Corey Mwamba



I decided to recall my relative youth, choosing not to stroll through the uncharted Village; but do the long stretch of Bristol Street. I was surprised (after being constantly reminded of bland modernity by the station) how soon the new becomes the old, and how quickly patterns form: '70s high-rises daubed with graffiti, artisan coffeehouses inevitably blending into barbershops in a Victorian fever dream. St Catherine's, The Diskery, and Bristol Street Motors were beacons to a dimly-remembered past; the cranes constructing the future slowly, maintaining the battle against the architecture left behind.

I came to a crossroads and remembered nothing. I then turned left, taken by a swarm of nostalgia, and a right onto Pershore Road. I realised how much this area had changed, yet remained. Communities of people that looked like me still lived here. I thought I was lost; this may have been more to do with my muddled thoughts on a piece of writing than my location. But the swarm had activated my body and my body knew where to go. The swarm moved to the right. Edgbaston was more prominent than I had remembered. The polished stone hinted at a reaching for "betterment" that perhaps was not there when I was there.

I stepped into Cannon Hill Park and my time flooded back. The swarm inhabited the space. After the concert, the drummer of the gospel band saw me. "Oh my goodness... I haven't seen you for... Corey? Wow."

We buzzed together.

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