Foot Notes - Black and White Thinking by Guy Kennaway & Hussein Sharif

Author:Guy Kennaway & Hussein Sharif [Kennaway, Guy & Sharif, Hussein]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

I was beginning to tear up. I felt magnificent. This was what our walk was all about: Hussein’s induction into the sacred state of being British, via the agency of English poetry in the Shropshire hills.

‘And Elgar,’ I continued. I took a stab at his Christian name, but thought I was probably safe from being corrected by Hussein, ‘Arthur Elgar,1 the great British composer, lived not far south of here. In the sublime Wye Valley. We could do that on our next walk.’

Hussein gave me a look of derision, so I moved on.

‘Have you heard of The Enigma Variations?’

Hussein looked blank.

I started humming the opening bars (as I saw them) of Nimrod. ‘Hold on,’ I said. ‘Let’s Spotify it.’2 In a minute we were listening. As the music swelled and met the rolling of the timpani and the blasting horns, my eyes teared up again with emotion. ‘Isn’t this the best music you’ve ever heard?’ I shouted.

He put his head to one side.

I hummed along, tears now streaming down my cheeks. ‘It’s basically the musical equivalent of being British,’ I explained. ‘It stirs the heart, and reminds us that we – that includes you my friend! – the English, the British, are the greatest nation on the face of globe. Come here and let me put my arm around you as we listen to it again together,’ I said.

‘No,’ said Hussein.

‘All right, don’t be touchy,’ I said, turning it down. ‘Look, I’m not saying wherever you came from, in Africa, wasn’t without any music or poetry,’ Hussein narrowed his eyes, ‘but Britain,’ I continued, ‘hopefully you’re beginning to see this yourself. Britain is more richly steeped in history and literature than anywhere else, basically. Can you feel it at all?’

‘Let me see,’ Hussein leant back his head and closed his eyes. I smiled – the lad was finally getting it. He looked back at me and opened his eyes. ‘Er. No,’ he said. ‘Nothing. Sorry, Guy. Oh no, hold on. I feel something. In my right foot. It’s wet. Is that what you mean?’

I tutted. ‘Okay. Listen to this,’ I countered, getting out my phone and scrolling. ‘Housman again,’ I said, picking a random poem thinking they’d all be sentimental-young-man-comes-to-terms-with-his-sexuality-in-an-era-of-prohibition. ‘Same year as the music.’

To skies that knit their heartstrings right

To fields that bred them brave

The saviours come not home tonight

Themselves they could not save

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