🌿🌻 Roots Of Gold - Black Heart Woman 🌿🌻 - Zion Calls 📘✨

Born of Windrush grit and Rasta fire, two generations of Black British women collide in a battle of love, rebellion, and legacy.🔥

🔥Roots of Gold – Black Heart Woman: Zion Calls is a stirring tale of mothers, daughters, and the call of Zion 🔥

Hard Knocks and White Gloves

London, 1965

The rain was falling steady that afternoon, soaking the hem of Juliet’s school skirt and seeping into her ankle socks. She had a book bag over her shoulder and a bitter taste in her mouth. The fight had been short but vicious. It started on the bus, just outside Walthamstow Central, when two white girls from a nearby school started giggling behind her back and saying the usual.

“Look at ‘er plaits. Like a horse tail!”

“Blackie thinks she posh.”

Juliet turned around slowly. “What did you say?”

The taller girl smirked. “I said you should go back to Africa.”

And that was it.

The rage that had been brewing for months—since that first cold day stepping off the plane, since the stares on the Tube, since the teacher had called her “foreign” when she knew the answer—boiled over. Juliet dropped her bag, reached for the girl’s collar, and let her fist fly.

The girls screamed. Hair was yanked. Faces slapped. A bottle of Lucozade spilled. The driver stopped the bus and ordered everyone off.

By the time Juliet limped home—lip split, tights laddered—she thought maybe, just maybe, she’d gotten away with it. Hyacinth wouldn’t be home from her hospital shift until nine, and she could clean up before then.

But just after six, there was a knock on the door.

Juliet froze in the hallway. The knock came again, sharp and persistent like a woodpecker on concrete.

Mrs. Benjamin from next door stood there, wrapped in her old knitted shawl, curlers still in. She leaned in like she had state secrets to share.

“Young lady,” she whispered with delight. “Your mother home yet?”

Juliet shook her head.

“Well, just know say I saw what happened on the bus today. Two white girls from Morrisons Grammar. Whole heap of people talking ‘bout it. You lick dem good, eh? But you better prepare yourself. You know your mother don’t play.”

Juliet slammed the door before Mrs. Benjamin could relish more gossip.

That night, Hyacinth arrived home with her usual quiet thunder. She took off her nurse’s cap, placed her handbag on the table, and unbuttoned her overcoat one finger at a time. Juliet stayed in the kitchen, praying for silence.

But it didn’t last.

“Juliet,” Hyacinth called, “come here.”

Juliet stepped into the front room. Hyacinth was standing with one hand on her hip, the other clutching a crumpled note.

“Mrs. Benjamin said you get into fight pon di bus today.”

Juliet hesitated. “Yes, Mummy. But—”

“Don’t but me. Is true?”

“Yes, Mummy. But they started it—”

“Started what? You think this is back-a-yard Cambridge where you can bruk people face over cornmeal porridge? This is England!”

Juliet folded her arms. “They said I should go back to Africa.”

Hyacinth looked at her, eyes narrowing. She didn’t answer. Instead, she reached into the drawer and pulled out her pristine white glove—the one she used to check for dust. A habit from nursing school, made gospel at home.

“Did you clean the skirting board today?”

Juliet’s throat tightened. “Yes.”

Hyacinth swiped the glove along the base of the wall. No dust. She looked at it, nodded slightly.

Then: “Go bathe and come eat. You have dishes after.”

“Mummy, I’m bleeding.”

“And I’ve been bleeding since I board Windrush and work night shift in a country where they call me monkey in uniform. You not dead. Go wash off.”

Juliet stood there, fists clenched, anger rising like steam. But something inside her softened too. Her mother was tired—always tired—and carrying her own bruises, even if they weren’t on the outside.

As she turned to go, Hyacinth said softly, “You fight because you’re strong. But strength without sense is just madness. Don’t give them what they expect.”

Later that night, Juliet sat at the window, looking out at the dull grey street. In the distance, a radio played ska music. She could hear Desmond Dekker’s voice cutting through the drizzle. Something about the beat made her miss home—her real home. The mango trees, the laughter, Aunt Joolz’s hand on her back.

But maybe this place would shape her too. Hard soil grows stubborn flowers.

