A hard truth about time, labour, dignity, and coming home
There is a particular kind of tiredness that doesn’t come from one bad day, or one difficult week. It comes from decades of repetition. From years of waking up in darkness, travelling through crowds, breathing recycled air, carrying stress in your chest and shoulders, and telling yourself—quietly, repeatedly—that it will all be worth it in the end.
For many in the Caribbean diaspora, especially those living and working in England, this routine is not a phase. It is life.
You leave home at six in the morning. It’s still dark. You walk half an hour to the station, or maybe you drive, if you’re lucky. The train is already packed. Another hour standing. Another transfer. Underground platforms humming with impatience. Trains rush in and out because they have to keep moving—too many people, not enough space. The air is thick. In summer it’s suffocating; in winter it’s strangely warm, heavy with breath, germs, bodies pressed too close. Y…
