Why Do I Write Poems About David Oluwale?
In fact, I’ve only finished two which are directly about him, and they follow this introduction. But I have a number of drafts of poems where I have tried to find a way in.
The knowledge of Oluwale started when I was a small lad, in London in the 70s, where the parents of Nigerian kids I knew, who in most cases had come to this country in the late 60s – i.e. very recently at the time – fleeing the Biafran War, and expressed shock at how a Nigerian man could be treated like that in a country they believed was a safe haven for them. I did not learn a great deal about his story at that time, and by the time I had grown up, it was largely to the back of my mind.
This changed not long after I moved to Leeds on 2004. In 2007 Oluwale’s story was resurrected, largely thanks to an important new book on the case by a young journalist called Kester Aspden which was published that year. I would like to say that that is when I produced a flurry of poetry on the subject, but it would be many years before that happened.
In March 2020, just before the Covid lockdowns, I went to an Irish diaspora arts event at Headingley Library in Leeds. After speaking with Ian Duhig – like me, a Londoner from an Irish family who lives in Leeds – I began to realise I was missing a trick in not engaging with my own heritage in my poetry and, ever since, I have very much engaged with it. That has led me to look at all types of prejudice with a little more clarity. It may have helped that Ian is also very involved with the David Oluwale story and with the Memorial Association. I finally got involved myself in the early summer of 2023 when I took part in an Oluwale event, for which I wrote North Street Rec.
This was just in time to join in the run-up to the unveiling of David’s beautiful memorial sculpture in Leeds, Hibiscus Rising, on Saturday 25 November 2023. The following Friday, 1 December 2023, I set up an event at an east Leeds arts centre where I do a lot of voluntary work, as a response to this new sculpture. Over the summer, I had been working on Who Killed Oluwale? almost exclusively in my head. I did write it down but, uniquely for me so far, I did not at any time read from the page, not even when rehearsing it at home. I do perform about 10 of my poems from memory, including North Street Rec, but Who Killed Oluwale? is the only one I have only ever done from memory. I find it strange to see it written down – to a lesser extent that is true of North Street Rec, and both poems would have different spacing, line breaks, punctuation and sometimes even words depending on which performance it was, so I don’t really know how to write either of them down.
How Can We Find Out More About David Oluwale?
The David Oluwale Memorial Association website, at the time of writing, has not been updated for about a year – even so, it is the first place anyone should look for information about who David Oluwale was, and why his story is so crucial to the history of post-War Leeds (and I believe his story resonates retrospectively long before that, and its significance radiates well beyond Leeds). This page includes a short bio of David (and a link to the Where? Pages which have much more detail) and a number of resources, including reading lists.
You can also read Kester Aspden’s book “Nationality: Wog – The Hounding Of David Oluwale” (Penguin 2007). The upsetting title records how police described him on station forms.
Why Is This Still An Issue? Wasn’t It All A Long Time Ago?
Well yes, but four years after the George Floyd revolution, and after a summer of racist rioting this year, can we say that these issues have gone away? In the event I set up in response to Hibiscus Rising, we asked if what happened to Oluwale could happen today and the depressing answer to that is that it continues to go on, often right under our noses. It was quite a long event – those with the patience to watch it will find it here. (Note: you need to scroll to about 00:08:23 for the start, and there is a break to scroll through later too).
Here are the two poems:
Who Killed Oluwale?
(after the trad. nursery rhyme “Who Killed Cock Robin?” and Bob Dylan’s “Who Killed Davy Moore?”)
by Keith Fenton
Who killed Oluwale?
Who are we or they to say?
“Not I,” said PC Maurice Roberts,
who knocked our David
to the cobbles,
whose cudgel fell
through dance-sweat air
by King Edward Hotel…
“Without that blow to his addled brain,
he might have sworn at me again,
so yes it’s true, I made him fall,
but you can’t blame me at all.”
Who killed Oluwale?
Who are we or they to say?
“Not I,” said Dr Michael Leahy,
who took David’s case
in a room at Jimmy’s…
“I wrote that he wept
like a child;
my job’s not to
assess his head,
just his mind, I cast
him from the borders
of his land, but
you can’t blame me
for trying to be kind.”