Lines of Connection

London, 1973

Juliet adjusted the receiver of her bulky telephone headset, careful not to tangle the cord as she settled into her desk at the bustling city office. The dull roar of typewriters and ringing phones filled the room, but she kept her voice steady and bright.

“Good morning, Ramsey & Howe Investments. Juliet speaking. How may I direct your call?”

Her modest office outfit — a high-waisted skirt and a tucked-in blouse with a Peter Pan collar — was her armor, the closest thing to a uniform in a world still figuring out how to fit a proud Jamaican girl with big dreams.

As the clock ticked towards her tea break, Juliet’s thoughts drifted back to her childhood.

She remembered her mother, Hyacinth, coming home from her shift at Whipps Cross Hospital — always tired but fierce — and slipping on her signature white glove.

“Stand back, Juliet,” Hyacinth would say, flicking her gloved hand across the window sill. “If there’s dust, I’ll find it.”

Juliet would grin, knowing that white glove was less about cleanliness and more about her mother’s way of testing if her daughter had done the job properly. Hyacinth wasn’t the cuddly type — affection came in actions, not words — but Juliet knew beneath that stern exterior was love, tough and unyielding like the city around them.

The London streets outside were a far cry from the mango trees and banana groves of Cambridge, St. James, where Juliet had spent her early years. Jamaica was warm, full of music and laughter; London was often cold, grey, and tough on a girl like her.

Racism was a bitter pill to swallow. She remembered the cold stare of the bus driver the day she got into a row with some local girls, the whispered warnings from neighbors, and how news of the fight had reached her mother through Mrs. Benjamin, the nosy woman in 3B who lived across the hall.

“Mrs. Grant,” Mrs. Benjamin had said with a sharp glance at the market one morning, “I did see your daughter scrapping on the number 23 bus. It was quite the scene!”

Hyacinth’s eyes had narrowed, lips pressed tight. “Juliet will learn to defend herself, but she knows better than to bring trouble home.”

That was Hyacinth — strict, proud, always protective, but never overbearing.

Juliet’s school days were filled with subtle battles — being the only Black girl in her class, having to prove her intelligence again and again, while dodging ignorant questions about whether she ate “monkeys for breakfast.”

At work, Juliet had a lifeline in her two closest friends.

Sylvie Achong, a Trinidadian whirlwind with enough energy to power a carnival, and Francis, a quiet but fiercely loyal Black Brit with a passion for books and jazz.

One rainy Thursday afternoon, Sylvie burst into Juliet’s cubicle, her laughter bouncing off the beige walls.

“Girl, Charles just asked me if you were ‘the tea lady’ again!” she chuckled, flicking a bright yellow scarf from her curls.

Juliet rolled her eyes. “Tell Charles he can take his colonial nonsense elsewhere. I’m a telephonist, not a servant.”

Sylvie smirked. “Well, you do bring the tea sometimes.”

Before Juliet could retort, Francis appeared, holding a battered copy of The Voice newspaper.

“Hey, two of you. Fancy a break? I found some tickets to a jazz night at Ronnie Scott’s. You in?”

Juliet smiled. “Only if we can talk about how we’re going to make this city less of a nightmare for people like us.”

Francis nodded. “One day.”

Despite the day-to-day challenges, Juliet felt hope. Her mother’s tireless fight for civil rights — especially after the death of her cousin Johnny from sickle cell disease — had planted a seed in her. Hyacinth had done exhaustive research, attending meetings, pushing for awareness in hospitals where Black patients were often misdiagnosed or ignored.

At home, Hyacinth’s passion for justice and her relentless drive to improve the lives of her community filled the cramped council flat with purpose.

One evening, Juliet asked her mother, “Mum, why do you work so hard, even when people treat us like we don’t belong?”

Hyacinth paused, pulling her white glove off and folding it carefully.

“Because, Juliet, if I don’t stand up for us, who will? If I don’t shine the light, who will see us in the dark?”

Juliet looked out the rain-speckled window and smiled. She knew she was lucky — to have a mother like Hyacinth, friends like Sylvie and Francis, and a heart full of dreams.

The phones would keep ringing, the days might stay grey, but Juliet was determined: she would make her own light.

Rhythm and Resistance

London, Summer 1976

Juliet tugged at the collar of her bright polyester blouse, sweat making the synthetic fabric cling uncomfortably to her skin. Around her, Notting Hill exploded in color, sound, and life. The Carnival was roaring — steel drums pounded, reggae bass thumped deep in her chest, and the streets were packed with people dancing, shouting, and celebrating their roots in this strange, cold city that still felt so foreign.

