Get off at Brixton Underground station on a Saturday afternoon, as I have done thousands of times in the past 25 years. As you climb the stairs you will see, at the top, Magic, a rasta man, plying joss sticks, as if they were coming out of his ears. Another black man offers flowers; he shifts to umbrellas if the rain is falling, or to some other commodity appropriate to mood and moment. Another rasta, permanently in his cups, darts backwards and forwards, a pirate radio station on the move, pumping out everything from Bob Marley to the latest in hip-hop. In and out weave brothers from the Nation of Islam, offering Final Call, their weekly newspaper published in Chicago.
A white preacher invokes hell and damnation if we do not turn to the Lord. Turn left and another group of Muslims, this time the Ansaris in their pristine white skull caps, offer a range of joss sticks as well as a limited number of tracts, calling the wayward to be saved by Allah. Meanwhile, there is a lot of shoving and pushing, beggars and thieves, visitors seeking bargains, stallholders chanting. A cacophony of entrepreneurial sound fills the air. Those who have left for quieter south London suburbs return on a Saturday to meet friends, to chase bargains, to visit the barber. Jelly Baby, the world's biggest kleptomaniac, walks through the crowd on tiptoe pilfering this and that from the unsuspecting.
For 50 years, slowly and joyfully, sometimes riotously, Caribbeans have built this atmosphere, adding variety in cuisine, in fashion, in music, in the whole cultural range. And more recently the voices and sounds of Africa and many other lands (including Yugoslavia) have joined in so that inner Brixton now boasts more than 70 languages.
Iceland supermarket, in the heart of the shopping centre, caters for those on lower incomes. The shop assistants are black, the security officers are black, the customers are black. Five o'clock on a Saturday afternoon is prime time for bargain hunters. And it was at that time and in that place that somebody arranged for a nail bomb to explode on 17 April. He or she or they must have known that blacks were likely to be the main victims.
To me, it was close, very close. Mrs Howe had sent the bairns to Iceland to get the last of Saturday's shopping - washing-up liquid, detergent and other household cleaning materials. They come extraordinarily cheap at Iceland, I am told. Zoe was reluctant (she always is), so it was Amiri who was on his way when the explosion shook the earth beneath his tiny feet. He returned at full pelt. "A bomb, Dad. A bomb."
I was gathering bits and pieces for a journey to East Anglia, there to explore an Anglo-Saxon village, attend an English Orthodox church service, stand on the spot where St Felix, their patron saint, landed, pre-1066, and converse under the gaze of the camera with the Old Companions, a group that claims to have its roots in the time prior to the arrival of the Normans. I was intending to seek out Englishness as national identity and frankly I could not separate my thoughts about that from the bomb blast.
This is ethnic cleansing time, national identity time. A bomb is a bomb is a bomb, whether from the remoteness of a stealth bomber or from a sports bag on the pavement in Brixton. Combat 18, the neo-Nazi group, has claimed responsibility for the bomb outside Iceland. The police got a call from a phone box close to where Stephen Lawrence was murdered. Certainly, from the moment the bomb exploded, we black Brixtonians all felt that the far right was responsible, though we cannot rule out the Serbs. Ethnic cleansers both.
An uneasy calm has descended on our community. A greater sense of "we" is developing - police and citizen, black and white, as we keep our eyes peeled for any parcel or holdall. Under siege? Not quite. But Brixton attracts thousands from outside its boundaries, adding vibrancy to its life and bringing much needed dosh to the local economy. I hope they keep coming.