Shoot the People: Hope, Truth & the Weight of Our Silence
Autumn lurks at the moment. The days are officially shorter, darkness creeping in before 8pm. Only a few weeks ago it was still light. I don’t mind the chillier mornings though — they feel honest somehow.
In the these crazy times, honesty matters. I choose to be on the side of REAL TRUTH.Not the curated kind. Not the spin-doctored “both sides” kind. But the messy, uncomfortable, bone-deep truth that demands we support the oppressed and call out injustice wherever it shows its face. That’s the bare minimum of being human.
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Which brings me to Misan Harriman’s exhibition The Purpose of Light at the Hope 93 gallery, and the documentary Shoot the People at the BFI Southbank. The documentary is produced by Andy Mundy- Castle who is also of the Nigerian diaspora - when i found this out - i had a huge smile on my face.
I’ve known Misan over 20 years — back when we were post-teens in the Nigerian diaspora, moving through the same London circles. He was a “city” boy: polite but obnoxious, flashy. Looking back now is almost comical, because the growth is astronomical. A decade ago he was outside London Fashion Week snapping street style. Then came Covid. Then George Floyd. something in Misan began to bubble — in his work — cracked open.
Misan’s lens doesn’t just capture moments. It refuses to let the world look away. He has archived protest, grief, unrest, resistance. Vulnerability and defiance, frozen in time.
A few years ago, at a march for Congo or Palestine (too many marches, really), Misan raised his camera and caught me mid-resistance. That photograph now hangs in his exhibition. For me, it’s proof: I showed up, I raised my voice, I refused silence. Most of all - I am PROUD to be featured as part of Harriman’s work - it is a moment of pride for me, this kid from Misan’s home state of Delta in Nigeria.
Misan is an activist as much as an artist. He disregards comfort and safety to bear witness, to become a custodian of our collective trauma as Black and brown people. It takes courage. Whenever we speak, I worry for his mental health. The vitriol he receives online is relentless. Yet he says: “I do this because I must”, HOW POWERFUL IS THAT????
That kind of empathy and love — for people, for justice, for history — is rare. I’m glad to be alive in a time when people like Misan exist and insist. HE MUST BE PROTECTED AT ALL COSTS. I could barely hold back tears when I introduced myself to his amazing wife - the bible says he who finds a good wife, finds a good thing - in this woman i swear he found a gem.
If you haven’t yet, go to the Hope 93 gallery in London. See The Purpose of Light and then pop down to BFI Southbank and Watch Shoot the People. Both of these works are powerful time capsules, reminders, and warnings of the times we are in. As we say in itsekiri ERE MISAN - ERE!! Misan Harriman
Michaela Coel: The Face, The Force, The Future
What does Michaela Coel mean to me — an African diaspora kid of a certain generation? EVERYTHING.
This woman is a GIANT to the culture. The epitome of DIY. The blueprint. The “I’ll build it myself, and you’ll just have to catch up” energy that redefines possibility.
So when I see her on the cover of Vogue, it isn’t just fashion. It’s cultural affirmation. A loud, unfiltered reminder that we’ve been shaping and remixing culture all along.
To call her only a “writer,” “actor,” or “director” is an injustice. She is:
* A cultural guardian of Black girl culture.
* A muse — Grace Jones for Gen Z.
* A face for the ages: Queen Elizabeth of Toro, Iman, and something entirely her own.
Those angular features. Cheeks like blades. Lips like sculpture. Skin that commands light without apology. She is beauty, but also disruption.
She has walked through fire. Survived a rape early in her career — transmuting that pain into I May Destroy You, one of the most powerful series of our time. That wasn’t just art. That was alchemy.
She’s a Spike Lee of sorts — but for Black Britishness. For the diaspora stitched together by Wi-Fi and memory.
Michaela is more than a moment. She is the moment. A living bridge. For some of us, she’s a mirror. For younger ones, she’s a portal, Micheala is Not just a cover girl. A cultural giant.
Tears of a Clown: Success Tax, Pennies & Perimenopause in the Valley
Do you ever get tired of being tired?Like bone-deep tired. The kind that makes you want to pack it all in and just… stop.
I’m in that season. Bills overdue, direct debits bouncing like afrobeats, pennies left to my name. I’m not writing this for pity (I hate pity). This is truth: I feel embarrassed, afraid, uncertain. And pretending otherwise is exhausting.
I call it the Success Tax. The price you pay for refusing to stay down. Every time life knocks you flat, you get back up. Over and over. UP UP UP. Like a jack-in-the-box nobody ordered.
Dean Graziosi said: “Success won’t come chasing you down — you’ve got to chase it.” Some days I think that’s me: chasing success in slippers while it runs ahead in Nike Pegasus.
Then perimenopause gatecrashes the race. Hormones turn every problem into a catastrophe. Anxiety sneaks in at 2am. Depression mutters “you’re not enough.” Mood swings flip me from zen to “burn it all down” before the kettle boils. A bounced debit becomes a referendum on my worth. A late text reply feels like exile. Sometimes I cry because my nails look wack, i forgot to get salt from the shops even though i was out a few times or when i think the laundry basket looked at me funny. It is out of control!!!
They say it’s darkest before dawn. But must I hit rock bottom for light to come? Some days I feel like 2025 mugged me and left me on the pavement. The peri-mental spiral is real: muttering turns into full-blown conversations with myself. Bargaining, consoling, scolding… then laughing at the absurdity. Tears of a clown.
The silence from friends stings. Everyone’s battling their own storms, I get it. But when your hormones are rioting, even a small sting feels like a wasp nest.
Yet — I am lucky to have family and a husband who has been my rock. The ones who doesn’t flinch when I unravel. That kind of love, steady when everything else shakes, is a wealth no bank can measure.
So yes, I’m afraid. Yes, I’m tired. Yes, I’m broke. And yes, my hormones are dragging me like a malfunctioning self-drive car. But I’m still here. Still standing.
Maybe survival looks like this: ugly, unfiltered, overthinking everything… but still here.
As usual, If these musings and others made you laugh or think, or even if you didn’t feel anything which i highly doubt not to toot my own horn…Like it. Re-stack it. Re-share it. Subscribe if you haven’t already and if you have consider moving up to paid as your girl would appreciate the coins.
Hit me up in the comments,
Love,
Ari x
MIDLIFE MUSINGS AND MAYHEM is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.
