This is Us: Black British Women and Girls is true to its name, presenting a deeply thoughtful and necessary mosaic of the lives and experiences of Black British girls and women in short prose and poetry form. Black feminist activist Marai Larasi, author of the book’s foreword, describes it as “the kind of medicine that only Black Womyn can prescribe for each other on our front steps, around our kitchen tables, on our sofas, in our cars, in the bathroom mirrors at a rave, in a song or through our mobile phones.” Carefully and lovingly curated and edited by Kafayat Okanlawon, a British-Nigerian Londoner born and raised in Hackney, each story captures the complexities and beauties of Black British girlhood and womanhood.
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As an advocate for the rights of Black women and girls locally and globally and founder of the digital learning hub Feminist Focus, Kafayat was compelled to record and archive the voices and perspectives of the women from her community in a way that honoured their language, style, and cadence. Contributors were strangers, friends, and family - with Kafayat’s mother and grandmother offering their stories of life, love, joy, and pain in this collection that is sure to capture the hearts of Black British women and girls.
In our conversation with Kafayat, she shares more about the joys of her girlhood in Hackney, the joys of her work with Feminist Focus, and the fulfilment she continues to feel two years after This Is Us’ publication.
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When you reflect on your transition from girlhood to womanhood, what are some of your most joyful experiences? Who were the girls and women you admired and learned?
I admired my girls most. I've always had a strong sense of sisterhood, as I went to an all-girls school. I've always had a deep love for women and girls. And with my girls, especially in secondary school, there was a natural connection among us as Black girls. We created a sisterhood collective where we were committed to supporting and protecting each other. And we had conversations that were grown, grown for young women that were political and captured the social injustices we were experiencing at the time. It was with these girls that I began to understand what sisterhood is and what it can be like and feel like, and it was a place of joy. I'm talking about running late for school and all going to the local McDonald's to chill out with the neighbouring boy's school and doing that sprint to get to school on time. Those things brought me so much joy. Going to the market and buying hair bobbles with matching socks, those are the things that really gave me joy.
When I think about my transition to womanhood, I remember there being a time when I was very lost. It's almost like I was a girl, and then I was a woman overnight. It was a grey area of "I love my girls from girlhood, and I know we're all following different paths." I was going on to university, and my girls weren't. We started to disconnect, and there was a disconnect within me. So, as I transitioned to womanhood, I was continuously conflicted about the type of woman I wanted to be. In retrospect, I realised that the disconnect wasn't necessary because my friends and I were complex beings. Regardless of what we went on to do, it didn't really matter if one was becoming a mother, one of us would go into university, and the other wasn't sure what she wanted to do.
Still, there is beauty to it all. The joyous times, the confusing times. Not a single moment was a waste.
You have an extensive background as an advocate for the rights of women and girls, specifically ending violence against women and girls. What is the origin story behind your advocacy? What brought you to and what continues to bring you back to your work as a women and girls' rights advocate?
At an unconscious level, being the daughter of Mrs And Mr. Okanlawon, growing up in an Islamic Nigerian-British household in Hackney, and navigating all of the complexities of these identities is where my story begins - being the first daughter in an immigrant family and recognising all the things that I had to do in comparison to my brother. From then, there was a rebelliousness and anger that came from very early, which I wasn't conscious of, which would become the catalyst to my feminism and activism.
My formal beginnings in the work began when I volunteered at The East London Rape Crisis Service. I was gaining a deeper understanding of the complexity of society and how women and non-binary people were affected by violence. And having conversations with women like Marai Larasi and her letting me know all the things I'm thinking and feeling about being a woman and my body and my Blackness weren't imagined. In my early twenties, I wasn't aware of feminist texts and the resources available to me to concrete what my thoughts and feelings were. I came from a social work background, and so it was very much focused on supporting communities through government safeguarding and local authority. It was at events and in shared spaces with Black feminists that brought me to Black feminist readings and analyses and motivated me to create space for Black women in the feminist sector in the UK.
Feminist Focus builds on this motivation. I wanted to create an accessible, online educational space, especially as a person with dyslexia. I wanted a space for friends, younger sisters, older sisters, who may not necessarily even see themselves as feminists but are, of course, affected by the system. I was sitting in the office on a shift board, got a Wix, and decided, "it's time to start!" It was about creating something for other people. Having two younger sisters, I always want what I create to make their lives a little bit easier. I also think about my mother. What could she use? Where can she go where she doesn't feel like she's being shunned because she doesn't understand this work on a theoretical level? Being dyslexic, being Black, being a woman, being Muslim and always feeling like in many spaces, I am marginalised. I was determined to make a space for all of us. And the learning must always come from a place of love. Because at my core, my essence is love. So long as I continuously operate from that place of love, Feminist Focus will be what it needs to be.
