's girlfriend. She is in England for a few weeks and but lives and works as a teacher and poet in Singapore. I urge Jim to go spend a year with her there as though I had any influence whatsoever. He laughs off my suggestion, as he should, drops coins into the machine for our bus fares and 20 minutes later, we get out and walk through Maresa's kitchen to her living room.

It is a cosy house, a well lived in one, a packed kitchen with a vast, vast, VAST selection of tea, herbal and otherwise. In the living room there are framed pictures on the wall of family members, on the far right a piano, a small wooden table and Nilofer, sitting with Maresa. I met Maresa the first time I visited Nottingham. It was a fleeting meeting after a poetry show. A friend of her's had read out her poem for Maresa has cerebral palsy and cannot communicate verbally and speaks through a system called 'facilitated communication'. Jim who is also her personal assistant, sits down beside her wheelchair, holds her hand and through him Maresa welcomes me to her house. Caroline, her mother, prepares dinner and Nilofer passes over exquisitely designed poetry books she'd brought from Singapore. Dinner is the kinda that always hits the spot, huge baked potatoes, cheese, stew, falafels and sausages before the rich desert of apple crumble and cream. When the plates are cleared, I flick through Maresa's published book of essays and writings. She travels a lot to speak on behalf of "We who can't speak" she is articulate and passionate.

The guests begin to arrive: Jim's close friends, some of Caroline's and many of the Mouthy Poets - the collective of writers that Maresa is a part of. They flock into the living room, perch on stools, chairs, the sofa, a rocking chair, cushions on the wooden floors and Jim welcomes them as formally as one might in so informal a setting. There is a band sat close to the piano. They play one song to warm up the room before Asha sings. Her voice softly pierces, perfectly tempered to her guitar riffs, she sings of personal problems that bring a slight chill to the warmth of the room but it is swallowed, understood and held in this safe space. Jim asks if poets in the room would like to share anything and Panya, Asha's mother, who looks more like an older sister, speaks a long poem called 'Bad Boy', a rousing call to young men who live in the area. They read one after the other, their voices are sure, brave and honest. Matthew speaks of having suicidal tendencies and reads work about attempting to take his own life. Howard speaks of a meeting with his counsellor; a response to her question 'what would you like from me?' Wadah's slightly husky voice effortlessly controls her personal meditations on seeking acceptance, Wise performs one about London and Jim sways back and forth when he improvises his poems with one of the guitarists in the room; his eyes are part closed, his whole face alight with the joy of sharing, the elation of this simplest of things.

When the poets finish, the band strike up. They are called Zulu Road comprising of Julian - Caroline's brother in law, Fred and Ian. Julian plays the mandolin, Fred and Ian guitar, they sing, harmonise with each other playful at ease with themselves and look into the eyes of us gathered, squatting, sat and leaning into their songs. Soon it is my turn to speak and I swap seats with Ian. I'm by the piano. I begin. One thing I am struck by here is the openness with which they share their problems, how they bring what might make for uncomfortable or even embarrassing listening out and drop it unwaveringly in the light of the living room. To me, there is a glow. I'd reach for the word 'aura' to describe what holds us in the room and I try to pick poems that compliment its colour. I try to let my voice fill out, to rise and dip as the poems deem necessary. In honour of Loxely, I read a new commissioned poem called 'Robin Hood. To a friend' that isn't in the book, a couple more and I am done.

Every copy of Candy Coated Unicorns and Converse All Stars that I have with me is purchased, I sign most, some are for folks who were unable to come tonight, others for friends Caroline is confident will want a copy. The living room empties and there are four of us left tucking into the left over apple crumble and cream. The conversation is a sprawling one of politics, global economics, where money comes from, the looming financial crisis, how it is possible for a country to go bankrupt, the blossoming trade in carbon offsets and such talk far bigger, chaotic and destructive than poetry. Caroline says that as the guests departed, they asked if a gathering like this could happen again, and I suggest that if the recession deepens, this is how we will entertain ourselves, we will gather indoors share stories, sing. Time stuffs sleep into our eyes and we wish goodnight to each other.

