Black boys walk the sunny streets sub-culture’s clothes black and white t-shirts and tight jogging pants, sneakers on trend, a motza’s worth, stylish hair: boy braids, cornrows, top knots creativity announces identity. A mob loud, demands space, leaves white walkers paranoid; distance divides as wary white faces look over shoulders, stop. A gang, it’s London’s fear run rife but, to those who hear the music, the a cappella’s rolling rap all beat and bounce, note delivery’s cadence where flow’s rhyme reveals loved language, it’s mastery. I take time to watch and listen hear young voices in their joy: the jongleurs. An ensemble’s parading performance; a shifting spotlight the line’s lead the call and answer; a rhythmic response to lyric’s poetic form. The chorus, ‘Hey’ and ‘Ho’ announce appreciation’s punctuation raised arms mark the silent signifiers. I walk intrigued, white and woman unafraid, I hear their protest, its street’s vernacular: underdog, picked on, feared, victimized; the exploration of politics and style. My heart open, my smile appreciation I hear their music feel the rhythm, find wonderment in words that rhyme, share their joy, feel their pleasure; love their unity these wandering troubadours no colour bar bars their creativity.
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