Growing up Black, queer, and from the ends wasn’t just tough it was like stepping onto a battlefield every time I left the house. My name is Emmanuel Akwafo, and this is the messy, raw, and unfiltered story of how I’ve navigated the jagged edges of identity in South East London.
Being queer and Black in the ends isn’t just about embracing who you are; it’s a daily gamble with your life. Do I step outside as my true self, or do I play it safe by shrinking into the shadows? Living in a Christian household added another layer of fear. For me, every morning felt like a roll of the dice. Sure, we’re in one of the most “liberated” countries in the world, but that liberation seems to have a ‘terms and conditions apply’ clause, especially when you’re Black and queer. In South East London. You don’t just feel the weight of one injustice; you’re crushed by the compounded pressure of both racism and homophobia. And yet, here we are. still taking up space, still risking it all.
Life in this world is a relentless fight. Whether it’s confronting racism, sexism, or the silent cruelty of being told you don’t belong because of who you love, the struggle never ends. Now, imagine stacking all these battles on top of each other and bearing that weight every single day.
That’s what it means to be visibly queer and Black in London. As James Baldwin once said, “To be a Negro in this country and to be relatively conscious is to be in a rage almost all the time.” This rage, this constant battle, is the reality we face. To be unapologetically yourself in this city is to always be at a crossroads, forced to choose between your happiness and your safety.
Every time I’ve dared to live authentically, I’ve felt the looming danger that comes with it. When I finally came out to my parents at sixteen, I naively thought that was the hard part. Little did I know I’d be dragged to church for weekly ‘conversion’ therapy sessions. This is just the tip of the iceberg for Black queer kids in Christian households. My parents were lost, desperate to understand how and why, but I couldn’t give them the neat timeline they wanted. The truth? I had been sexually assaulted for a year; I was under the rule of my headteacher at a boarding school in Ghana, a year that left scars so deep they robbed me of my voice and my language.
The trauma I endured made me feel as though I had been thrust into adulthood far too soon, and for a long time, I directed my anger at God and my parents, believing they were to blame for my lost childhood. I even wondered if that harrowing experience had somehow set the stage for my identity as a gay person, a truth I would later have to confront. But as time passed, I began to see things differently. The very experiences that once threatened to break me became the fire that fuelled my resilience and determination.
My survival? That’s my superpower. It’s given me a unique lens through which I tell stories, allowing me to connect with others in the LGBTQ+ community who also feel unseen and unheard. My writing is my weapon, turning personal struggles into stories that challenge and inspire.
As a playwright and actor, I’ve been blessed with the opportunity to bring these narratives to life on stage. My work dives deep into the intersection of Blackness and queerness, peeling back the layers of trauma and resilience that define us. My latest play, “Limp Wrist and the Iron Fist,” digs into the chaos and beauty of a Black queer friendship group on the edge of self-destruction. The protagonist, a figure who risks everything despite knowing the cost, mirrors the struggle so many of us face as we fight for our truth. His mother’s warnings echo in his mind as the story unravels, not just about stepping into the fire, but about the psychological and emotional wars we wage on our journey to authenticity.
Limp Wrist and the Iron Fist isn’t just a play; it’s an invitation into a world where shadows whisper tales of defiance and love. Set against the dynamic, culturally rich backdrop of London, this production is an electrifying tribute to Black, queer identities. It’s about our stories, raw, complex, and unapologetically, it’s time for us to take centre stage.
How can we ever hope to be embraced by the world if we can’t first embrace ourselves? We’ve spent too long seeking the wrong kind of acceptance, chasing validation from those who don’t truly see us. Being Black is a journey marked by resilience; being Black and queer is a journey marked by an unyielding defiance against both racism and homophobia. Yet, despite the weight of these battles, we are still here, still fighting, and still standing firmly in our truth. And we are not going anywhere.If you’re ready to embark on a journey through the rich, complex tapestry of a community that has weathered history with strength and grace, this is your moment. From the 9th to the 12th of October at Brixton House, come and bear witness to voices that have been silenced for too long.
Get your ticket and become part of a movement that refuses to be ignored. Together, we can challenge perceptions, illuminate the intricate realities of being Black and queer, and carve out a space where every story is honoured.
Emmanuel Akwafo
Limp Wrist & The Iron Fist runs from 9 – 12 October 2024 at Brixton House, 385 Coldharbour Lane, Brixton, London SW9 8GL, United Kingdom.
Crowdfunding Appeal by Emmanuel Akwafo
Emmanuel Akwafo is currently running a crowdfunding campaign to help with the costs of putting on this important production. Assistance is also needed in marketing and outreach to ensure the play reaches a broad and diverse audience and they can also offer tickets to the community. So, even if you can’t help financially, posting this feature to your socials will help get the word out and help make this production the success it deserves to be. Further community engagement is intended to come through workshops and post-performance discussions.