In the morning, we gather round a small table and breakfast on friend eggs on toast, salted, black peppered and buttered. Kathy is here. She comes some mornings to bathe Maresa before going to her second job in a John Lewis outlet. She complains about having to, but happily dabs makeup on the sofa advising Nilofer on what to wear when she goes iceskating in London on Sunday. My train will leave Nottingham at 13.02 and we are to leave here at 11.45. It is close, but Maresa is ready just as we go, she thanks me for coming as though I had done the favour here. I kiss Caroline on her cheek, thanking her for her hospitality. Jim, Nilofer and I walk out the door for the bus stop and Kathy waves 'Good by Mr Poet, sorry I missed you, I'm sure you good...'

Inua goes to Newcastle // Candy Coated Tour

06/12/11 - Newcastle. Her name is Kirsten. She is petite, enthusiastic and dazzling at her job as a coordinator for Apples & Snakes. We met earlier this year when I worked at the ARC in Stockton, she is wearing a pink wooly hat and I bear hug her a hello. Outside Newcastle train station, her husband Matt plucks us from the pavement and we speed through the crispy freezing streets to Jane and Martin's living room, the hosts for tonight's leg of the Candy Coated Tour. I grab one of the huge cushions Kirsten and Matt have brought for the event from the back seat, walk through the door, past the flight of stairs on the right, the front room on the left and into the kitchen/dining room where sits the princess of the manor, Annabelle, drawing on the table.

She is four years old and will not match my gaze or answer my questions. Martin laughs at his daughter's sudden shyness. James, a poet from London who is a close friend of the family's says I should give Annabelle a couple of hours and I won't be able to stop her talking. In the next room, her brother Issac is focused on his favourite show which I'm told he gets from YouTube, he logs onto the web with the t.v. remote control, finds the episodes and plays it on the television screen. Isaac is three years old. The show is about endangered underwater animals which chimes with his mother's job; Jane is a marine biologist and when she arrives home from work she dumps her bag, changes her clothes, plays with her kids, joins in the setting up for the guests soon to arrive. Her email address is 'CaptainJaneaway@...' I thought it was a reference to the Star Trek series and cannot hide my disappointment that it's simply to do with her travelling a lot, and always being away and on large bodies of water. To appease me, she changes into a shirt that looks uncannily like a Star Fleet uniform. All is right with the world.

They guests begin to trickle in on time, the most punctual so far - neighbours, friends, musicians, poets, Neil the strummer for the evening and finally the Monkfish Spokenword collective I worked with in june when I first met Kirsten: Claire, Robbie, Viv, Sarah, Ian and James. The place is packed, wine glasses fill and empty, Kirsten and Jane work the room doing their best to get everyone comfortable and ready. Lights dim and the living room gig begins with James who reads tightly, clearly articulates each word, confidently using silences to let ideas, concepts that hang in the air to settle, masterfully reading 12 poems in 15 minutes.

When James is done, Neil, who is well known to the gathered, takes the stage - which is the glass roofed and walled section of the kitchen, he takes the stage, sits and tells sprawling, quirky stories between songs. His fingers are quick and he plucks the strings expertly. A light rain patters the glass roof above him mixing with his music, voice, the silence, us... He tells stranger tales of working on allotments, using meat compost delivered with live piglets... he sings one more and bows out before the 15 minute break.

I choose a set of poems I hope fits with the vibe and enthusiasm of these folks who whooped and hollered for Neil and James. There is a buzzing in the room, an infectious type that bounces from person to person, coats conversations. James says folks here come out to have a good time and will have one before the going gets started; to arrive alone is enough to cheer about, it isn't like London where some* audiences sit, arms folded with that 'go on, show me what you got; entertain me now' curl to their lips. The job of the performer here James says, is simply to not f*ck up. I'm still nervous. Kirsten introduces me once the light dims. I say a couple things and begin with the poem 'Of all the boys of plateau private school...' Time flies. I watch their faces, I peer out at them as I read. This close, I can see the corners of their mouths form upwards before a smile lightenings out. I can see a few wipe tears from their eyes when I read 'Candy Coated Unicorns' I can hear the hush descend in 'Fragments of bone'. This close you can FEEL them and I have to control myself not to rush the poem, not to break the steady pace, to walk them to last full stop, and there, not to slam the door, but to click it closed and breathe after.

