Percival Everett showed me the transformative power of literature
Lenny Henry
Actor, writer and comedian and the author, with Marcus Ryder, of The Big Payback: The Case for Reparations for Slavery and How They Would Work
Black culture is a dynamic force that continually reshapes my identity and worldview through its art. Two remarkable works that have profoundly influenced me are James and Wounded, both by the brilliant Percival Everett.
I had the privilege of attending the Booker prize ceremony last year, where I was in the same room as Everett. Although he didn’t win for James, the reading by Nonso Anozie was both devastatingly moving and hilariously insightful. Everett is a masterful African-American author who captures the complexities of contemporary Black identity in the US.
James by Percival Everett. Photograph: Picador
James is a literary remix of Mark Twain’s Huckleberry Finn, told from the perspective of Jim, the enslaved character. It’s a funny and thrilling exploration of racism, slavery and humanity’s capacity for cruelty. Everett’s retelling allows Jim and his fellow plantation workers to communicate in a way that transcends the often parodic depictions of Black speech. The line, “Dey takes the lies dey want and throws away the truth dat scares ’em”, reflects a deep wisdom. This novel reveals that compassion, humour and kindness can be found in the most unexpected places. The transformative power of literacy shines through when Jim realises, “If I could see the words, then no one could control them or what I got from them.” This message should be shared with every child at the start of Black History Month.
I’m equally captivated by Wounded, set in Wyoming, where John, a Black horse trainer, assists a young man ostracised for his sexuality. The story navigates heavy themes of homophobia and love with grace and humour. It’s beautifully written, and I eagerly await its film adaptation, but read the book first! Percival Everett continues to be a literary hero for me, embodying the wisdom that “If you’re not making mistakes, you’re not learning.”
Broadcaster, journalist and president of Soas University of London
A defining thought for me was the doctrine of pan-Africanism. That really awakened my interest in history, because I really would like to see history as part of that pan-African drive to unite the people of Africa and also people of African descent. History not only explains our past, it also defines our present.
You can’t reduce the experiences of people of African descent to one narrative but there are more unifying factors than ones that divide. The main one is that there is nowhere in Africa that didn’t experience foreign subjugation in one way or another.
If anyone exemplified that thought for me, it was Gamal Abdel Nasser, of Egypt. I choose him because he is seen as an Arab leader and yet he was also very firmly anchored in the concept of pan-Africanism. He even arranged a marriage for Kwame Nkrumah, the first prime minister and president of Ghana, ensuring he had a wife from Egypt, in a spirit of pan-Africanism and unity of the people of the continent.
A lot of people tend to hive off the north of Africa and say it is part of the Arab world and not part of Africa proper – and Nasser countered that view. As someone who was born in Sudan, very much at the crossroads of the Arab world and Africa – at least the northern part of Sudan where I am from – Nasser and Nkrumah helped shape my view of pan-Africanism.
Winifred Atwell’s virtuosic musicianship was an early lesson in freedom
YolanDa Brown
Saxophonist, composer, broadcaster and chair of the British Phonographic Industry
I recently unveiled the blue plaque to the pianist and composer Winifred Atwell, and hearing the joyful bounce of The Black and White Rag playing out in the street in front of where she lived brought it all back to life for me. I could feel the sparkle in her playing, precise yet playful, classical yet carefree. When I first heard her music, I was in my teenage years and completely intrigued. I learned that this vibrant sound came from a Trinidadian woman who had topped the UK charts in the 1950s, a broadcaster and entrepreneur too, opening one of the first Black hair salons in the UK.
Atwell’s story speaks to possibility. A classically trained pianist who refused to be boxed in, she moved effortlessly between Chopin and boogie-woogie, and played everywhere from concert halls to variety shows. She was an elegant Black woman redefining what the piano and who a pianist could be.
For me, Winifred Atwell’s music was an early lesson in freedom. She showed me that you could carry your heritage into any room and still fill it with your own voice. Her example whispered reassurance, as I began to carve my own path in music, blending jazz, reggae and soul … there’s space for all of it.
Atwell played with joy that transcended boundaries. Watching old footage now, I see more than show-womanship – I see courage. She turned the piano into a meeting place of cultures, histories and hope. Through her, I learned that the most powerful statement you can make is to be unapologetically you.
