MOVING IN WITH THE CHURCH
Mum had always been religious but it was during this time that she started going to church to find solace. Like a lot of people, she found friendship, peace and happiness there; it took her away from the dreariness of life, especially when she was being hunted by my father. The church was her escape, her refuge.
Black-led churches were springing up all over the country back then. It was one of the only things that gave people meaning in their lives, and a sense of community. This was the generation of Jamaicans who had answered the call from the Motherland for help, only to find that the Motherland was at best difficult and at worst hostile.
Most didn’t have their own church buildings so they used the houses of members of their congregation. The churches did have names, though. Ours was the Triumphant Church of God, and it had branches in Bristol, Burton-on-Trent, Cardiff, London and other towns and cities where there were black communities.
Our church was at 55 Bevington Road, Aston, a place I’ve been back to many times, and on many of those occasions I’ve had a film crew or radio producer in tow. The last few times I’ve been back a Bengali family has been living there. They’ve got so used to seeing me with my various crews that one time I could hear them saying, ‘Oh, it’s him again’, or words to that effect.
In ye olde England, churches would compete to see who could build the highest steeple; in our churches it was always about who had the best preachers. These were fiery, inspiring, charismatic men who could be on their feet burning energy and sweating buckets as they called upon the Holy Spirit to come cleanse the sinner and reward the faithful. A good preacher could preach for four hours or more, non-stop. Others would call upon members of the congregation to step up and testify, then anyone who had a problem or who had something to say – something inspiring or a psalm they wanted to read – could get up and do their thing. Sometimes they were as good as the main preacher.
It was during one of these moments in church when I did what I call my very first public, or semi-public, poetry performance. It was my mother’s turn to testify. She was a good speaker and the crowd was expecting something special from her, but to everyone’s surprise, and mine, she stood up and said she was going to take a rest and that her son would read a poem.
Little me looked up at big her with a quizzical expression drawn across my face and shrugged my shoulders. She looked down on me with a ‘go on, my son’ look, and I felt I had no choice. I got up to perform but didn’t know what to say, as my poems up to that point were about playground politics, stupid adults and girls. I had no church poems or going to heaven poems. I did have a great memory when it came to words, though, and in Sunday school I practised memorising passages from the Bible and the order of the books therein.
I suddenly knew what I was going to do. I jumped up and began to chant: ‘Genesis, Exodus, Leviticus, Numbers, Deuteronomy, Joshua, Judges, Ruth, first and second Samuel.’ I danced as I chanted to a reggae-cum-ska rhythm, and when I got to Revelations I began to do them backwards. When I stopped there were shouts of ‘Hallelujah!’, ‘Praise the Lord!’ and ‘The Holy Spirit has touched him.’ Some even called me a little prophet. It was here that I was first given the name Zephaniah, by one of the pastors in the church, after he who prophesied in the days of Josiah, ruler of the Kingdom of Judah (641–610 BC). A lot of people think Zephaniah is a stage name. It’s not. It’s the name on my passport and on all of my documents. The name is thought to mean ‘he whom God has hidden’, or ‘treasured by God’. I always felt I was a modern Zephaniah.
From then on I was constantly asked to get up and do that performance, or to perform random passages memorised from the Bible. I was the star turn when we went to conventions with other churches. It didn’t matter how good their preachers were; none of them had a Bible-rapping kid like me.
It was nice being a bit special, but what I didn’t like so much – and I think most kids would understand this – is that all these women kept coming up to me, rubbing my hair, going, ‘Oh, he’s such a nice boy, give auntie a kiss’, and that sort of stuff. I’d be so embarrassed! I can’t understand why aunties think kids like that.
This church, like any other, had its fair share of hypocrites. That may seem a bit strong, but I can honestly say that nearly all the people I knew well were not practising what they preached. Many had secrets and vices, and when I asked them why they were doing the very things they were preaching not to do in church, I was told: ‘Shut up and don’t interfere with big people business.’
There was one pastor I used to get lifts home from, and there was always one woman he would drop off last. He’d say, ‘Sit dere, boy’, so I’d sit in his car while he disappeared inside the house with her. He’d emerge around half an hour later saying, ‘Praise the Lord!’ I never realised until much later what he was up to. I heard little whispers but I never put two and two together at the time.
After spending a long time moving around, my mother began to get close to another guy. But he wasn’t any ordinary guy; he was the head of our church. Known to everyone as Pastor Burris, he was a legend in his own church time. Originally from Jamaica, he was thought of as one of the best, if not the best preacher in England, and his knowledge of the Bible was vast. He wasn’t that tall, but he was strong, powerful and muscular, and when he preached it was an event not to be missed. Ladies would leave the kitchen, men would put down their instruments, and children would gather at his feet. He was so charismatic that as he preached and worked up a sweat those listening would sweat with him.
He too had a big family of seven children, and he had separated from his wife, Gwen. His relationship with my mother caused some controversy in the church. Although they weren’t living together at first, they kept getting closer and closer. He would help her if she didn’t have any transport, he would take her shopping and, if she wanted furniture delivering, he would fix it for her, but most of all, if she wanted company he was there. And he was there for me too.