Who killed Oluwale?
Who are we or they to say?
“Not I,” said the
High Royds shrink,
in Menston’s dank
and pissy stink,
this trumped-up,
thumbs-down
little Caesar,
with his high-voltage
treatments, bringing on
seizures in arenas
of solid stone.
“When I have to
treat someone, I’m
just paid
to make
them
calm.”
Who killed Oluwale?
Who are we or they to say?
“Not I,” said staff nurse
Eric Dent, “I only gave
false evidence
under orders from
the management
but
we must subdue the
manic grins
of these unpredictable
savages, and anyway,
don’t some of us have families to feed?”
Who killed Oluwale?
Who are we or they to say?
“Not us,” said the wardens
at St George’s Crypt, whose
explanation for non-admission
inadvertently slipped into
the public domain
and yes
it was that same old
reason again.
“It’s them coppers what
harassed him,
it wasn’t us
as pushed him in.”
Who killed Oluwale?
Who are we or they to say?
“Not I,” said Geoffrey Ellerker,
“I’m just an ordinary
inspector,
we moved him on,
to the Fox and Hounds,
to Middleton,
and yeah, now and then
we tickled him.”
“But that’s the job
when you’re on the beat,
to drive these bastards
from our streets!”
Who killed Oluwale?
Who are we or they to say?
“Not I,” said Sergeant Ken Kitching,
“it’s true I rolled him
in a dustbin
down the
County Arcade floor,
and I pissed on him
while Geoffrey held the torch.”
“It may seem cruel
but
sometimes you have to
stir the pool
so the scum
don’t
settle,
and then we are paid
to make these things better.”
Who killed Oluwale?
Who are we or they to say?
“Not I,” said Mr Justice
Hinchliffe, the distinguished judge,
whose idea of justice done
for a dead black man
was eighteen months,
who gave those men
the briefest penance
but first directed the jury
that David was the public menace.
“I just tried to show
an even hand,
this august land
has rule of law.”
And it wasn’t written
by the poor.
Who killed Oluwale?
Who are we or they to say?
“Not I,” said the tabloid writer,
the man who took the trouble
to describe the men
who took David’s life as
“merely clearing street detritus”.
“It’s only what they said
in court,
and anyway
folk
just buy this
for the sport.
Who killed Oluwale?
Who are we or they to say?
“Not us,” said some few
million readers
in a body, who soak up
this poison copy,
who from the edge
of frilly seats,
chow down hard
on red meat gristle,
like good dogs,
ears cocked
for that whistle.
“It wasn’t us that
made him drown,
and didn’t both coppers
get sent down?
And anyway,
some of our friends
are brown.”
Who killed Oluwale?
Who
are we
or they
to say?
Who killed Oluwale?
Who are
we or
they to say?
Who killed Oluwale?
Who are
we
or they
to say?
Who killed Oluwale?
Who
are
we?
And
who
are they?
North Street Rec
by Keith Fenton
Oluwale lands in the ley-lines of the Leylands,
Lady Lane, Lady Beck to North Street Rec,
head down in Jews Park, in the steps
of the Heaneys, the Sheeneys, the Albertinis, each
leaving the scene in relief in turn, we,
the Typhoid Tims tested the water first, our raging
thirst for respect never met even acceptance
is beyond us, he wanders down some nights
from the Hayfield, not a great deal left from the foundry shift,
forging link chains.
Now, it’s Lovell Park, love all the Irish,
the Judeans, the Italians, the Rastas, the Banglas, the Kittians,
no more kickings from Sergeant Kitching, the fire from them
battle grounds, extinguished.
Lady Beck runs under Millgarth –
David would chart the same path, go lieth in
doorways with only Yahweh for company, but this
time Goliath killed David, and whatever they did
would be what we did if we did not remember his name,
and see to it that one day this will no longer be a hiding place;
diverse souls will say poems to each other here as equals where David
laid his
head
his heart still beating
through the freedom
of our words.
