We ran to our bikes littered across the neighbourhood, panting and sweating like we had run a marathon. The blazing sun blinding us from our reality. Time always felt slow when we were young. We were undoubtedly stuck in what felt like a lifetime. But that lifetime was short and sweet like most good memories are. Standing up on those bikes while cycling in formation and looking back to see if anyone was slowing down, feeling the wind ripple through my T-shirt were my days of childhood. Being told not to stray far yet we strayed the furthest. We strayed as far as the ice cream van jingle that echoed through the ends. It was our Neverland.
I do not remember the last day I played outside, but I remember the feelings that clouded me, the feelings of frantic excitement and warmth leaving my body. I remember putting my shoes on as fast as I could while gulping down a glass of Robinson’s dilute. I remember shaking my partially clasped hands in front of my mother; her pointing to her purse for me to go through, I would take any spare change to sustain myself. I remember these particular details because it was a routine that I was used to. Some days, the spare change my friends and I collected would be pooled and divided amongst us equally, so we could all eat. We sat on the cold steps of our block, counting spare change to eat. This was a common ritual. This custom of pooling money and sharing it with each other reminded me of an East African tradition I saw while growing up called Ayuuto or Hagbad. Our little change could last the whole day and so did our dreams, dreams we would talk about, dreams of becoming more than what we were, dreams bigger than the homes we lived in.
The seasons began to change and eventually so did the weather. When the days got darker and sirens became louder, blue flashing lights began to plague our homes. These sirens were not taunting the skyscrapers in Canary Wharf though, the same skyscrapers I could see from my bedroom window. Skyscrapers that we thought of one day working in, these were ambitions held by the majority of us. We grew up in a block of flats in Stratford, a block that felt like home and had a sincere history. A history that each of us is a part of, ingrained in the very bricks that make the foundation. One day the air chilled and suddenly we could no longer play. All we wanted was to play until our trainers creased, knees were bloodied and until the orange glowing streetlights came on. Sometimes we would even sneak out, especially when we were not meant to because we knew what those streetlights meant. They meant that the runouts had been ran out, there was no more knocking for each other and no more collecting footballs that had been kicked over into unknown territory. So, no I do not remember the last day I played out but I remember the feelings that clouded it because that was the day the sun left.