There is my last poem. There is applause. There is wine and I sign books for A.J. Sky, Ian, Claire, James, Sarah, Tom, Aunty O, more names than I can possibly remember. A lady asks that I address a book to a friend who'd just lost his mother but sees sentimentality as weakness. I write 'The End is Near. The Beginning' and wish her good luck... Soon the house is empty, Kirsten leaves very satisfied with the show, everyone is pleased to have come out for poems. I sit with Jane, Martin, James and another close family friend of theirs to talk about relationships and arguments, the passage of time, children, music and rice pudding. Jane has an early start tomorrow, I kiss her good night, thank her for opening her home to me, gather my belongs scattered generously over the the kitchen table and climb into sleep.

Newcastle is freezing! I wake to wind howling at the window of the room I am beached in, and roll off the bed to the shower, to a breakfast of hot porridge and golden syrup that Martin makes. James who'd slept in the front room joins us and when it is time to leave, we shudder into the car. Martin drops us off near the city centre and Newcastle is freezing. I try to walk down Grey's road to the Baltic or the Tyneside Cinema, the scenic parts of the city, but my Nigerian blood mutinies, refusing to warm my legs. I shelter in a coffee shop, watch the clock tock towards my train's arrival and when it's time, cross, enter, sit and watch the sun glinting off roof tops, filling my coach with light. The lady to my right who fills the window seat beside asks if I mind? I shake my head and she pulls the blinds down like curtains. I imagine this is to be the last shot in a film, now the golden lion roars, now, The End.

Inua goes to Manchester // Candy Coated Tour

05/12/11 - Manchester. When Chanje calls, I answer and do the typical train station thigh of twirling round in circles trying to find her before she finds me. She wins. We hug in the slightly awkward way you'd imagine strangers might knowing the night would be spent together regardless of if they'd get along. Down the escalators, we find her car and our nervousness dissipate as we drive through Manchester's cold wet streets. It is warm in her car and she speaks fondly of her sister Miselo who is at home carefully cleaning the house for tonight. We reverse-park safely in her drive, walk in and meet her son Nayah.

I have taught a fair few 9 year olds in my time, but none as bright and vocal as Nayah who grills me on the world wrestling federation, name checking The Undertaker, Hulk Hogan (who was way before his time). He has his favourite wrestlers scribbled on his slim forearm starting with Jeff Hardy and ending with The Rock. We drive out for dinner and in the car Nayah, has his mother and I cackling like witches. At one point he claims to be a mutant with the power to make water gush from his hands. I offer to grant him this gift on the condition he does something to help humanity, what would this be? 'I'd make it rain in Congo, in parts of Africa where there's no food' he says thoughtfully, and I'm won over. Over the hot meal of rice, peas and goat curry in the local take away Caribbean place, Nayah grills his mother and I in mathematics asking 'What's a quarter of 37?' I bat questions back and he get 99% of them correct, we leave, enter the corner shop and Nayah and I discuss which of the lottery draws is a better option: £40,000 a year for life, or £1mil. He opts for the million, says he'd build a house in Zambia, one for his mum, and maybe for me. The shop keeper is charmed by Nayah and gives him a bar of Galaxy chocolate, which enterprisingly, Nayah says he will sell.

We get home and wait for the folks Chanje has gathered to arrive. Andy comes first, then Valeria, a Jamaican lady full of poise and punctuality, she talks excitedly of completing her memoirs, looking for a publisher. Laura, Keisha, Elmi, Segun Le French - an old friend of mine, Alexandra, Ekiel, Yusra - another friend and her son dressed in Spiderman costume (the second I have seen on this tour) a couple more, and we begin. We trade stories, Keisha's eyes sparkles when she talks of working for Apples & Snakes' Shake The Dust Olympic project. We trade poems and I try to select ones from the book that'll reflect their work. Elmi, who is Somali reads a delicate poem about poverty and famine, and a funny poignant one about his grandmother - I choose to read 'Dear Tina' for him. Chanje and Segun read and when they have finished, I have selected poems and begin in the living room. The warmth deepens, there is silence, there are held breaths, laughter, that good everyday-greatness-kinda moments and brightening faces I look for, and we are done.