I strive to carry forward the flame of Jamaican activist Marcus Garvey
Nadine White
Journalist, film-maker and the UK’s first race correspondent
I first heard the name Marcus Garvey in the reggae songs my mum played throughout my childhood – roots tunes from Burning Spear and Culture booming through our small London flat. I remember thinking, “Who’s Marcus?” and being told stories about this great Jamaican man who taught pride and self-determination. I listened to my older brother, Sam, talk about his movement.
Mum was a collector of Black art back in the day and bought a striking painting of Garvey that took pride of place in our living room. Within a Eurocentric society, that culturally Jamaican home was my haven … full of music, books and images that told me who I was and who I could be. I grew up literally watching Garvey.
Later, I read Colin Grant’s biography of him, Negro With a Hat, and pored over Garvey’s speeches. Garvey was flawed like anyone, but his message – that we must organise, create and own our stories – shaped how I move through the world.
His use of media as a tool for liberation still fuels me; when I asked the health secretary questions during a televised Covid press conference at Downing Street, it was the aforementioned portrait of Garvey that hung in the background of my home. When I make films or build platforms to amplify Black voices, I’m carrying that same flame. Garvey taught me that pride and purpose are not luxuries; they’re a responsibility.
Cultural historian, broadcaster and lecturer, and the inaugural director of V&A East
I felt politics long before I understood what it was. Even as a very young child, I sensed something in the dignified rage of Muhammad Ali, I felt it in the defiance of John Carlos and Tommie Smith, the indefatigability of Arthur Ashe. Alongside their brilliance, I detected an epigenetic rage, something that felt old and raw and right – it electrified me, even as a child. And who could resist such exquisite, stately, controlled anger, channelled with forensic effect to offer deep, enduring, emotional and communal catharsis.
My sister Margaret was, and remains, the most beautiful and inspiring person I have ever met, and on this particular afternoon she was looking the kind of cool that could have got her cast in an early Melvin Van Peebles movie. She was wearing a fawn suede waistcoat, a brown flowery shirt and her afro was fringed with the special sepia-tinted sunlight that warmed our south London living room on late summer afternoons.
A mural of Marvin Gaye by the artist Dreph, Brixton, south London, 2021. Photograph: Matt Crossick/PA
She walked over to the radiogram – and dropped the needle on a track. The sound was turned way up – there were two seismic crackles that could have been heard in Tooting Bec, and then Marvin Gaye began: “Mother, mother”, It was a ballad, a prayer, an ode, a love song to a generation, a political tractus, a lament to what was lost – but most profoundly, it was a song for the rest of us.
Our planet, hope, compassion were dying – and those that cared were not being listened to.
It articulated the angst of a generation, it asked for love, reason, rapprochement – but it also asked something of you: that you stand up.
Tupac Shakur’s poetry inspired me to call out inequality
Simone Orefuwa
Vice-president of the National Black Police Association
Music was a cornerstone of my upbringing – my father was a huge reggae and dancehall fan, always buying records. I’ve yet to meet anyone with as much vinyl as him! But when I discovered Yo! MTV Raps, I instantly knew I had found my genre. There was something powerful in the rhythmic storytelling, where words danced over beats.
Rap music exposed me to the struggles of Black communities in the US and UK, where they spoke about poverty, racism, inequality, police brutality and broken families, while also rapping about resilience, hope and empowerment.
The list of rappers I listen to is extensive, but for me, Tupac Shakur was a musical genius and my favourite poet. Many of his songs are social commentaries on injustice and compassion. Changes highlighted the systemic oppression, the mental toll this can take and the need for social reform. Soulja’s Story covered racism and police brutality experienced as a young Black man. Meanwhile, songs such as Keep Ya Head Up and Dear Mama showed empowerment for Black women while expressing vulnerability, tenderness and optimism.
For me, rap was more than just the music, it was also about the fashion. I begged my parents for clothing from brands such as Karl Kani and Cross Colours. I loved the baggy jeans, oversized tops, trainers/Timberlands and bandanas. It gave me a confidence to celebrate my Black identity and showcase Black designers.
As I continue to listen to Tupac’s lyrics, I’m struck by how powerful his words remain today as we face the rise of the far right and misogynistic behaviour. Tupac inspired me to use my voice to challenge and call out inequality: something I’m proud to do now through my work with the National Black Police Association.
Doctor and standup comedian
I’ve long found “Monday motivation” – the posting of motivational quotes on Monday mornings – quite insipid. I understand the rationale; few are bullish about work on a Monday especially after a decompressing weekend. However, I’ve always queried the benefit a motivational quote will have if that desire doesn’t come from within.