Who are the Black feminists you cherish most? What nourishes you as you revisit and consult their work?
I actually think of women who don't call themselves feminist. Women like my mother and grandmother, who don't necessarily call themselves feminists but are doing the work authentically. When I think about my mother creating online spaces for the sisters of the mosque during COVID, she doesn't even see that as feminist work or community work. She just sees that as something that she has to do. She doesn't have a choice because where are these women going to come together? If they can't come in a physical space, they are going to come to an online space. I think about my grandmother, who was a teacher and taught me and my siblings to be free. When I think about freedom, I always think about my grandmother. When I think about community work, that's freedom for me. If there is no freedom in it, how do you do the work? And so those are two women who I constantly come back to because their work is so authentic. When I think about other feminists that inspire me, I think of Marai Larasi and Dorett Jones. These are two women who I have access to who have been a part of my life for the last six, seven years, who I owe a lot to. In their care and their love, they have taught me how to be a better feminist. They have called me in and challenged me with love. It's allowed me to be a better leader and community worker.
In terms of like readings, bell hooks' All About Love. When I think about that book, I've re-read it through my twenties. I'm re-reading now with my partner, and it resonates at such a deep level, you can feel it in your belly.
What did you enjoy most about the curation process for This is Us, from inception to now? How has it been, and how does it continue to be a space for "resistance, freedom, and sisterhood", as described by Marai Larasi, the author of the book's foreword?
The best part has been the conversations with women. One thing about me, as long as I get to have conversations with women, I'm happy. The conversations I've had with women in my family throughout the curation process have been so eye-opening, learning more about them and their experiences. Also, having conversations with friends about things that were going on for them that I didn't know about. Even the women who didn't end up contributing, those conversations were so beautiful. All the conversations were beautiful. And to see women from the beginning of the process to the end, giving them the space and freedom to write what they choose, I loved it. Seeing them become more confident from beginning to end was so beautiful. I still don't know if what this book means to people has resonated with me fully. I never saw myself as an author. I just wanted to put a book together about Black women's stories and let my people come as they are, and they came. They still come. It's still an overwhelming feeling, and it still feels very surreal. This Is Us changed my life.
In the book's introduction, you write, "In many of these stories, I recognise myself, then, now, and where I hope to be." How do you continue to see yourself within these stories?
Every now and again, I'll pick up This is Us and just read. Some of the stories just hit and feel a bit different each and every time. Even the relationships with the people who are in the book, some of those relationships have changed. I think about my grandmother or my mother's stories, who mentioned children and grandchildren, and seeing how at the time my grandmother was talking about us in a present tense. Now, it's almost like the past tense because she's no longer here. The consistency of growth and mortality always comes to mind as I read the book because I'm not going to be here one day to be able to explain or clarify what it meant to me, but the book will speak for itself.
I know in 5 or 10 years, when I pick it up and read it again and see those stories, I'm going to laugh because I know my friend who's talking about dating now is married. I know I'm going to laugh because I know that my friend, who spoke about her hair and wanting to shave her off, has now found peace with her hair in its natural state. It's a book that, I think, continuously grows with the reader and shows the importance of us as Black women and how we continuously evolve.
How have women's support and encouragement sustained you throughout and beyond the publication process?
Forever and always, I will love every single woman who contributed to this book. I don't even know if they know how deep the love I have for them is because they are the ones that kept me going. There was a lot going on behind the scenes, but I couldn't let those Black women down. We get let down so much, and I was committed to not letting these women down. As Black women, we give so much, we give so freely, and I just didn't want women to give me their stories and themselves in vain. And so it was them that kept me going. It was them checking in on me. In my life overall, it's Black women that keep me going. I don't know if we really celebrate how much we show up for each other. There's something spiritual about that, the way we safeguard each other's wellbeing.
Do you have any last thoughts, reflections, or offerings?
As Black women, we never stopped doing the work because we can't. We have to continue doing the work, and you know, what? If we're going to do it, let us do it as freely and with as much of ourselves as possible. I send my love out to all Black women who are doing the work and thank them for everything that they've done.
*This interview has been edited for length and clarity.