I sign books and Elmi speaks quietly about his decision to be a writer instead of a doctor, and his childhood among his father's books, reading War and Peace as a child... there is a settling, controlled wise passion and confidence in him I wish I had at his age. Miselo, Chanje's sister shows some of her stunning photography work on her phone, the night climbs towards the 11th hour and it is time to go.

The living room is empty, I clear up, move wine glasses to the kitchen etc, Chanje and I sit to talk and I discover that she is a single mother who left home at 16, who owns the house she lives in and runs her own business. There are other stories she tells, other lives she has lived, other hurdles... such that the phrase 'God doesn't give to us what we can't handle' becomes the theme our stories dance around. I am humbled by her strength.

In the morning, over slices of toast, Nayah, awake and dressed for school says casually, 'Mum mum was given a medal for bravery by the Queen. She was held hostage by this man who threatened to slice her throat cause she'd wrapped a jumper around this woman he had stabbed' I know enough of Nayah to believe he would not lie, but I can't believe the story, I ask Chanje and she laughs as if she is embarrassed, as if she'd forgotten, struggle for a moment to recollect the deatils, then confirms briefly what happened. Nayah points to the Bronze Medal for bravery and it is there on the table beside a half drunk glass of milk, old poetry flyers, the laptop, loose coins; another lump of engraved metal.

Pam Singleton who works at Hopwood Hall college had invited me to her school to talk with her students and I hug Chanje, thank her for inviting me to her home, enter the taxi and drive to the Middleton Campus of the college. There I read poems from the 'Candy Coated Unicorns and Converse All Stars'. I talk about how I got into this game of words, sell and sign books and Colin, a trainee teacher offers to drive me to Manchester's Piccadilly Station. Colin is studying poetry, has written a play - a Welsh response to one by Shakespeare - and he speaks of focusing on writing. I ask what he did before and he says smiling, his eyes focused on the road, casually, he used to be a wrestler, a WWF type. One day, we was walking down the street and someone stabbed him, randomly. A guy who had just left prison, could not face the real world and wanted to go back in. 'Why didn't he just rob a bank?' I ask 'Who knows' Colin says, it was the best thing that happened to me though, I realised what was important, it made me focus on writing...

Inua goes to Brum // Candy Coated Tour

04/12/11 - Birmingham. Bohdan collects me from the station and he is wearing bright red Beats-By-Dre headphones. I accuse him of selling out as we twirl through ticket barriers, up escalators, through the vast shopping complex connected to Birmingham's New Street Station. Bohdan has plotted a path from here to his flat, 90% of which is indoors, through Selfridges and the Bull Ring. I am impressed. We arrive and his beautiful wife Karolina and Zosia his daughter welcome me with a flurry of hugs, cheek kisses and babybabble talk. I love their flat, it is warm, modern, full of light and their voices add to its charm. Hoon, the strummer for the night, arrives and we trade songs on youtube: Feist, Bjork & PJ Harvey, Tom Waits & Kool Keith, Sound of Rum and Saul Williams. Bohdan boasts about his impressive array of finger food and lays them out as the guests arrive. I still get nervous thinking these guys have come to listen to my poems and perhaps buy a book, when I'm brave enough I catch their eyes, stand at the door, shake hands, other times, I bury my head and shift books about the table pretending to be busy.

First to arrive: Heather and her 13 year old Daughter (who walks in holding a Terry Pratchett book!) Stephanie, who a couple months before interviewed Bohdan and I for a radio show, her boyfriend Thom, an array of poets, enthusiasts, a couple of Bohdan's students and Kim Trusty, a great mutual, mischievous friend of ours. Some are sat on the Sofa, some on chairs, some against the wall bums on the floor and soon it is time to begin.