That’s until I came across American motivational speaker Eric Thomas, AKA The Hip Hop Preacher, and his famous mantra “when you want to succeed as bad as you want to breathe, then you’ll be successful” a few years ago. A friend had shared a short clip of Thomas delivering this potent line and I suspect it was the forceful delivery, the pure emphasis on “breathe” that struck a chord with me.
My medical background is perhaps the reason for this but, of course, you don’t need a medical degree to know breathing is essential for life. Immediately the internal interrogation began: am I pursuing my career goals with the sheer intensity that they’re essential for life? Am I leaving no stone unturned? Or am I cruising on talent and a bit of effort and hoping divine intervention will make up the shortfall? If I’m honest, it’s probably the latter.
Yet my inner cynicism tried to rear its ugly head: “Technically, breathing is involuntary.” A deflection attempt made in vain. Deep down, I knew Eric was right. Being obsessive and determined have underpinned my successes to date. Thomas’s quote was a timely reminder that if I want to continue succeeding – within medicine, comedy or even both – I need to perceive accomplishments as being as essential as oxygen is to staying alive.
The confidence and conviction of Mia Mottley showed me true leadership
Shana Maloney
Priest in charge of St James church, Clapton, east London
I grew up in Barbados with Mia Mottley as the most prominent female in the political and public life of Barbados – as the opposition leader – a familiar voice that carried across the island. You didn’t just hear her; you felt her influence in the way people spoke about possibility and in how young people, especially girls, looked to follow in her footsteps. Even as a child, I recognised and was drawn to her confidence and conviction – her belief that people could and should reach further. In some part of my young mind, I would tell people: “If Mia is opposition leader, then I will be the first female prime minister of Barbados.”
Mia Mottley speaking after her Barbados Labour party won a landslide victory in the country’s first election since it became a republic, Bridgetown, 20 January 2022. Photograph: Nigel R Browne/Reuters
Mia Amor Mottley is a barrister and politician who has served as the prime minister of Barbados since 2018 – the first woman ever to hold that office. She previously served as minister of education, attorney general and deputy prime minister, leading with intellect and a striking sense of purpose. Under her leadership, Barbados became a republic in 2021, marking a defining moment of transformation within the Caribbean.
Like her, and possibly because of her, I studied law – drawn by the same pursuit of justice and service for others. My path later led to the priesthood, but both vocations and her example have taught me that leadership is about service and the flourishing of people. Though we don’t share the same political views, I deeply respect her clarity of thought, courageand commitment. Mia Mottley embodies leadership rooted in intellect, responsibility and compassion.
Assistant newsletter editor and writer at the Guardian
There’s a phenomenon among gay men called “diva worship” that is our veneration of female singers whose artistic style, lyrics, dancing and beautiful voices trigger a latent flamboyance or accentuate it. Over the years this figure in my life has taken many forms – Beyoncé, Lana Del Rey, Lady Gaga, Whitney Houston. But the first divas I worshipped were the Supremes who, as a child, gifted me with a language through which to parse love and heartbreak well before I would come to know what position those emotions would have in my life.
My favourite of the classics had always been their 1966 hit You Keep Me Hangin’ On – my childhood self, who would skip around the house singing it, couldn’t have known that it would become my go-to song whenever I wanted to be “set free” by yet another situationship who was sending me mixed signals or giving me hot-and-cold treatment. Then there was Baby Love and Stop! In the Name of Love (you can imagine me in front of the telly, left hand on hip, right hand in the air palm spread). But I loved the deep cuts too, from the sentimental to the smitten, which would prepare me for the pleasures and disappointments of love: Time Changes Things, It’s All Been Said Before, He’s All I Got. Buttered Popcorn, which allowed Florence Ballard to lead and showcase her commanding, soulful timbre (sadly when I tried buttered popcorn I was disgusted by it, though it spoke to my experience with greasy, sticky, salty men).
I have no musical talent, but I think the Supremes were pretty formative to how I would come to approach prose – being sincere with emotion and feeling, and the stakes when you expose yourself to being bruised. So thanks for guiding my pen, and carrying me through heartbreak.
The Black Panther soundtrack pushed me to make consequential work
Athena Kugblenu
If you’re not fanatical about the soundtrack to Eddie Murphy’s movie The Nutty Professor, you must think Foxy Brown is a shade from Farrow and Ball. So what if the soundtrack had almost nothing to do with the film? It had everything to do with the tastes of the people who might watch actually the film. I didn’t mind that. That was its genius to me.
