Disclaimer: I am not the Author of this work, but it is one that I am amused by what is possible

In the heart of Birmingham, England, November was a month heavy with memory. It wasn’t just about poppies and wars; for many, it was a time to honor Black voices that history too often forgot. Twelve-year-old Olivia Mensah understood this only vaguely until one rainy evening when her grandmother, Nana Efua, decided it was time to tell her a story.

Nana Efua sat by the crackling fire, her hands wrapped around a cup of tea. Her voice was low, steady, as though she carried the weight of generations. “Olivia,” she began, “have you ever heard of Richard Abioye?”

Olivia frowned. “No. Who’s that?”

Nana Efua smiled softly. “He’s not in your textbooks. But he should be.”

In the 1960s, Richard Abioye was a young man from Lagos who had come to England with hopes as bright as his future. The Windrush generation had paved the way, but life for Black immigrants was far from easy. Richard found work as a bus conductor in Birmingham, a city bustling with industry but rife with racism.

“He was brilliant,” Nana Efua said, her eyes distant with memory. “He read books on economics during his breaks and dreamed of a country where people like him weren’t seen as second-class.”

One day, Richard witnessed a fellow conductor, a Jamaican woman named Grace, being berated by a passenger. When Richard stepped in to defend her, he was told by his supervisor that it was best to ‘stay quiet’ and not make trouble.

“But Richard couldn’t stay quiet,” Nana Efua said. “He joined the fight for better working conditions and equal treatment for Black workers.”

Olivia leaned forward. “What did he do?”

“He organized,” Nana Efua replied. “He and others formed a group that demanded change. They fought for fair wages, dignity, and the right to simply exist without fear of being spat at or insulted.”

But Richard’s defiance came at a cost. His supervisors found reasons to cut his hours. His family received anonymous threats. Still, he stood firm. In 1963, his group joined a citywide protest against the colour bar in employment, housing, and social spaces. Thousands marched through Birmingham’s streets, carrying banners demanding equality.

“Did it work?” Olivia asked, her voice barely a whisper.

Nana Efua’s expression darkened. “Not at first. Many people called them agitators. Even some who looked like them said they should be grateful to be here at all. But Richard didn’t stop. He wrote articles, gave speeches, and worked with unions to pressure the city council. Slowly, things began to change.”

“What happened to him?”

Nana Efua paused, her voice softer now. “He left England in the 1970s, worn down but unbroken. He returned to Lagos and helped start worker unions there, using all he’d learned. But his legacy here remains. The changes he fought for opened doors for generations of Black workers. People like him made life better for people like us.”

Olivia felt a lump rise in her throat. “Why don’t we learn about him in school?”

“Because those who write history don’t always want to share the pen,” Nana Efua said. “But that’s why we tell these stories, Olivia. So they’re never forgotten.”

The next week, Olivia’s teacher asked the class to prepare presentations for Black History Month. While others chose famous figures like Mary Seacole or Olaudah Equiano, Olivia stood tall and spoke about Richard Abioye.

She described his courage, his struggles, and how he made Birmingham a little fairer for everyone. By the time she finished, the classroom was silent. Then came the applause.

That night, Nana Efua hugged her tightly. “You’ve carried his story forward, my dear. And that’s how history lives on—not in books but in hearts and voices.”

In Birmingham, November’s chill now carried a different warmth—the quiet fire of remembrance, lit by those who refused to let history’s unsung heroes fade into silence.