Hoon is only a few years younger than me. He is relaxed in his own skin, inquisitive and gentle. Bohdan turns the light down for Hoon to begin playing songs, he strums, opens his mouth and what comes out is the last thing I'd imagined his voice to sound like, it is powerful, warm, strong the kind you'd expect to sound-track a lone traveller driving through rain on a cold stormy night, all gravel and rising. Too soon he is done. I read the poem called 'Directions' from the book; I read it for the lady who arrived last and talked briefly about how tough it was to find Bohdan's place, I also read it for Heather and her daughter who have to leave as tomorrow is a school day. There is a 10-15 minute break and I duck into Bohdan's study to fully select poems to read.

Hoon plays another song and it is my turn to take the spotlight in Bohdan's kitchen/living room. I sweat, again, but try to pace myself this time, to plot the turning points of poems, to as best as possible, let the emotions that gave rise to these works sing out between their words. I share with the gathered folks parts of my recent history that I'd never share in other settings, things I feel further open the poem to greater understanding; I read 'Twenty Five' a prose poem about my parent's 25th wedding anniversary, and we are done. They clap. Generously, I stand up, switch on the lights and they are still clapping. Kim Trusty who had heard most of the poems quite a few times says this is the first time she had properly digested their stories, how this is the perfect setting to share, and if not for the table between us, I'd rugby tackle her a hug for saying this. They ask me to sign books and thank me for reading, I sign books and thank them for coming. Andy from Birmingham University asks me to personalise his book to seem as if we are old friends - incase I get famous, he could impress people with so I write: 'To Andy, last night at the pub was brilliant, I never get tired of hearing that story, I know the punchline, but it still gets me every time, see you next week, Inua...'

After the flat is empty, and Karolina goes to sleep, Bohdan and I talk, we converse long into the night and it is the best kind of conversation, the kind that seems to be about everything and simultaneously, nothing, that tumbles, twists in intensity, that is about the future, past and the never ending present. We listen to an old blues song called 'One Meatball' (check it out) and it time to sleep.

It is time to wake. Bohdan and I take Zosia to nursery after Karolina leaves for work and I am suddenly aware that it is no longer the weekend; there is work to be done. Bohdan and I share one last cup of coffee, shake hands, he walks out the cafe and I feel like I've discovered a new old friend in this city, its canals, its hills, its life.

Inua goes to Bristol // Candy Coated Tour.

03/12/11 - Bristol. Soon as I get on the train in London, I sit back, close my eyes and gather my thoughts about the journey(s) ahead. I've wanted to do this for a while and am slightly nervous that how I imagine the trip to be might not match its reality. The lady beside me texts calmly, opens a card and addresses it to 'Dear Emily' with a bright pink pen. The lad on my left watches a movie set in Iraq, there are soldiers with guns. Two hours pass, I arrive in Bristol, walk over the Bridge to meet Miranda at the Old Vic and find a cafe for a light dinner, she chats excitedly about the huge show she is assitant-directing, and a project she has in mind, one she think's I'd be perfect for.

We leave the cafe and head to Rebecca's - who has so kindly offered her living room for this, the first date of the Candy Coated Living Room Tour. She lives in Stones Croft, Bristol's answer to London's Dalston - I've been told. Rebecca's house is gorgeous and she is the perfect host, Hannah and Andy, her flat mates, have a ginger kitten called Henry who climbs onto my lap and settles there as though I were part of the furniture. It's 6.45, Rebecca speaks fondly of her Uni course, studying Creative Writing and Religion. The guests begin to arrive for the reading and her house fills with warm faces in from the cold, christmas-light-lit and smiling for it. They trickle in in twos and threes, at 7.30ish we begin. Nula is first up with her guitar, she sits, strums and is brilliant, she is goose-bump-good. She sings the blues, her voice is sweet, controlled, delicate and restrains the emotion of her words so effortlessly... I'd have sat for hours of her.

A short break after, I read/perform 5 poems from the book and I am sweating in my shirt and bow tie at the end. But it feels good. This close to those gathered and listening, I can hear individual intakes of breath when a word or an image hits home, I can see faces soften in the lamp light, I can see eyes moisten and why I do this, why I wanted to this, suddenly becomes clear, all over again.

