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What it means to be a Londoner.

The drops of cloudy water plummet from the sky, the repetitive pattering of rain as it cascades downwards in thin sheets hardly drowning out the noise of the humdrum of the rat race. The gurgle of a sewer or the roar of an overflowing storm drain can’t mask the sound. It’s inseparable, immense. Despite this, I feel I can’t resist the muscles in my face pulling upwards. It only takes 17 muscles to smile, but I felt right now that every one of them would be giving it their all. I am not mentally unstable. Any day in this city makes me smile. You have to simply look around, at the variation and intertwining compounded balance of cultures lining the streets, people from all the corners of the world. All are welcome here. Here, my dreams became a reality. I was delivered from poverty in a shantytown of Harare, Zimbabwe, a legal immigrant in this country on the grounds of being an asylum seeker. The dictator Mugabe inflicted torturous physical damages towards me, mainly for being a campaigner fighting for better living resources in my area. I withstood the attacks until a point, where I could no longer live in safety, and realised the only option was emigration. The journey was hard, moving from rural area to rural area, picking up money from urban industries where I could, saving up cash so that I could one day afford to make the move that would take me to safety. I arrived here but a year ago, yet I have been given the chance to live a great, admirable life. The extent of my gratitude is surely omnipotent over all other emotions, as I am finally free from the violent horrors of my home life. I arrive at my destination an hour later. London is such a beautiful place, with many famous landmarks that never fail to catch the eye. Piccadilly Circus, The Tower of London, Big Ben, St. Paul’s cathedral, the Gherkin and the Canary Wharf being just some. However, undoubtedly, over recent years, the most memorable of these landmarks has become the London Eye. 32 sealed, airtight grand glass capsules that move 443 feet into the sky, giving a spectacular view of the capital city, the ultimate sightseeing experience. Today the capsules are relatively empty because of the bothersome drizzle. Many would argue that on a wet day the rain makes the landmarks more of an eyesore, but to me the question is academic, for London is beautiful on all days. I hand over my money and enter the capsule that is seemingly completely empty. Normally efforts to find an empty capsule would be superfluous, as the throng of numerous tourists attempting to enter each capsule is nothing less than inconceivable. The atmosphere of a capsule filled to the brim with the general public is quite unsavoury, rather like being trapped in an old sock saturated with sweat. There is a low whirring sound as the electrical and hydraulic systems activate, the colossal wheel beginning its 360-degree rotation. I approach the glass. It is damp, and as I rest my fingers on its moist surface, my exhaled breath already begins to condense upon the chamfered glass. The rain drops trickle down the external side of the glass, many of them seeming to be in a heated race as they all follow winding, intertwined paths that make up an interconnected, intricate web of acidic rainwater. My eyes scan the landscape as I ascend, the buildings becoming less obscured by the rain, the broad picture finally coming in to view. Pigeons flutter off of the footpath which now seems ever so far below as I reach the peak of the London eye. Everything is clear now, the glass seems to have adopted a more crystalline, limpid nature, and is no longer as cloudy. I see Big Ben, the eminent clock face an illustrious icon associated with London itself. St.Paul’s cathedral glides into view; the rounded chapel with the prominent crucifix adjoined to the central radius can hardly be overlooked.Thinking about the topic of faith, I see Baker Street Mosque and smile, the diversity of cultures and faiths in London never failing to enthuse me. Judaism, Islam, Hinduism, Catholicism… all are welcomed here with open arms. I depart from the London Eye at 9AM, refraining from the yielding temptation to take another ride. I tend to visit London early in the mornings so I can get back to Connaught Hall before lunch. Connaught Hall is a hall of residence owned by the university of London, where 215 male and female students are accommodated. I am participating in what is the equivalent to my last year of education at the school of oriental and African studies, mainly to learn more about my own Zimbabwean culture. I take a bus back to Tavistock square. I exit the bus at 9.35 AM, and I observe the beautiful gardens near the residence hall. The great, blooming flowers with sweet blossom and an extensive variety of shrubs and plants fill the gardens. Today would be a day that would significantly add to the history of the gardens, more than anyone could have anticipated. A double-decker bus drives in to the square, going an elongated distance from where my bus was situated, around thirty metres in fact, travelling to the further stopping point. The bus travels steadily, the wheels rotating slowly, the bus beginning to decelerate; the movement placid and smooth, the bus almost radiating a calming quality. At least it did before the explosion. In a split second my line of sight is filled with a burning white wall of light. I am blown away by the sound, stumbling about, the blaze dazzling me. I hit concrete and taste blood. I force my eyes to widen, my eyelids slowly creaking open. The light burns my retinas as I raise my torso and sit up. Anarchy. The square is brimming with people, panicked people. Chaos. Men, women and children screaming uncontrollably. I see fire. The bus has been demolished, the windows shattered into shards of glass, innocent bystanders engulfed in flame and taken by the full throttle of the explosion, their whitened skin bubbling and sagging on their weakened skeletal frames. My face twists into a distorted expression of confusion and sadness. What happened here? I sit for 10 minutes, motionless, shell-shocked by the full extent of the carnage surrounding me. The sound of rapid sirens fills my ears, fire engines stream into the square, attempting to control the madness and extinguish the remaining fire. I slowly arise and hobble from the destruction, dismissing any fatalities I happen to see: bodies, blood; I am now rendered impassive to the gratuitous scenes of death that I behold. The Piccadilly line. Situated almost directly beneath Tavistock square. A flood of people storm out from the entrance, several being engulfed in the crowds, only to be ejected minutes later. Most are garbed in clothing that is torn, some with broken noses or streams of blood flowing down their shirts, panic spreading slowly through every part of the tube station like a fire expanding steadily. My mind becomes clouded, as if draped in a thick translucent haze. Everything I had known, dissolving into nothingness. I bend over, and the tears begin to flow. It is now three days since the London bombings occurred. I left the city and returned to my small apartment in the suburbs. It turns out that I have realised something in my state of sorrow, something that can’t be taught. I have learnt what it means to be a Londoner. The bombings were tragic, with many serious fatalities. A weak man would be perturbed by this act of violence, he would be too timid to use the tube again after 7/7, and he would not return to beautiful streets of London that glorify British heritage. I am not a weak man, and I will not let fear engulf me. That truly is what being a Londoner is about. Overriding the emotions that hold us back, like sadness or fear. But together, the community will carry on, the next day will be no different from the last, the natural balance will be restored. And I urge you all now, to not be afraid. The true spirit of London lives within its people, and if that spirit is destroyed, London is destroyed as a by-product. We must never be afraid to use public transport, or to go where we like. Pushing through the pain and the sorrow is what being a Londoner really is all about, and enjoying life to the full, even if it’s a roller coaster, you just have to hold on till the end and hope you don’t throw up along the way, as I intend to make sure that my journey isn’t over till the very last loop-de-loop.