Mexico '86

 It's 1986 and my father is shouting for Argentina, prompting me to run to he sitting room. I am 9 years old and it is summer in England. Our comfortable home on Purley Avenue is bright and daddy is watching the World Cup.

Because my father supported Argentina, I have been supporting Argentina or Brazil, ever since. I also crammed all the counries in South America and their capital cities. It is because of these sentimental attachments that I supported Mexico during the World Cup opening match of 2026. 40 years later and my heart is still drawn towards this country.

 Internet photo

It was in 2006 that I visited Mexico City and after writing several poems to capture my feelings, I revisit them at times. I revisit the memories that are still vivid. I remember the conversations, the streets, the shops, the sleet and standing out as a black person by the pyramids. I remember all of it.

Mexico beat South Africa and this was a personal victory for me, because 40 years later, I needed this win. 

This is my time for a win.

Bless!

Bev

This

 

Al  Qaeda

 

I am Al Qaeda

metal scanners are my foes; my friends

the scanner rubs me up and down                                           

it makes a sound

I take off my metallic belt willingly.

 

Your scanner rubs me up and down and rubs me up and down again

this time it I my metallic bra

please help me und the clasp

your scanner makes a sound

it is the metal in my garters

your scanner begins to bulge.

 

You take me to a room

your scanner beeps and beeps and beeps.

 

 

Previously published in Kwani? 4, in 2006

Mothers vs Daughters' Netball Match

Wholesome fun is part of our life's journey. Heroes' Day 9 June 2026, my eldest daughter's school organised a Mothers' day brunch together with a netball match. I had spent the previous week at home and it had begun to stifle me. I needed to get out. Sunday at church was Family month launch with a lunch and family discussions and Tuesday, brunch and netball.

I did not expect to have that much fun. It exceeded my expectations. I last played in primary school, or secondary. I definitely last scored in primary. And here I was, volunteering to serve as the shooter. Surprising myself, and I am sure others as well. My eldest is a netball player, captain of her team and goal shooter. Her team relies on her so much and I am super proud of her. My second born us a sprinter and basketball player. I am proud of her and all our children. We worked our bodies hard during the match. The mothers, helped by the teachers, did extremely well and won the match by one point. The girls of course were highly impressive, well coordinated and most likely wouldhave won if we weren't assisted by the younger staff members. Our center, a parent, played so well, and was our MVP without a doubt. It was such a thrill. Exercising, team work, having fun, cheering and ending the day on an extremely high note. Bless! Bev

Our eldest

 Our eldest, let's gooooo.

That age when they are learning to sit. Their legs aren't yet straight. They are fully breastfed and healthy and sweet. Bursting cheeks with clothes that don't quite fit around their tummies.

Babies are adorable and must be protected. Infacts are precious and must be cared for with love.

I have followed the story of the Turpin family who lived years of horror under their wicked, unfit and irrepressible parents. The children, aged 2 to twenties were chained, starved, deprived of hygiene and medical care and void of  affection.

The house was called The House of Horrors and thanks to the bravery of one of the daughters who was 17 at the time, and managed to escape, the children, most adults, are now freed and bonding. The parents pled guilty.

I have witnessed abuse in many forms in various situations and yet this parental abuse sits amongst the worst of its kind.

It cannot even be categorised under 'How not to parent.' It is right out of the devil's handbook.

May all children be cared for with love.

All my Life I’ve Tried to Fit In

 

All my Life I’ve Tried to Fit In

 

All My Life I’ve

tried to Fit In

I cut off my feet for you

to match your height

and even when I couldn’t walk

I trusted you’d carry me

but you left me to walk on my own

 

all my life I’ve

tried to fit in

I removed my vagina for you

but instead of taking care of it

you took it to your church fellowship

for un-sexing and de-feminizing

 

all my life I’ve

tried to fit in

I removed my eyes for you

because my vision was too big

but instead of giving me sight

you kept me blindfolded

and blind, foul and dead.

 

all my life I’ve

tied to fit in

I removed my hands for you

to hinder their beauty

hoping that ordinary people like you

would finally love me.

you used my hands as gloves

when you felt cold and inhumane,

which was often.

 

all my life

I’ve tried to fit in.

I removed my brain for you

because you said I think too much

and yet there was no room for me in your smallness

and you squeezed me out.

