I wear the scars of the immigrant experience, marked on my forehead forever. I was two when we arrived in England from Kenya, our family rented a single bedroom in London. When our landlord’s son pushed me face-first into a metal bed frame, I cried and cried; mum was devastated but couldn’t say anything. I still remember the indignity and injustice.
I ran away from home aged 10, for all of 45 minutes. I packed a box with knickers and baked beans, barely making it down the road before returning. I loved Enid Blyton books back then; I think this “escape” was an attempt to be more British. It’s why I refused to eat Indian food for a while, taking jam and butter on my chapatis.
