I didn’t set out to be a writer.

If you’d asked the younger version of me, the boy racing around the block with his brothers in Reading, or the young man packing fruit in a warehouse in Holland, or the one cooking jackfruit curry in a jungle kitchen in Costa Rica, writing would’ve felt like a distant thing. A quiet thing. And my life, back then, was full of noise.

But something kept calling.

It wasn’t a voice. It was a knowing. That underneath the places, the struggles, the names I wore and shed, there was something deeper trying to be remembered.
Not who I was, but what I was before I thought I had to be anyone at all.

That’s what my books are really about.

They’re not about being Jamaican, or British, or vegan, or spiritual. They’re not even about race, though it left its mark on the early chapters. They’re about peeling it all back. Letting it fall away. Until what’s left is still.
Real.
Unshaped.

The fire in me came from rebellion.
The silence in me came from surrender.
And the long road home isn’t really a road at all.
It’s a vanishing point. A return to where we never truly left.

I remember one night in Costa Rica, sitting alone on the beach, the waves folding softly into the shore like they had done for centuries. The moon hung low, and the stars spilled across the sky like scattered ash. The air was warm, but inside me, something had cooled, settled. And in that moment, I realised I wasn’t the same man who left England. I wasn’t even the same man who had woken that morning.

And maybe I never was.

Some of you know me through my songs. Some through travel. Some through the books. However you arrived, just know this: I’m not here to teach. I’m just sharing what I’ve lived, what I’ve unlearned, and what still whispers when the world goes quiet.

There’s no map for this journey.
Just signs.
Maybe this post is one of them.

If you’ve ever felt the ground shift beneath your feet, yet known, somehow, you were being carried, then maybe, just maybe we’ve already met.

Welcome home.