Leonie - another acoustic guitarist plays and again, I am bowled over by how effortlessly her voice soars and climbs, her style is entirely different to Nula's but they compliment one another, she covers an Ella Fitzgerald song to end her set, and suddenly the night is done. One of the guys walks up to me winking, says he doesn't like poetry, but he likes what I did. They buy books, they stay to talk, they disperse into the night, to various parties, clubs, pubs.

Nikesh Shukla, an old friend who now lives in Bristol offers up his spare room and I walk over to meet him under a street lamp. His beautiful wife Katie points out the spare room and inside, there is a Spiderman costume hanging on the wardrobe. I feel instantly at home. Dawn bullies its way through the curtains, Nik and I gossip about the price of houses in London, about work, Kenya, and Mos Def - who is changing his name to Yasiin: What?! - I leave them at 13:00, call Ben Dowden who made the video for Candy Coated Unicorns and Converse All Stars: {here}. Ben is bright eyed and vibrant as ever and the talk is about holidays, switching off social media and the endless battle of personal work vs pay cheque work. It is 14.40, my train to B'ham leaves at 15.00 and somehow, Ben gets me to the station with 5 mins to spare. As I type, I'm sat in Bohdan's living room. He is the host for tonight's reading and his daughter Zosia crawls around the flat and Hoon who will be playing songs sits across from me. Tonight will be good. Till tomorrow, stay tuned...

The Candy Coated Tour

The theme for ‘Candy Coated Unicorns and Converse All Stars’, my new and second pamphlet of poems - soon to drop (this Saturday!) - is conversation and transformation. Talking, and what might stem from talking. It is also divided into three sections ‘Candy Coated Unicorns’ ‘And’ & ‘Converse All Stars’. In this order, the langue of the poems change, and gulf of the poems widen. I can’t wait for y’all to get it and read…

This impatience and the thrill of travelling, the road, meeting new kinds of folk - all this has given rise to the tour I’m talking about. On Saturday, I set of for the ‘Candy Coated Tour Living Room Tour’. I did something similar last year, just within London, but this time I’m going UK wide. I’ll be travelling to 7 living rooms, 7 cities, on 7 consecutive days to read work from the book. 7 very kind, generous people have opened their doors to me and have accepted the arduous task of gathering 25 friends to come listen and also to provide shelter on the night. There will also be local writers and musicians sharing work, might even see a belly dancer! Who knows, England is wild like that, especially, in the winter months when some folks turn feral; if you have ever gone to a Primark New Year’s sale, you know exactly what I… gone off topic. What I am really looking forward to, themed after the book, is what happens after reading, what talk might be conjured, the varying thoughts, ideas, feelings that might otherwise slip between the cracks if was to read in a pub, club, or book shop. The relaxed atmosphere should create space for folks to be themselves and that should be the case at all times.

So, the dates are as follows: 03/12: BRISTOL, 04/12: BIRMINGHAM, 05/12: MANCHESTER, 06/12: NEWCASTLE, 07/12: NOTTINGHAM, 08/12: KENT and finally 09/12: LONDON. If you are around, if you’d like to come, if you know someone who’d like to come, then just drop me a line (inuaellams at gmail dot com) as some of the hosts might have space in their living rooms. I have beautiful days coming up, and I’ll be blogging and tweeting about the entire journey. Just come visit this site, and drop in on me on twitter.

The Candy Coated Tour is supported by Apples & Snakes and Contact Theatre, Manchester.

