This past,

Our ignoble past,

Is not there for us to brood and drown in,

But to reflect.

This glorious past,

Of the Black presence in early modern Britain, Where fate took our mothers and fathers

To a cold and strange land,

Where their hosts had lost their conscience.

In the center of it all,

Amidst the blossoming of Englishness— Of Kings and Queens,

Dukes and Earls—

Amongst the glitter and brocades,

Lie hearts as cold as the winter nights.

Residing in a land,

Where church steeples pierced the heavenly clouds, Where some of the first hymns were written,

In praise to God—

Then, we have the 39 articles of 1563.

Yet, there was little—

Very little—

Social consciousness,

Of the plight and suffering of children, African children.

Celebrate our wonderful past,

A past adorned with many shades,

And layers upon layers

Of unwritten testimonies,

And priceless lessons of survival skills.

Their unspoken, unwritten silence speak volumes.