He was the complete opposite of my dad. He would go to the park and kick a ball with me, and we’d go for long walks over the Malvern Hills. And he taught me how to play dominoes. He was a laugh, and he had real presence. He was always smart and wore big baggy suit trousers of the kind that a lot of black men wear, particularly churchmen. And he would normally wear a hat. At some quite important moments in my development he became like a father. He was the first man to give me proper advice about girls, money, survival and all those other things that puzzled boys. I got on extremely well with him, and he was never afraid to help me try and answer the big questions I was always asking.
He wasn’t well off but he was savvy. And he was really keen on saving. He’d say to me, ‘Benjamin, when you grow up and start work, say you get five pounds, what you gonna do?’
Of course I’d say, ‘Spend it?’
Pastor would say, ‘No, you’ve got to save. Saving’s important. Save one pound of every five you make so if you lose your job you’ve still got some to tide you over.’
I was learning stuff from Pastor Burris – perhaps more than I learned in school, as we were moving around so much.
For a while, me and Mum were living in Stourbridge, just outside Birmingham. We rented a small room in the house of a Pakistani family. Although the room was small we were the only tenants and Mrs Chupty was happy to let us wander all over the house, even into their living space. This is where I developed my love of South Asian food, my favourite being channa, but I loved all types of vegetable curries and would happily devour ten chapattis in one sitting.
We lived next to a pub called the White Horse, which was next to a field called White Horse Field, and in the field there actually was a white horse. He would be moved to graze from one corner of the field to another, and whenever he was there we would play football at the opposite side from him. I spent about four months in a school there, which was unusually long for me; I have never met anyone who has been to more schools than me. I normally spent a couple of weeks in a school and then we would be forced to move on.
I was quite happy in Stourbridge, but one day something came over me. I suddenly had the feeling that I had to get away from the town, away from the house, away from my mother, away from it all. Looking back, I think it wasn’t so much about getting away from anything or anyone; I think I was just missing my brothers and sisters, so I ran away from home. Well, let me be precise: I walked away from home. In fact, I walked all the way from Stourbridge to Fentham Road in Birmingham, which was some walk. It would have been about eighteen miles door to door, a long way for a young boy of ten. In all those miles, along fast main roads, no one stopped me, not even the police.
I did the journey from memory, with a little help from road signs. I knew the route because I’d done it on the bus, so I walked through Dudley and West Bromwich, and then I followed the signs for the biggest place of worship in north Birmingham, Villa Park – the home of Aston Villa Football Club.
When I arrived in Fentham Road, Dad was suspicious, looking behind me and saying, ‘What you come home for?’
I said, ‘I just wanted to come home, you know . . .’ but as soon as I arrived I felt like a stranger, even though I was back with my brothers and sisters.
Mum contacted Social Services and they told her I’d gone back to Fentham Road. So I stayed for a while, although I never felt completely at home there or fully part of the family. I always thought they were talking about me behind my back. There was just something about it; it didn’t feel like my family. At least Dad didn’t try to capitalise on the situation with the authorities, like he was better than my mum or anything because he was looking after all the kids.
A woman used to come in and do domestic things while Dad went to work. Mum came back as well, at one point, to try living with Dad again, but she couldn’t take it, said he hadn’t changed, and left again. I agreed with her, and was fed up with his interrogations. Not long afterwards – maybe a couple of months later – I decided to go back to Mum.
It would have made sense to return to the place where we were living when I left – Stourbridge – but for some strange reason I was drawn in another direction. It was a guess, it was risky, but I walked for a couple of miles in the other direction, to Pugh Road, where you could still see the Villa ground (but from another angle), to the house of Pastor Burris. There he was, with all of his seven kids, Stanley, Peter, Lena, Brunetta, Jimbo, Kern and Trevor, who were all very surprised to see me, but they couldn’t understand why I had come to them. I couldn’t understand either.
Pastor questioned me on the doorstep; he kept asking, ‘Why do you think your mum is here?’ And all I could say was, ‘I want my mum.’ Eventually he let me into the house and sat me down in the front room. In the back room, where the rest of the family was, I could hear something that sounded like a negotiation going on, and I presumed they were talking about what to do with me. Then Pastor came back, looking rather serious, and said, ‘Now boy, who told you that your mother is here?’
I told him nobody had; I just felt that she was, and if she wasn’t maybe he could take me to her, because it was a long walk and I didn’t want to hurt my feet again. The atmosphere was tense. He stood up, opened the door to the other room, and Mum was standing there. She didn’t smile. She looked behind me, as if waiting for something to happen; they must have all thought it was a set-up and Dad was going to leap out. After I reassured her that I came alone and that no one had followed me, she too asked me how I knew she was living there. I could only refer her to my previous answer, but later on in life I put it down to a son’s intuition.
So that was it – from then on I would live with Mum and Pastor Burris and his kids and we’d all make a new home together.