The Day I Realised I Was Black

On September 20th, I will stand alongside other women of Black and Asian heritage at an event called She Rises: Rooted in Purpose.   

I’m no longer often in a space like this so I’m really looking forward to it. There is something almost sacred about such spaces. The energy is electric, the stories are rich, and the joy is undeniable. We gather not just to celebrate our existence, but to honour our sisterhood and to share journeys which are marked by both struggle and triumph.

Having lived in Nigeria until the age of 24, I was in many such spaces and confess that I took them for granted and never really appreciated how special it was to live in a place where most people looked like you. When I arrived in the UK as a young mother, I quickly realised that I was black. I honestly didn’t know that before, you see race was never an issue in my childhood. It showed up in the way people looked at me and spoke to me. It showed up in the fact that I couldn’t get a job for love nor money as Ngozi Cole and ended up switching to my middle name Lyn, a name that I continued to use until 2020 when we all had a period of serious reckoning when George Floyd was murdered right in front of our eyes.

It worked sometimes but not always. Soon after my name change, I showed up for an interview at a well-known bank. A white man that I assumed was the chair of the panel came out, scanned the room where I was sitting and asked the Receptionist to show Lyn Cole in as soon as she arrived. The flushed receptionist whispered and gestured to tell him it was me. When he realised, he shot me a look and rushed back inside. I left. You tell me if I would have got that job. If you think that kind of discrimination no longer happens, check this out https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-46927417.

To be a Black or Asian woman in the United Kingdom is to live at the intersection of racism and sexism. The ‘isms’ are even worse for disabled women or people who are lesbian, transgender, neurodiverse etc etc. It is to be told you are too much and not enough in the same breath. It is to attract undue attention in the street, to be underpaid in workplaces, and over policed in society. It is to experience poorer health outcomes than our White sisters. It is to be less likely to be invited to interview and when we do get jobs, it is to be paid less. We know this story too well. Many of us have often been the ‘first’ or the ‘only’ one in the rooms with our voices questioned, our ideas borrowed, our presence tolerated but not embraced. We’ve had to work twice as hard for half the recognition. We’ve been told to straighten our hair, lighten our skin, soften our tone, and shrink our light to make others comfortable. 

The temptation is to get down and stay down. And yet we rise. We rise because we are rooted in something deeper than circumstance. We rise because we know who we are regardless of who others say we are. We are rooted in purpose. This event is not just a gathering, it is a reclamation. A space where we can breathe, speak, and be seen. Where our pain is not dismissed, but acknowledged. Where our joy is not policed, but celebrated. Where our purpose is not questioned, but affirmed. We will hear stories of women who have faced systemic barriers and still thrived. Women who have been silenced and still found their voice. Women who have been broken and still chose to heal. These are not just stories of survival, they are stories of power.

This journey is not easy. Racism is not a relic of the past, it is a present-day reality. It shows up in healthcare disparities, in biased hiring practices, in the criminal justice system, and in the everyday exclusionary practices that chip away at our spirit. Sexism compounds it, making our labour invisible and our leadership and very existence questioned.

And yet, in the face of all this, we continue to rise.

We rise because we are our ancestors’ wildest dreams. We rise because we know that our purpose is not defined by the systems that try to contain us. We rise because we are building something bigger than ourselves – a legacy of liberation, of equity, of love. We rise because our grandmothers held the door open for our mothers who did the same for us and our sisters. And now it’s our turn to hold the door open for future generations. We rise because we listen to the lessons of the past to help shape a better future. We will remind each other that we’re never alone. That our struggles are shared, but so are our strengths. That healing is possible, and joy is revolutionary. That sisterhood is not just a concept, it is a lifeline.

As we move forward, we carry this truth with us, we are not what we have endured. We are what we have overcome. And as Michelle Obama puts it, we are still becoming. We will continue to rise, not just for ourselves, but for generations to come. We will rise with intention, with courage, and with hope. Because hope is strength. Hope is radical. Hope is resistance. As the poet Amanda Gorman said, “For there is always light, if only we’re brave enough to see it. If only we’re brave enough to be it.”

We will be the light. We will be the hope. We will be the purpose in which we are rooted.