ARVON

So, on Saturday I returned from The Arvon Foundation (click -> here <- to see what they are about) having spent a week finishing off the first draft of the next story I am bringing to a stage. Black T-shirt Collection is done. I also took part in the writing exercises set by the tutors in the week long workshop. This was one of them: Al sits and runs his hands through his hair as if strands of his story were lost up there. A moment for his thoughts to settle, the sofa to take his form, and he begins. His jeans are faded, they have known better years but his hooded jumper is like an new friend. I imagine his story might go back and forth in time like his clothes, but he speaks chronologically, as if rehearsed, small words, short sentences stacked like office work in the silence between us. ‘I’m listening’ I want to say, but he knows my attention is with him. His eyes are sure. I wrote a letter to my girlfriend, April Fool’s joke. Things weren’t going so well. Lots of problems - his hand waves suggesting depth - Thought if I made her laugh it would help. So I wrote that her water tank had exploded. She used to empty it to save on heating bills. We were on holiday from uni, I sent the letter to her parents house. When she got it, she took it seriously. Parents advised her to seek legal advice. She showed them my letter as evidence. They were to start drafting paper work when she called me. Asked if I knew anything about the explosion. I’d singed the letter with a made up name, so over the phone, I owned up. I wrote it as an April Fool’s joke. You idiot, she replied, it arrived on April 3rd, you used a 2nd class stamp. We broke up soon after that.

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Inua goes to Bestival.

I haven’t performed at a single festival this year, partly because no one invited me to any, partly because I was afraid. I still to a great extent believe that my kinda work does not go down as well in festival. Because I work with scattered rhyme, I think it is hard to for the ear to latch on to if one is in a field or forest and there is so much else to distract, so much sound pollution, so I find those settings unsettling. Either way, Scroobious Pip invited me do to read some poem for 30 minutes in Bestival and I accepted. The journey took three hours. Had to catch a train, a bus, a hovercraft and another bus to get there. I jumped on at Waterloo Station having rolled outta bed, into the shower and onto the train station, sans breakfast, water, money, starving my way through the city whipping past, blending into suburbs, fields and finally the country side. At Portsmouth Station - the final train destination, I grabbed some cash from a machine just as the bus arrived to take us to the hovercraft. Waiting for the hovercraft to arrive, I couldn’t help but eaves drop on a conversation, they were sitting beside me failing to whisper. A lady - lets call her Mel - was talking to a man - lets call him Bill - about his dress sense. The man wore dark RayBan sunglasses and Mel was complementing his looks, his demeanour, his clothing, saying repeatedly how gorgeous a pair of eyes he had, how amazing a personality he owned, that he dressed well enough, to not bother comparing herself to anyone else, that he should feel secure. She compared herself to him, “Look at me” says she, “I’m not the best dressed woman I know, me boobs are drooping, but I think I have a nice smile, I don’t take myself too seriously and I don’t judge people like that, none of us do, so you shouldn’t be like this, you are a fucking great guy... why isn’t that enough” “It is not enough for me” he says slouching into himself on the chair.

We got off when the ferry had crossed to Ryde Esplandale. I proceeded to walk about a little baffled in the way tourists do, asking for directions to Bestival when Bill called out “you going Bestival mate?” I turned to catch the rich sunlight bounce of his sunglasses and smiled towards him. “Yep, you going?” “Yeah” says he “But we don’t have any tickets. Yet.” He introduced me to his friends: the lady I saw him talking to earlier, two more guys and another lady, lets call her Louise. Louise thrust her had forward and vigorously shook mine. “Inua?, that’s a nice name, but I’ll forget, I’m crap with names.” “Me too Louise, you have no idea...” The gang began to stop people who got out of taxis, on their way from Bestival back to their various homes. They asked, begged, pleaded for the festival wrist bands they would get them on site. It worked! They got some for free, paid £20 for a couple, but they were all successful. We waited for a big enough taxi to take us to Bestival and the chit chat flowed freely.

Louise buzzed with excitement. She was loud, blonde, pink lipstick and flirtatious. She asked my name a few more times before finally mastering it - I told the slightly cheeky joke: “Think if it in a sexual context, IN - OOH - AAH” she cackled like three witches, got it and called out to her mate, “come hear this.” When they’d stopped laughing an odd silence settled. Bill had grown momentarily quite in his RayBans and noticing the light awkwardness, Mel piped up “they are married...” and I apologised for what now seemed and inappropriate joke. Mel walked off with one of the guys - lets call him Colin - as Louise and Bill showed off their diamond studded wedding rings, offering me a drink of something dark and strong. The taxi came and we climbed in to wait for Mel and Colin’s return, but they failed to answer their phones. “They are having a domestic” Louise explained, “they are married as well, they weren’t talking on the ferry you know” she laughed. Bill was getting angrier by the minute, swearing loudly how he wanted to get to Bestival and see Bjork. He tried Mel and Colin over and over again, his language getting worse and worse, every other word an expletive. I had the growing sense of sitting in a cage with a lion. The last friend - lets call him Steve - sat between Bill and Louise, Louise kept reaching across to calm her husband, slapping him sharply on his arm “don’t be such a dick head, don’t be such a mug” she kept on saying, varying the similes a little. Eventually, Bill erupted and asked the taxi driver to go. We pulled out of the parking lot and sped up hill, it never once crossed my mind to get outta the taxi and get a bus.

