London cries rain outside this flat’s window
but inside it, more happiness than many ever know –
here, where Brown and Black entwine, in a single bed,
one soon to be heartbroken – and the other dead.
Tonight they have each other, a chance and their dreams –
so begins The Ballad of Kyron and Qasim.
Kyron’s people from Jamaica descend, Qasim’s from Pakistan,
these far lands they left – as a means to an end – settling the district of Chalk Farm.
To England both boys were born; grew almond eyed, broad shouldered men –
where burdens rested heavy of a turmoil that grew too inside of them.
To Qasim – his father’s Mosque, mother’s and siblings too –
he no longer could enter and live how he so wished to do…
with his height and silence, his masculine command
his family never considered it’s second boy less than a man:
so they did not ask questions, confront him by way of attack
when he attended less, for whatever it was, he’d soon be back.
Kyron he left his Mother’s house, to escape her caustic wit –
and men with any effeminate traits often were the source of it:
in nights they sat together, should ‘one of them’ come on TV
her wicked nature chilled his soul and begged for him to flee.
These two, they found each other – as their fate had so designed,
on an app one evening, but in truth from past lifetimes…
and when they began talking their connection surpassed all
the hurt, fear and confusion, the impenetrable walls.
They talked for days and weeks, never finding time to meet
knowing that to do so was to give in to defeat:
casual encounters both could allow and shut away,
but not someone who dared to bare his soul out every day.
That which has been destined, it cannot be denied
and both crossed paths ‘accidently’ on a 31 bus ride.
Kyron felt Qasim, before he saw that it was him –
and moved in, as he felt the pull, to where he was sitting.
In hushed tones the two lovers spoke, though they weren’t lovers yet,
introduced themselves afresh, as though the other could forget –
Qasim shook as they spoke to think he would just let Kyron go
and the question fell out from his lips, because he had to know…
In Kyron’s small one-bedroom flat, his new centre of their world
they sank in an ocean of affection, his place the oyster around their pearl.
Qasim had found his home, and had made it one for Kyron too,
just by walking through the door, as the stars writ he would do.
Many nights they spent here and days too when it could be
that Qasim could visit Kyron, making excuses easily.
Laughter rang and they ate well, they played each other’s songs
slipped into Urdu, English and Patois depending what the topic was on.
Then, it seemed perhaps that it might always be just so
a journey for two lovers keen to see where they could go…
but when subdued by passion, the once-alert fall prey
Qasim’s brothers were on his trail and closer every day…
A text one found, that made him sure of what he could not speak –
he gathered the others and led them to Kyron’s street…
In the dark of their black car, they waited and they watched
until Qasim emerged and, levels up, lights behind the door he left went off.
The three sat there in silence, their hearts beating in their chest
and then one burst out from the car, ran up the building steps.
Qasim, he turned and screaming ran – but two held him in the road
and he sank to his feet when it turned to violent blows.
Kyron opened up the door, a smile upon his face
and backed into the hallway now, with terror in its place.
It’s here that he was beaten, with such ire, with such rage
his death would be announced in newspapers within 3 days.
Qasim was driven home in haste and when, dazed, Qasim came too
his family they sat him down and told him what to do.
While they went on with life unchanged, at least to other eyes,
Qasim’s mind slipped further away, to be at Kyron’s side…
And when at last, that knock came – and the man called out ‘Police!’
his family could not suppress or knock him to his feet,
the door it banged and trembled, until it blasted in –
and Qasim’s heart shattered into two as he cried ‘they killed him!’
The street turned out, windows and doors, to watch them lead in chains
and to bear all of it witness, they thought nothing of the rain…
just like once, two star crossed lovers – inside a flat window,
where there had lived with them more happiness than many ever know –
where Brown and Black had once entwined, in a single bed,
one soon to be heartbroken – and the other dead.
That night they had each other, a chance and their dreams –
and so ends The Ballad of Kyron and Qasim.
Copyright Yafeu-Khamisi Rodway-Brown
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