 

I became born again today

in this life

I don’t need to fit in

I was born to stand out

born again

to shine again

to feel again

to love and be loved again

 

Poem by Beverley Nambozo Nsengiyunva, 2021

 

The Best Non-Crier on Purley Avenue

 

I know what I’m going to do this half- term break. I’m going to prove to everyone on Purley Avenue that I’m still the best non-crier on the street. I first have to deal with Dolores. She made fun of me when I showed the rest of the kids on the street my Tina Turner show. Everyone else said I was great. I hate Dolores. She has so many freckles. Her face looks like a slice of ham with many tomato seeds. I don’t have breasts yet but I have a great BMX bike that I call Tiger.

“You’re just a stupid Cabbage Patch kid,” I yell at her from across the street. It’s the first Saturday of the half-term break, 27th October.

Southall Park London, 2013

“And our gang will always be better than yours.”

With that, I run to the green bush where the rest of my gang is waiting. We call ourselves The Stars. Every holiday, me, my brothers, The Ugandans on 46 Purley Avenue, the Nigerians on 48 Purley Avenue, Paree and a bunch of other kids hang out. It’s still warm for October and I’m glad since my birthday is next Saturday. Ihuoma’s gone off to Manchester so I’ll just hang out with the Purley kids.

“What’s the plan for today? Where’s Happy Sam? And where are Punch and Judy?”

Happy Sam is my neighbor from Nigeria, five years old. He lives on 48 Purley Avenue next to the Ugandans on 46 Purley Avenue. He was born in 1981 and is younger than all of us. But we all like Happy Sam because he is just so happy. Punch and Judy, the nick name for the Kenyan twins, are my best friends on Purley Avenue. Ihuoma is still my best friend in the world. Actually, Gemma is also my best friend in the world. Punch and Judy are the fastest runners on the street but I’m better than them at marbles.

Justin tells us that Happy Sam went to pick up his brothers and sisters from the airport with his parents. His family comes to London every year from Nigeria. Justin is Julie and Jackson’s brother. They are Ugandan like me and they are called The Musokes. When our white friends read their name, they call them Moo-Soaks.

“Well, we have to go and get them. Come on: if our gang is going to be strong, then all the members have to be here. We are going to rumble, and we will win.”

“Listen guys, I think we have to go over to their house and tell them that if they don’t come today, we can lose the rumble,” I declare.

“Elgona’s right,” Julie says.

I know she only does so because she thinks that Masaba will like her better. Julie even allows Masaba to touch her breasts. I don’t have breasts yet.

“Ok then, let’s go,” says Masaba.

“Good.”

When we get to Punch and Judy’s house, we see a big moving van outside.

“What’s going on?” Justin asks.

“Are they leaving?” says Masaba.

Their Mum, Mrs. Why-Nigh-Nah, which is actually spelt Wainaina, comes rushing out with about a dozen pillows in front of her and bumps into us.

“Where are you guys going? Are you leaving?” I blurt out, leaving Julie to help her with the pillows that have fallen on the ground.

“Oh, you’re all here,” says Mrs. Why-Nigh-Nah.

I hate it when adults play dumb.

...

Part of my story published in 2013, Postcolonial Text.

Title: The Best Non-Crier on Purley Avenue

Dear Jeanne

 Dear Jeanne,

You left this earth on 22 May 2026, and yet you still unite us. There are some members of Rhema that  I had not seen in 20 years whom I met at your vigil. I also joined the WhatsApp group for Rhema ladies and your contact is still there.

When I met you in 2005, you were working at Rhema and managing the day to day administrative tasks. I remember when, during my research for gender work, you lent me 500/- to buy fruit salad. And then you would carry digestive biscuits and Nido powdered milk for me to take tea.

That small Rhema office was cold from the air conditioner and yet warm from the conversations. You were consistent and charming. Your dimples bobbed in and out effortlessly. You carried yourself with grace.

The poignant moments I recall were when you visited me a few times, when I was in dire stress. You were my SoS. You saw the signal and came rushing. Listening to my cries for help, because of the increasing stress I faced from unfulfilled dreams, shattered friendships and poverty woes, you patiently responded. Without judgement you listened, and that is what I needed. I needed someone who would patiently listen.

Thanks for the friendship. Thanks for naming our first daughter. Thanks for introducing Ariel to us. Thanks fo renabling us to recinnect with Alex.

Thanks, Jeanne.