“Francis,” Juliet called over the music, “I swear, if we crank up Natty Dread any louder, we’ll sell out all these knickers quicker than you can say ‘irie.’”

Francis, ever the steady one, adjusted his flat cap and gave a quiet chuckle. “You and your reggae obsession. One day, Juliet, you’re going to turn into a proper Rasta with dreadlocks down to your waist and all.”

Juliet grinned, eyes bright. “Better that than living the way Mum wants — stiff, proper, and scared. She hates all this — calls it ‘Black Heart Man’ business. I mean, who even says that anymore?”

Francis smirked. “Hyacinth’s mouth, that’s who. She’s got a right sharp tongue for anyone drifting toward the movement. Still, can’t blame her. She’s been through enough, fighting those civil rights battles while you’re out here skanking and dreaming of Africa.”

“Speaking of which,” Juliet said, her voice softening, “I’ve been reading everything I can about Marcus Garvey. That man knew what he was talking about. ‘Africa for the Africans,’ you know? He was bold, a real king. I want to go there one day. Walk the soil of my ancestors, feel the sun on my face in a way London never will.”

Francis nodded, impressed. “You’re serious about it, huh?”

“I’m serious about everything I believe in,” Juliet said firmly. “The Rastafari movement, Marcus Garvey, the whole fight for Black pride and self-respect  it’s all tied together. Mum doesn’t get it. She thinks it’s all nonsense. She says I’m wasting my time chasing dreams while the ‘Black Heart Man’ waits to snatch us up.”

Juliet’s voice grew wistful. “But how can I live without hope? Without the belief that one day we’ll be free from all this... all this cold, this fear, this constant fight for dignity?”

Their conversation was interrupted by a shout, the piercing sound of police sirens wailing through the crowd.

“Here we go again,” Francis muttered. “Notting Hill Carnival riots. Like last year all over again.”

Juliet’s heart raced. She and Francis had been here before, selling underwear on a stall near the food vendors. The riot that exploded suddenly, the police pushing and shoving the crowd, the screams and chaos, all memories etched painfully in her mind.

She looked around, eyes catching her school friend Sylvie weaving through the throng, beads flying from her costume.

“Sylvie!” Juliet called. “Over here!”

Sylvie grabbed their hands and pulled them behind a parked car just as a wave of officers pushed into the street, batons raised.

“Think fast!” Francis hissed. “Grab the stall cover before the wind takes the lot.”

Juliet yanked the tarp over their merchandise, heart pounding. Plastic bottles flew by, cries rang out, and the bass of the steel drums seemed to struggle against the rising tension.

“Last year we got chased off selling underwear,” Juliet whispered. “Remember that?”

Francis nodded grimly. “And you sold a pair of granny knickers to a cop by accident.”

Juliet burst out laughing. “Hey, they needed to freshen up, didn’t they?”

The riot didn’t last long — just enough to leave everyone shaken but safe.

As calm slowly returned, Juliet’s thoughts drifted back to her mother. Hyacinth, so strong and relentless in her activism — organizing civil rights meetings, pushing for sickle cell research after losing a cousin to the disease — but so cold and hard when it came to Juliet’s Rastafari faith.

“Black Heart Man,” she spat the phrase often. “That movement is a curse, Juliet. It’ll take you nowhere but trouble and heartache.”

Juliet clenched her fists, the old wound stinging anew. “But I’m proud of who I am. Proud of my roots. Proud of the legacy Marcus Garvey left behind — the call for us to uplift ourselves, to remember Africa as home.”

Francis smiled softly. “You’ve got fire, Juliet. That’s for sure.”

Juliet looked out over the carnival as the music swelled again, people dancing and laughing despite the odds stacked against them. She felt a fierce hope bloom inside her — a promise that one day, she’d make it to Africa, find freedom beyond the shadows of London fog and police sirens.

She turned to her friends, her voice strong and clear.

“This is our time. Our fight. And we’re not backing down.”

