Yema The Obscure

When I find myself in times of trouble

No one comes to me

And the only wisdom I can ever get

Is a Google search, that tells me

Yep, you are messed up in the head, mate

And there’s not much you can do about it

In those hours of darkness, close your eyes

Count to ten, breathe, c’mon

Think about happier times – like that’s gonna work

Like dad’s not gone to jail and mum’s new boyfriend don’t smirk

And say, boy, that kid, he ain’t got a chance

He’s too far gone, poor lad

I thought maybe a girl could save me

But she just broke my heart

That a drink or two would numb the pain

But morning always comes so fast

Another day, another fucking day

Feeling like this – are you for real?

I couldn’t study, didn’t get the grades

Expelled when I was sixteen

A lifetime of failure, inevitable right?

That my future was written, by a pen I’d never seen

They say I’ve got agency

But I’ve barely got a pound to my name

Sometimes I get so angry

Not a light that shines on me

But I know I could be better if someone had given me a chance

Believed in me, like I never did

Trusted in me, like I never have

And loved me, like I don’t know how

One day they say, I’ll end up like my dad

Hear the final chords fade away

Before the performance has even begun

Like I said it’s inevitable right?

I’m just a small cog in an invisible chain

Siting out yet another hopeless day

It’s been a year since Britain voted to leave the EU. Here’s my attempt to understand what Leave Voters really thought they were getting... The sun always shines in Brexit Britain. A family stroll arm-in-arm through their local neighbourhood, waving at their good British neighbour; a nearby farmer leads his plump British cows through a field of wheat his family have owned for generations.  Across the town, an elderly man hobbles into A&E. He wears a top hat, a copy of the Sun tucked under his arm, and waves regally to his driver who closes the car door before doffing his own hat at the gentleman.

“Good morning, sir,” says a voice almost immediately after the old man’s walking stick has crossed the hospital threshold. “Welcome to A&E.” The voice’s owner, a young British nurse, wears a pristine white uniform, her eyes alert, refreshed from yet another night of ten hours sleep. She smiles radiantly at him, helps the old man to his seat, and then offers him a plate of biscuits that almost seems to have come from nowhere.

“How long do I have to wait?” He asks, sighing resolutely.

The nurse looks at him, a little shocked. “Why, this is Brexit Britain,” she replies, “Didn’t you know? No one waits for medical attention here. We have five doctors ready to see you thanks to Sir Nigel Farage and his 350 million. Just hope your illness is bad enough to get a bed! I hear food banks are on the rise outside, but here in our post-Brexit hospital we offer three-course meals, Sky TV, and a free goody bag on your way out.”

*

Across the road, a young woman sits in a café watching the news, her view of the TV slightly obtruded by the numerous United Kingdom flags posted around the room. She stands up, walks across the room and takes one down so that the TV is now fully visible: how wonderful to be in a Britain where individual people can take back control. Just like that. The news is more of the same. Yet another trade deal secured by Great Britain as Prime Minister Boris Johnson waves lazily at the camera from his yacht moored off the Turkish coast: the latest EU state. With this news, the young woman decides to spend an extra two pounds on a good British croissant and a straight banana; after all, the value of the pound is today at three pounds to a euro.

A hubbub of noise erupts from behind her, and she gets up from her seat to investigate. A street festival has begun: the outside filled with musicians playing trumpets, adults dancing, children skipping and singing. They are barely metres away from men in uniform who stand facing out to sea, towards Calais, a walkie talkie in one hand, a gun resting in the other. Britain’s borders have been closed to all but holiday makers for two weeks now. The children continue to chant, clap and laugh, while a thousand miles away their counterparts shelter from bombs and drown at sea.