*
Warehouse Hill is little more than a narrow gap between tall warehouses. A short cobbled hill of perhaps thirty yards that quickly dead-ends at the river. To the left is Warehouse Road and more warehouses. To the right is Leeds Bridge, where the city was born. In front of you is the River Aire. You did not jump, David. There is no evidence that you could swim. You did not jump. Today there is a safety barrier which is four feet high. A black metal barrier to prevent people from accidentally falling in. But not then, my friend. Back then you could fly down the thirty yards of Warehouse Hill, miss the cobbled turn to the left into Warehouse Road, and get very wet. But not you, David. You did not jump. Today, on the wall, there is a sign. It reads: 'Aire-Calder Navigation. Before the railway age, the making navigable of the River Aire importantly made Leeds an inland port connected directly to Hull. Cheap water carriage was vital for the successful export of the cloth marketed and finished in the town. Opened 1700.' Perhaps, David, the river tried to carry you away to the east and back in the direction of Hull. Twenty years in Leeds is a long time. Perhaps the strong current, down here at Leeds Bridge, was intent upon carrying you all the way back to Hull, and then back to the safety of Africa. Away from your home.
'Remember Oluwale'.
Graffiti on the wall by the Hayfield pub on the corner of Reginald Terrace and Harehills Avenue.
*
I was living in Sheffield when the case went to trial and I thought, 'Goodness, I know that guy.' It was David. I was outraged that the police would target him in the way the newspapers said they did, and behave with such unbridled brutality. Obviously they had a personal vendetta against him, but the David I knew was stubborn and was never a man to back down. I knew he would have refused to play second best to these people. David and I first met when we were about fifteen. We were part of the same group of about six to ten guys who ran together in Lagos. At Christmas and Easter we used to dress up in fancy dress; you know, a cowboy on a bicycle or something like that. We called ourselves the Odunlami Area Boys' Club and our dream was to escape to England, for the war had 'officially' educated us about that place. Olu had an uncle who ran a hotel called Ilojo Hotel in Tinubu Square, and sometimes we would meet there. Then eventually, one by one, we all sought out ships to stow away on and we made our way to England. I was lucky for my captain let me work my passage painting the ship, and when we docked in Birkenhead he handed me over to the immigration officer but he told the man that I'd worked my passage. Eventually I made my way to Yorkshire where I'd heard there were good jobs, and I got work at the Hatfield Steelworks. I couldn't believe it but Olu was also working there. David had the same no-nonsense attitude about him, and I was really very happy to see a face from Lagos, but I worried about him. He wouldn't let anything go. Nobody was going to do this or that to him, and his attitude was always getting him into trouble. If a foreman said something wrong to him, it would be 'fuck off ' and there really wasn't any point in talking to him. I tried. I would say, 'Hey, Olu,' but he was a stubborn, fighting man who simply found it impossible to back down and work the system. I worried about Olu. We all had strong heads as youngsters in Lagos, but maybe Olu's head was a little stronger. When I heard about the case I felt sick. I was shocked to hear that he had been reduced to sleeping in the street, but I knew that Olu would never back down and let these people humiliate him. Maybe that's it; he was a little stronger and more determined. But I didn't know that he was sleeping in the street. I just didn't know.
Killingbeck Cemetery is ludicrously overcrowded. The cemetery equivalent of a ghetto. Its location opposite St James' Hospital suggests that somebody is in possession of a strange sense of humour. The cemetery sits on York Road. The old Roman road to York. On this desolate patch of land trees have been planted as though they were a hurried afterthought. To the east of the cemetery houses are clustered tightly together behind flimsy wooden fencing. Children wander through the cemetery, using it as a short cut on their way home from school. The cemetery lacks gravitas. Abandoned flowers are dying on stone slabs. The children are oblivious of the significance of what lies all about them. They laugh. And then I see it. Your tombstone. It stands at the crest of a hill and lists slightly to the right. You are at the top of a hill, but 'David Oluwale' appears at the bottom of a list of ten names. And why a Roman Catholic cemetery for you? Was there something in the pocket of your wet coat that suggested this? Your blue bead necklace with a crucifix? Your grave is full. There are nine others. In death you have fulfilled a promise made at birth. Here at Killingbeck Cemetery there is no more land for graves. Soon there will be no more burials in this place. Everybody can rest peacefully. You have achieved a summit, David. Climbed to the top of a hill, and from here you can look down. You are still in Leeds. Forever in Leeds.
Acknowledgements
I wrote this book with the help and assistance of a number of people. I would like to thank: Kester Aspden, Maureen Baker, James Basker, Jill Campbell, Allison Edwards, Max Farrar, Patricia Farrell, Arthur France, Vanessa Garcia, Karen King-Aribisala, Cordelia Lawton, John McLeod, Colin Mann, George Miles, Joseph Odeyemi, Gill and Tei Quarcoopome, Liz Stirling, Vanessa Toulmin, Annette Turpin, Charmaine Turpin, James Walvin, Eurwyn Williams, Orig Williams, Alex Woolliams, and Matthew Yeomans. I owe a particular debt of gratitude to David Thornton's Leeds: The Story of a City. Maya Wainhaus assisted me through the final stages and typed the manuscript. Finally, Andrew Warnes proved to be a wonderful researcher, source of information, and friend as I was writing 'Northern Lights'.
Caryl Phillips
March 2007
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