BLACK History Month (BHM) amounts to 31 days of ghost stories. We spend the month listening to stories of black ghosts who we are taught to revere and treat as virtual gods and whose lives we should almost learn by heart. Some of us are even taught to believe that this once-a-year extravaganza of ackee and saltfish, pakoras and samosas — sometimes even on the same plate — actually makes a difference to the levels of racism at work or in our communities.

Others take the chance of the inevitable photo opportunities to project their supposed anti-racist credentials in much the same way as they took advantage of the rash of knee-taking that broke out after George Floyd was murdered. The assertion of how much black lives mattered easily tripped off the tongue of people who otherwise did nothing to tackle the racism that existed in their own organisations. I’ve always avoided ghost stories — far too scary for me — so it’s a surprise to me that I have spent so many years taking part in countless meetings since the invention of this tradition began in Britain in 1987.

I began writing this article thinking it would concentrate on how BHM has become the last refuge of these scoundrels who seem content in their performative behaviour every October but never stir themselves to tackle the underlying causes of racism that continues to exploit black people. They feel comfortable enough to do nothing except gesture at our continuing oppression as black people. But then I began to.