Fire and Faith

The Pembury Estate, East London — Late Evening

Juliet’s flat smelled of incense, ganja and fresh paint, walls decked out with vibrant posters of Bob Marley and quotes from Marcus Garvey — “A people without the knowledge of their past history, origin and culture is like a tree without roots.” The radio crooned a steady reggae beat as Juliet sat cross-legged on her worn sofa, head full of dreams about Africa and freedom.

The sharp knock at the door cut through the calm. Juliet’s lips tightened. Visitors from home were never simple.

She opened the door to find her mother, Hyacinth, standing stiffly with her Bible tucked under one arm, her lips pressed thin, eyes flashing with disapproval.

“Come in,” Juliet said, stepping aside, her voice cool but welcoming.

Hyacinth entered, clasping her hands like a sermon waiting to happen. Her gaze swept the room, lingering on the Rastafari flag hanging above the bookshelf.

“This place,” Hyacinth said, voice heavy, “it reeks of sin and nonsense. Burning herbs, reggae music, that flag—what is this, daughter? You’re not living in Cambridge anymore, you’re not some wild girl running in the bush.”

Juliet stood, hands on hips. “Mother, it’s my home. My space. And yes, I’m a Rasta. I follow Marcus Garvey’s teachings. Africa is my future. The God of my ancestors. Not just the one you read about in your Bible.”

Hyacinth’s eyes narrowed. “Marcus Garvey? That man was a good preacher, but you put him before the Lord Jesus Christ? You don’t need Garvey. You need salvation, decency, and respect. This Rastafari business—it's just a distraction. Black Heart Men, as I call them. Dangerous talk, dressing like rebels, acting like outlaws.”

Juliet snorted. “Black Heart Men? That’s your name for us? You call us rebels and outlaws because we want to be proud of our roots? Because we refuse to be ashamed of our skin and history? You know what, Mother? I’m tired of being told to be ‘decent’ when that just means hiding who I am.”

Hyacinth shook her head, clutching her Bible tighter. “Decency is about discipline. About respect for God’s laws. You think all those dreadlocks and ganja smoke will bring you peace? You’re drifting into darkness. I work hard in the community, organizing Sunday school, feeding the hungry, helping families stay on the straight and narrow.”

Juliet crossed her arms defiantly. “You organize with the church. I organize with the people. You hold onto prayers; I hold onto pride. I want to go to Africa one day, Mother. To see the land Marcus Garvey dreamed of. You think your church can save me from the world’s hatred? My Rasta beliefs give me strength.”

Hyacinth’s voice cracked with emotion. “I love you, Juliet. But your ways scare me. I’ve lived through enough hardship in England to know that God’s word is what keeps us alive. The Notting Hill Carnival riots last year — you and Francis out there selling underwear on a stall! You could have been hurt, or worse.”

Juliet laughed, the sound bright but edged with sarcasm. “Oh yeah, Francis selling granny knickers to a policeman was definitely the highlight of that riot! We didn’t get hurt, Mother. We were shaking, sure, but alive and kicking.”

Hyacinth sighed. “That’s reckless. It’s not just about you, Juliet. It’s about the example you set.”

Juliet stepped closer, voice low but fierce. “I am my own example. I’m not the little girl you raised to be perfect and polite. I’m a woman who knows her worth and history. You might never understand, but this is who I am.”

Hyacinth’s shoulders sagged, the fight draining from her face. “I just want what’s best for you, my child. Decency, faith, hope.”

Juliet’s tone softened, but her eyes stayed bright. “And I want freedom, Mother. Freedom to live my truth. Maybe one day, you’ll see that.”

They stood in silence, the tension easing like a slow breath.

Outside, the distant rumble of London life carried on — a city where faith and rebellion coexisted in a complex dance.

Juliet reached for her mother’s hand.

“Come to my Carnival stall next year,” she said with a cheeky grin. “You might learn a thing or two about Joy.”

Hyacinth gave a reluctant smile, squeezing Juliet’s hand gently.

“Maybe, child. Maybe.”

Fire on the Farm

By 1985, Tottenham had become a powder keg of tension, and Hyacinth Grant could feel the fuse shortening by the day.

She had moved from Walthamstow up the road a few years earlier, settling in a modest house just off Lordship Lane. She still remembered the day she packed up her life in E17 — the area had become too loud, too chaotic, too full of memories of people long gone. Tottenham had offered a slower pace and, she hoped, a new beginning. But peace, it seemed, was in short supply.

