Sudanese people would come up to me and start speaking Arabic, expecting me to translate for them. When I told them I was British, they wouldn't believe me. A breakthrough came when a Sudanese man thrust a newspaper in my face after the 1987 general election, and congratulated me on the election of my 'compatriots'. Four black MPs had been voted in and their victories provided the recipe for a different flavour of fudge. I was British, but not like the guys I had come to Sudan with.
Identities suffocate if trapped in the narrow confines of a definition for too long.
But everyone needs a working title. From then on, I decided I could be black and British, and anyone who wanted to challenge my claim to either of these could expect a ferocious response. Each time I went back to Barbados after that, something would happen to illustrate that while the island was definitely a significant part of my past, its relevance to my future were becoming strained. A year later, my mother died in England and we honoured her wish to be buried in Barbados - 'not this cold place'. By that time, I had been wearing my hair plaited for about five years.