Some are born and raised here. Others are making a temporary stop. A few who arrived as strangers will stay forever. Contributors Shanzay Subzwari, Husnia Safari, Nicholas Rawhari and Kọ́lá Túbọ̀sún consider England.

A Linguist at Primark

by Kọ́lá Túbọ̀sún

Turkish, perhaps, the hair suggests
Of the man — Black curly beards through
Which the hot pottage words escape
Into the face of his girl staring up at him.
He prattled on, hand on her waist.
Polish perhaps, another one;
Silver hair, copious chest,
Gray sweater and a basket.
But how could the syllables tell?
The payment line curves
Through three seeming aisles, so.
Spanish, certainly, on the phone,
Sizzles like butter through her brisk
Walk past me towards the door.
“There’s the changing room owa there”,
An Indian, certainly, points someone on,
Rolling the fricatives over his millennial tongue.
There was the one I can’t figure
Because the woman is black
Who said it, and the man looks
Russian to whom it is spoken in pain
At the foot of the escalator, bags in hand.
Taiwanese, it seems, a young lady
I could see at the counter ahead,
Lips pursed at the slow customer
In front of the one in front of her.
Babyish, the little child of about two.
“Dah. Not Dah,” she answers her mother
Who has wondered what she wanted
In the list of snacks on the shelf
Near the payment counter.
“NEXT!” I was called — English, certainly;
A tired tone from the hours of standing there.

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