As a police liaison officer and a staunch civil rights activist, Hyacinth had found herself walking a delicate line between her people and the system that had never fully recognised their humanity. That October, it all began to unravel.

News broke early on the Sunday morning that Cynthia Jarrett, a local Black woman, had collapsed and died during a police raid on her home. Word spread across Broadwater Farm with the speed and weight of grief wrapped in fury. Hyacinth was in the middle of tidying her kitchen when the knock came at the door.

“Miss Hyacinth,” called young Dwayne, panting, his face tight with fear, “dem say police kill Miss Cynthia. Everybody out pan de block. Is pure vexation down dere now.”

She dropped her tea towel.

"Dear God," she murmured, pressing one hand to her chest. "Not again."

The unrest swelled as the day went on. By evening, the estate was brimming with mourners, protestors, young men with clenched fists and eyes full of rage. Hyacinth threw on her coat and walked swiftly toward the estate, Bible in her bag, credentials pinned to her lapel, and a prayer muttered beneath her breath.

“Lord, guide me. Don’t let them burn this place to the ground.”

When she arrived, the air was thick with anger and smoke. Rubbish bins were overturned and set alight. A crowd had formed near Tangmere block, where a few homemade placards read: "No Justice, No Peace" and "We Nah Bow."

Hyacinth stood on a broken curb near the community centre, raising her voice.

“Brothers and sisters, this violence will only bring more pain. I beg you — think before you act.”

But many weren’t in the mood for peace.

A boy in a red Kangol hat, no older than sixteen, shouted back, “You work wid dem, Auntie. You a traitor!”

“I work with the people. I try to keep allyuh from being shot or locked up! I know the system wrong, but fire don’t kill fire!” she snapped, her accent deepening in frustration.

The boy sucked his teeth and turned away. Another youth muttered under his breath, “Chat too much. She don’t live on di Farm anyway.”

And it was true. Hyacinth didn’t live on the estate. But she knew it — its mothers, its children, its corners. She had held town hall meetings, written letters to MPs, pushed for community policing. None of it had stopped Cynthia Jarrett’s death.

As the night deepened, the air grew hotter — a different kind of heat. Bricks started to fly. A bottle shattered against a police van. A line of officers in riot gear pushed forward. The crowd surged back.

Hyacinth ducked into a corner and shielded her face as smoke thickened. Behind her, someone shouted, “They’re coming from the west side!”

And then it happened.

A rumour spread: a police officer had been attacked. Moments later it was confirmed—PC Keith Blakelock had been stabbed. Killed in the chaos. The atmosphere turned electric. Sirens blared. Helicopters circled. The city shifted on its axis.

Hyacinth sat down on a broken garden wall, her hands trembling.

A local woman named Beverly, someone she knew from the local tenant’s association, ran up to her, ash on her cheeks. “Hyacinth! You all right?”

Hyacinth nodded, but her voice cracked. “We’ve crossed a line, Bev. Lord have mercy, a man’s dead. This can’t be undone.”

They sat there for a moment in stunned silence, knees trembling, hearts pounding. In the distance, the estate still burned. It smelled like fury, and betrayal, and centuries of injustice.

Later that night, she walked home — no bus would come through the area — her shoes soaked, her ears still ringing. She passed a group of teenagers leaning on a corner.

“You see Miss Hyacinth there?” one said. “She was down at di front line!”

The other laughed. “Boy, she brave bad. Or mad.”

Hyacinth allowed herself a tired smile. “Maybe a bit of both,” she muttered.

When she got home, she soaked her feet in Epsom salts and poured herself a stout. The news was on, showing the wreckage. Politicians wagged their fingers. Commentators clutched their pearls.

But none of them had stood in that smoke. None of them had held trembling hands or wept for a dead mother or a fallen officer.

That night, Hyacinth knelt beside her bed and prayed. Not for the system, not even for the police — but for the children.

They had inherited fire.

And all she could do was keep trying to quench it with truth.

Babylon Burning

Juliet was ironing her blouse for work when she heard it on the telly.

“…violence erupted on the Broadwater Farm Estate in Tottenham last night… Police Constable Keith Blakelock was killed during what has been described as one of the worst riots in recent memory…”

She froze. The steam hissed up into her face, and she barely noticed.

