Book Review: ‘Natives – Race and Class in the Ruins of Empire’ by Akala

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You may know Akala through his rap music. Or heard him speak on issues such as race, class or multicultural Britain. I came to Akala through Shakespeare. ‘Romeo and Juliet’ to teach to a class of fourteen-year-olds. I was looking for a starter, something to ease us in.

A TED talk appeared on my computer screen. Akala, on stage asking the audience to identify the author of various lines. Were they written by Renaissance poet and playwright, William Shakespeare, or American rappers from the modern age?

 

The audience were buzzed. As Akala spoke out the lyrics, it became harder and harder to tell. Was this iambic pentameter? And if it was, who was more likely to use it – a 16th century white bard of the English literary canon or the Wu-Tang Clan?

 

The effect on my class was electric. Suddenly Shakespeare wasn’t distant but current. The beauty of his language paralleled by some of the great contemporary poets of our age – rappers, spoken word artists – beside whom Akala had raised him.

 

To call Akala’s new – first – book, ‘Natives – Race and Class in the Ruins of Empire’ a polemic, as some have already suggested, is to underestimate the scope of his work. ‘Natives’ is an important read. It pokes at the parts of British society which we prefer to push under the carpet, or periodically glorify through sport or nostalgia or public parade. Namely, our history as colonial oppressor and the effect it has had, not only on our relationship to ‘race’ in the UK but also on the inequities within the British class system.

 

Part personal biography, interwoven with an exploration of British society and its history, ‘Natives’ manages to marry a retrograde look at the writer’s own life with a deeply incisive examination of the history of class and race in the UK.

 

The strength of the book lies in the writer’s almost forensic self and societal examination, his need to know, share and understand the forces which have both formed him and threatened to destroy his life and that of those around him.

 

Kingslee James Daley (later, self-named, Akala) born into a working class North London family, with a Scottish mother and Jamaican father, places his own experience at the centre of the narrative. Early in the book he outlines why he has rooted his intellectual arguments in the context of his own history; this book will not pretend to be objective because even the most stringent academic study is not so. We are, all of us, standing somewhere on this Earth, with our own perspective. And Akala’s is enlightening.

 

His story is one of struggle – in that he has survived an early childhood of financial hardship, familial split, sustained racism from school and society while also managing in large part to transcend these difficulties as a well-known rapper, poet and political activist.

It is also a story of cultural enrichment: ‘I went to mathematics masterclasses,’ ‘I spent time in the black bookstore and outside of Dalston station debating politics with the nation of Islam,’ ‘My mum had me and my siblings enrolled in the local pan-African Saturday school.’ ‘I visited my great-grandfather’s grave and got a real sense of my family heritage.’

 

The strength of this book is in its refusal to oversimplify, its rejection of stock ideas or pat generalisations on the subject of race and class in 80s and 90s Britain. ‘My schooling, like everything else in my life it seemed, was an entanglement of contradictions.’ ‘The boundaries where race ends and class, geopolitics, or ethnic, national and regional conflicts are of course blurred.’

 

The racism of one teacher towards the young Akala is harsh and overt. ‘Now I felt only rage and hurt. I knew that she did not like black people but I had not fully grasped the extent and depth of her hatred before that day.’ Other classroom teachers in the same system have inspired him so profoundly that he thanks three of them in the acknowledgements of this book.

 

So acute is this writer’s memory, his skill in laying bare the facts of his existence, that he is able to carry the reader into a world that many in Britain would have witnessed only as bystanders, unaware of the personal and lifelong implications of such pervasive injustice.

On the nature of covert – often unconscious – oppression, Akala is outstanding. It is not just institutionalised racism which was born of our imperial past, he argues, but the divisions of class which have been scored more deeply, creating a society of haves and have nots, which blames those who try to break out from such a set-up.

 

As would be expected from a wordsmith of this calibre, Akala picks apart the language of the Anglo-American media, asking:

‘This is, after all, what the phrase ‘black-on-black crime’ is designed to suggest, is it not? That black people are not like the rest of humanity, and they do not kill as a complex result of political, historical, economic, cultural, religious and psychological factors, they kill simply because of their skin: their excessive melanin syndrome…’

 

Not only does the complexity of Akala’s personal story illuminate, his intellectual standpoint on racism in sport, the British educational system, the police, Anglo-American foreign policy stands firm against the forces which would seek to deny or prefer to forget.

As its title suggests, Akala’s book ascribes many of our current societal ills to the continued presence in British daily life of our imperial history:

‘…its legacies are so clear and visible and because unlike the Spanish, Portuguese, German or Japanese Empires it still sort of exists, albeit in attenuated form as second fiddle to the American Empire, despite what our free press likes to pretend.’

 

It is Britain’s acceptance of ‘hierarchical difference’ which is the book’s main beef against this legacy:

The fact remains: no one colonises another group of people out of love for them.’

 

And here lies the core of his argument. The appalling injustice still inherent in a society which seems incapable of looking back and owning its colonial past.

 

The fact that Akala has chosen to both examine class and racial oppression in British society and look at his own place within it – questioning some of his own early decisions and stances – shines a direct light on a society still to a large extent unwilling to do its own share of looking back, owning up and moving on.

 

If this book is indeed a polemic then it reads as an extended request for honesty. About
suppressed narratives, and the dangers of typecasting social groups based on the responses of a minority of people to injustice. He highlights the equality inherent in ‘early Islamic societies’ where ‘black people can be seen occupying all kinds of social and professional roles.’


‘In the ‘Islamic world’ there were black scholars. Revered generals and even powerful
dynasties in northern Africa and Muslim Spain.’

 

‘Natives might read as a paradigm for a forgetful nation on the subject of its own history and identity. An opportunity to examine the wrongs of the past, the human rights violated by a knee-jerk failure to address the subject of British imperialism and its modern-day effects on people of all backgrounds, particularly those at the sharp end of societal injustice.

 

Akala’s book is a red flag which could provide the ideal basis in this current ‘Brexit/’post-Brexit’ era to question some of the most basic notions about who we are – as the ‘English’ and how we might decide to move forward towards a more reflective and equitable society, given our imperial past.

 

Beyond the soundbites of a disappointing national debate about Europe, ‘Natives’ could quite easily, given the right exposure, serve as a springboard to a proper discussion in a country in desperate need of deepening its engagement with ideas around race and immigration, social class and access for all to the basic and cultural resources our isles have to offer.

 

It’s time we English talked about our history – not just kings and queens or how we won the war but the other parts, the shame of plunder and forced governance, the truth of what it means to have been the coloniser. This author has provided the perfect platform from which to begin. In the words of the writer who took me to Akala’s work in the first place:

‘Do it, England.’

 

 

Natives was published by Two Roads in May 2018, and is available to purchase in hardcover, paperback and kindle editions.

All views expressed in my posts are my own. If you would like me to review your book, please visit my contact page, here.

I’d love to read your views on this book, please feel free to comment below.

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