Some 22 years later, watching the movie Black Panther changed my mind. Its final moments carry a powerful message of pan-Africanism that redeem Killmonger, the anti-hero. The revolution he wanted could be instigated by Wakanda after all. As the credits roll, this mesmerising notion is followed by All the Stars by Kendrick Lamar and SZA. I realised this soundtrack has everything to do with the film, and a lot to say.
Lupita Nyong’o as Nakia, and Letitia Wright as Shuri in the 2018 film Black Panther. Photograph: Moviestore collection Ltd/Alamy
All the Stars is about the responsibility that comes with love and the consequences of achieving your dreams, a commentary on T’Challa’s story in the movie. The entire soundtrack is a conversation between Africa and the African diaspora, as is the film, layering trap, rap and R&B with South African artistry, reflecting where many of the film’s cultural references were drawn from.
It can be adored by anyone who listens but demands intellect to truly understand. The biggest film franchise in the world made an album with one of the biggest artists in the world that rewards us for paying attention. Now, as then, in these “swipe early, swipe often” times, I find something deeply refreshing about this. This soundtrack is a reminder to me to make consequential work. Plus, it never reneges on its one requirement: the songs still have to slap. On the soundtrack to Black Panther, they do.
Labour MP for Birmingham Erdington
Growing up in Handsworth, Birmingham, with very little, we were grateful for what we had. While we couldn’t afford the games other kids had, we had music and dance – not just any music, but reggae. This music did more than entertain us; it shaped the person I am today.
I will always remember hearing Gregory Isaacs’s Night Nurse for the first time. That smooth, comforting rhythm drifted from my father’s radio and, years later, from my husband Dennis’s sound system as he DJ’d in our home. There was something truly transformative about that song. There are multiple interpretations of it, but to my mind, Isaacs sang of care, compassion, and being there for someone in their time of need, concepts that resonated deeply with my young mind.
For me, a Black British woman, reggae was a cultural anchor. It connected me to my Jamaican heritage while giving me strength to face life’s challenges in Britain. When teachers dismissed children such as me, suggesting we were “only destined to have babies,” this music reinforced my sense of worth and ambition.
Night Nurse became more than a song; it became a calling. Its lyrics about watching over someone and offering comfort and relief shaped the kind of nurse I aspired to be. It was the inspiration for my 25-year career in the NHS.
Today, the music remains a powerful companion. It reminds me that from Birmingham to parliament, I’ve always been guided by one principle: true service means being present for those who need us, just like the night nurse in Isaacs’s timeless song.
Seeing patois respected on the page transformed my TV reporting style
Symeon Brown
Reporter and journalist at Channel 4 News
In college I was one of those boring boys who refused to read fiction. I learned the error of my ways when a good friend suggested that I pick up Chinua Achebe’s Things Fall Apart. If that book enlightened me to the human revelations that only fiction can deliver, it would be Sam Selvon’s The Lonely Londoners that changed me. The 1956 novel about the Windrush arrivals is a reflection of its characters: laid back, mischievous and the depth broods beneath the surface. It was the first time I saw patois respected on the page – the dialect is a forefather of my own multicultural London English. The connection has stayed with me even as a television news reporter. In a field that defers authority to softened received pronunciation my own cadence remains instantly recognisable and different.
A production based on Sam Selvon’s book The Lonely Londoners, with Carol Moses as Tanty, Jermyn St Theatre, London, 6 March 2024. Photograph: Tristram Kenton/The Guardian
The Lonely Londoners is quintessentially a story about the original mandem too. Moses, Galahad and the boys were gyalis, hustlers and black aspirants in a racially hostile Britain. As the Windrush generation have been upgraded to “good immigrants” who “helped the mother country”, the balance provided in The Lonely Londoners and its nonfiction heir Journey to an illusion by Donald Hinds in 1966 constantly remind me that the good, the bad and the ugly of our stories must be told too.
Finding The Lonely Londoners set off a bomb in me. The novel is a cornerstone of a black British canon that is far too invisible to black Britons themselves. It led me first to work in the Black Cultural Archives and then as a gatherer of black British stories as a news correspondent. If there is one urgency for Black History Month it must be to remember our forgotten canon. Read them. Watch them. Share them.