Her eyes flicked to the small black-and-white TV balanced precariously on top of her fridge. The camera panned across burnt-out buildings, police vans, smoke curling into the sky like the ghosts of every injustice ever done to Black people in Britain.

Broadwater Farm. Right there in Tottenham. Not far from her mum’s house.

She sat down heavily on the arm of the chair and muttered, “Jah know... Babylon really ah burn.”

Juliet had always walked the tightrope between two worlds. In one corner: her mother Hyacinth — churchgoing, rule-abiding, Queen’s English–speaking community woman, who believed in respectability and reform.

In the other: herself — dreadlocked, Marcus Garvey–quoting, ital-cooking, reggae-blaring Juliet, who wore her roots like armour and wasn’t afraid to question the system out loud. She lived now in Pembury Estate in Hackney, her own space, away from the weight of her mother’s long shadow.

But even now, at twenty-three, something about the news made her stomach twist. She reached for the landline and rang her mum’s number.

No answer.

She bit her lip, imagining her mother standing firm in the middle of the chaos with her khaki coat, clipboard, and no-nonsense voice. Juliet loved her. But she didn’t always understand her.

A few hours later, the phone rang.

“Juliet,” came Hyacinth’s tired voice, thick with smoke and sadness. “I’m fine.”

“You were there?” Juliet asked, pulling the phone cord taut with worry.

“I was. Until after midnight. Don’t bother come, it nuh safe. The community falling apart at the seams.”

Juliet exhaled. “It’s been falling apart for a long time, Mum. Yuh just didn’t want to see it.”

“I see everything,” Hyacinth replied sharply. “Including how we lose ourselves when we use violence. That woman dead, the officer dead, and the government nah go mek it easy for none of we now.”

Juliet closed her eyes. “So we must stay quiet while dem kill we in we own house?”

“It’s not that simple, baby.”

“It is to me,” Juliet muttered. “They raided Cynthia Jarrett’s home like she was a criminal. She was a grandmother, Mum! You know how dem treat us.”

“I know,” Hyacinth said softly. “But I also know that violence only gives Babylon a reason to crush us more.”

There was silence between them for a long moment.

“You still believe in playing nice with them,” Juliet finally said. “I don’t. I believe in Garvey. I believe in repatriation. Africa is our true home. Not this cold, wicked place.”

Hyacinth’s voice cracked. “So you going turn yuh back on all mi fight for? All mi work? The meetings, the marches, the letters I write? Yuh forget who raise yuh?”

Juliet sighed. “Mum, it’s not that. I respect what yuh do. But your way... it’s not the only way.”

Hyacinth’s answer was quiet, but laced with steel. “Well, yuh better hope it work, Juliet. Because they not playing fair. And after this… mi not sure they ever will.”

They hung up soon after, both drained. Both too proud to say “I love you.” Both angry for different reasons.

That night, Juliet rolled a small spliff and sat by her window in Hackney, listening to the hum of London’s anxiety outside. She flicked through her record collection until she found Steel Pulse, dropped the needle, and let the bass line vibrate through her bones.

“Don’t be afraid… to open the door…” the singer crooned, “and let Jah come in.”

She thought of Cynthia Jarrett. Of the policeman. Of the fire.

She thought of her mother standing in it — proud, Christian, unflinching.

And she thought of herself: angry, full of questions, burning with the urge to fight, to flee, to do something.

“Babylon cyaan hold me forever,” she whispered. “Africa soon come.”

Forward to Zion

Forest Gate, East London – Winter, 1988

The baby was finally asleep.

Juliet padded softly through the narrow hallway of their two-up two-down terrace in Forest Gate, tea in hand, wearing Dickie’s oversized Bob Marley & the Wailers tee like a victory flag. Julia, one year old with fists that curled like resistance and a face that made Juliet feel holy, had just gone down after another epic battle with teething and bellyache.

“Is like she feel injustice in her gums,” Juliet whispered, shaking her head with a laugh.

The house was warm, scrubbed, and loud with history. Rasta flags adorned one wall of the living room, and Garveyite pamphlets were piled beside baby books on the coffee table. Over the record player spun the scratchy rhythm of Steel Pulse’s “Don’t Give In”. The smell of clove oil and leftover dumplings clung to the air like secrets.

It was home — and that alone was a miracle.

They hadn’t always been here. Pembury Estate had been the first place she and Dickie shared after Juliet finally moved out from under her mother’s intense gaze. That move alone was a novel yet to be written.