As we drove, we talked of work. Louise was a dog breeder - this I was fascinated by. Steve was between jobs and when I asked Bill’s work, the other laughed and said ‘he makes the tea’. Bill smiled sheepishly and leant back as though he’d given up on something, but I prodded. He told me he worked a managerial position as a railway inspector, leading a team of 15 guys. “I don’t walk as much as I used to these days. When I first started, I walk about 6 miles of railway a day.” Is it hard? I asked “Not if you know what you are doing, is fine. There are some tough times though.. suicides..” He took of his RayBans here and leant forward. He had a round longish face. He was balding, as I am, but further down the line. His bottom row of teeth were crooked and layered on top of one another. Mel was right, his eyes were clear-tropical-beach-water coloured, childlike and something frail about the way they scanned my face flicking to the window and back. As he spoke, they shook ever so gently from side to side, “It is hard sometimes when you have to deal with the suicides, I have to liaise with police, organise for forensics people to come and do the scene, gather up the body... it’s not right seeing a human being in so many pieces like that... cut to bits on the tracks... I have to switch of... you know, sometimes?” “You have to I said” suddenly shuddering in the taxi, “there is no other way...”

Dear Daddy, I have eaten the beans I grew...

A few weeks ago, I took part in an Apples and Snakes writing workshop led by story teller ‘Sally Pomme Clayton”. The workshop was at the Imperial War Museum and our task was to go through the artefacts on display, choose one item and write something based on it. The steps were to conjure up a character, conjurer up the world of the character and see what comes. We focused on the world of evacuees; kids who were take out of the city of London during the second world war, who stayed in the country side. I found a letter by a girl called Charlotte which simply read: “Dear Daddy, I have eaten the beans I grew, I can tie my shoe laces in a bow. Charlotte”.

We also had to write in the 3rd Person external at first, THEN slip into the 3rd Person internal, which was brilliant. Writing in the 3rd person is typically ‘the voice of god’ which is used a lot in novels, an all seeing, all knowing voice that describes everything and anything. An external 3rd person voice is purely observational, says things as the appear and attempts to hint a emotional depth by which things are focused on. 3rd Persona internal is when the the voice slips into the head of one of the characters and tells you straight up. The interplay between these voices can be quite affecting.

So, this is what I came up with:

The sun is half sunk and slips soundlessly into the room in the way it has done since the summer turned. It brings with it the after rain, damp grass, the watered shell of a beehive and cold stone flowing through the window, past the just-lit lamp, settles comfortably in the kitchen. Charlotte’s sat transfixed on a space just above her pencil tip and the end of the chopping board resting on her lap. The sheet of paper on the board is ruled and waiting for words. Behind, her red coat droops a soft shadow onto her walking boots and the tabby cat purrs greedily rubbing her fur against the buckles.

Mrs Bennet calls from outside startling the cat, “Have you finished yet pumpkin?” Charlotte replies, “almost” and resumes her frown. ‘There are books’ she thinks, ‘rivers that run mayflies and magpies...’ She has watched the fog come in to rest on the house, her dreams aren’t stuffed with smoke anymore and though she tries, her mother’s scent has left her memory. Mrs Bennet calls “I’l be off to milk the goat, when I return we’ll be off to the post office, okay?”

Charlotte lifts the stub of pencil as the dusk light drains away. Mrs Bennet returns, lifts the letter, “Dear Daddy, I have eaten the beans I grew, I can tie my shoe laces in a bow. Charlotte”.