You called me at one in the morning, yeah. Said meet you at the stop. Didn’t say why.
The bus rattles down the Old Kent Road. Fluorescent lights flicker. A few scattered passengers: a tired nurse, a man with a can of Monster, someone asleep on their backpack.
He said I’m not really from South. Said cos my mum’s from Ghana and my dad’s not in the picture, I don’t get a say. Don’t get a “postcode.”
Mm?
Don’t be soft. Pay for my wings.
The bus announces: “Brixton... Brixton...”
(quietly) My mum thinks I’m at yours.
Almost Peckham. You want to get off? Get some wings?
(Small pause) Yeah. Yeah, alright.
Listen. South London’s not a blood test. It’s not a strip of land on Google Maps. It’s this. 2AM. The N bus. The sound of a souped-up Corsa backfiring on Walworth Road. It’s your nan sending you back to the shop because they gave her the wrong yam.
(grinning) Nah. Just been waiting for you to forget.
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