But this house? Forest Gate? This was a triumph. Juliet had negotiated it while heavily pregnant, navigating mortgage brokers like courtrooms, determined not to raise Julia in a place where helicopters hovered above the flats every weekend.

Dickie — full name Derrick Ruddock, thirty-nine, dreadlocked, softly-spoken, stubborn as calabash — had made the down payment with money earned as a delivery driver, and maybe a little bit more from side hustles they didn’t discuss in detail. Like most Black men in Thatcher’s Britain, he did what he had to. Juliet never asked, never judged. He was a good man. A present father. A comrade. And after years of disappointments, she’d finally stopped expecting the sky to fall.

“Dickie Ruddock,” she’d once said, laughing. “Yuh name sound like one roots reggae legend and one hustler in a heist movie.”

“Mi try be both,” he’d replied, lighting a spliff with one hand and bouncing Julia with the other.

She flopped onto the couch now, tea in hand, and reached for the latest draft of the community zine she was co-editing: “LIONESS: Voices of Black Womanhood.” On the table were flyers for the Roots & Liberation Delegation – Ethiopia 1989. Her name was on the list.

Africa was calling.

It had been calling since she first read Marcus Garvey at seventeen, highlighting his speeches like scriptures. His vision of return, of redemption, of a future untethered from British contempt, filled her with a heat she could never quite cool. Her mother, Hyacinth, hated it.

“She always loved the Black Heart Man dem,” Hyacinth would mutter when Juliet came to visit. “Is like you try live out every rebel song that ever exist.”

And yet, when it came to the one thing Juliet had thought would break her — the IVF struggle — Hyacinth had been the rock.

Three rounds. Three heartbreaks. Hormones, disappointment, debt. Juliet had collapsed on the bathroom floor after the second one, wailing, blaming her body, the NHS, Babylon. Dickie, for all his strength, didn’t know what to say.

But Hyacinth did.

“Mi did push you out, and mi go push you through this,” she’d whispered, brushing her daughter’s hair as if Juliet were seven again.

When Julia was finally conceived on the fourth try, both women wept in silence on opposite ends of the phone.

Now Julia was here — a living testament to love and rebellion.

The front door creaked. Juliet sat up.

“Mi back!” Dickie called out, his voice floating through the hallway.

She heard the unmistakable thud of Dickie’s bag being dropped by the stairs, the rattle of keys, the rustle of paper.

“Breadfruit from Walthamstow market and some callaloo from Ealing. Tell mi I’m not the best dread alive.”

She laughed. “You’re the most East London Rasta ever. Mi surprise you don’t grow ital on the A406.”

He sauntered in, still in his driver’s jacket, kissed her forehead, then lifted a flyer from the table.

“You think Ethiopia ready for we?”

Juliet took a sip of tea. “They better be.”

They both laughed, but underneath it was something heavier — a knowing. Because it wasn’t just a trip. It was a return. A reckoning. A legacy being written for their daughter, long before she could read it.

Dickie settled beside her, arms around her. “You ever imagine this, Jules? You, me, baby Julia, Garvey dream alive in Forest Gate?”

She shook her head. “I used to imagine burning down Babylon, not paying mortgage.”

Silence fell for a moment, just the record player spinning, the baby stirring faintly upstairs.

Then Juliet leaned forward, picked up a worn notebook from the pile. On the cover: “Africa or Death – Garvey.” Inside were plans. For the trip. For a life after return. There were letters, poems, lists of things she wanted to say to the soil when she touched down in Shashamane.

She flicked to the last page, where she’d scribbled:

“If not now, when? If not us, who?”

Outside, the streetlamp flickered. The wind picked up. Somewhere in the distance, a siren wailed — London, still restless, still burning under its surface.

And then the phone rang — loud, sharp, jarring.

Dickie and Juliet exchanged a look.

She picked it up.

“…Hello?”

A pause.

Her face changed.

“What? What do you mean he’s missing?”

She stood, heart hammering.

Dickie stood too.

Juliet swallowed. “I’m coming now.”

As she grabbed her coat and called up the stairs for her mum to watch Julia — her mother had moved nearby after all — she didn’t yet know this was the moment that would fracture everything.

The revolution had come to her doorstep.

And nothing would be the same.

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