I was born in Kingston, Jamaica and grew up as a little girl surrounded by kinfolk that lived, breathed and celebrated the same vibrancy of culture and traditions as I did - people that looked like me. I would hear Poco women beating their drums in the dead of the night summoning ancestral spirits and on Sundays, I worshipped in a Pentecostal church soaked with the heavy cries of hallelujahs and amens.
These spiritual roots that are so intertwined with my identity mean that I cannot separate spirit from art nor worship from creativity. Like many Caribbean migrants, my mother was searching for a better life, one that was far removed from the poverty that laced the ghettos of Kingston. She left my sister and me behind in our relatives' trusted care – as many parents did – before sending for us three years later.
I arrived in Britain when I was eight-years-old and it was here that I learned to identify myself by the colour of my skin. A short time after we arrive in London, my older sister and I had familiarised ourselves with the British way of life, but this was cut short when my mother brought us to live in Sheffield permanently. This place was a far cry from the way of life we were used to.