— “His voice falters, but refuses to capsize.”

009 : Benjamin Mmusi on the 9.35 to White City Bond St Tube Station, Central Line
Born in 1981 in Nottingham. Benjamin Mmusi currently works as a Somnambulist Why London? It’s like living on a giant Monopoly board, only without the free parking. He digs the following London bits: the lettering on old underground signs, the Diplodocus at the Natural History Museum, big leaves, borough Market and Tottenham Hotspur. He is, however, a bit miffed by the price of a pint, scaffolding, the price of a second pint, shootings and Tottenham Hotspur. For more info on Benjamin Mmusi you should send an email.

image: E. Nagase
“His voice falters, but refuses to capsize.”

Look at me. Why won’t she look at me? I’m sat right here, sat right across from her. So why won’t she look at me?

Can she even see me? An interesting point. Does anyone really see anyone down here? Commuters are just ghosts, after all. Phantoms with briefcases and overcoats. A person underground barely resembles their doppelganger on the surface. Their expression, gait, whole demeanour changes. Same goes for the rules of engagement. Social interaction vs social inaction.

Take this one. Every day we get on at the same stop and sit on this train, inches apart, knees all but touching. There’s every possibility we’ll continue to do so until we are well into our winter years. How strange, to grow old with a person yet never speak to them. To look at them but never see them.

Not all of these ghosts are as quiet. The old Jamaican playing unidentifiable songs on his guitar could actually use some of whatever shuts the rest of us up.^[1] His voice swims against an invisible current, resurfacing without panic just when you think it’s gone under for good.

Still she doesn’t look at me.

A wailing infant crashes right through the busker’s wave. His voice falters, but refuses to capsize. The old pro. Tinny syncopating rhythms pulsate from too-loud headphones, a couple of office drones bleat about their bosses, school children jeer and mock each other, but the old Jamaican plays on. Tourists shuffle their maps, the train tremors along uneven tracks, an announcement blares overhead and still he plays and still she doesn’t look at me.

Suddenly he stops, gets up, removes his hat, asks for change. A deafening silence yawns in front of him. Cheerfully he strides into it, through it, into the next car. The door rattles behind him in bleak applause.

She looks at the door; why won’t she look at me?

The scene jerks, brakes scream and inertia lurches through the carriage. Newspapers hit the floor, locks clamp. The tourists cast about nervously, unable to commit to a decision. The school kids punch one another and jostle their way to the exit. Rows of ghosts rise and file past us. Framed in the light that flickers between them, she looks like an old film.

Why won’t she look at me?

Wait. She is.^[2]

referenced works

According to LondonLogue: “In 2001 London Underground got the law changed to allow licenced busking on the Tube in an effort to raise the quality of musicians performing. There are now 33 licensed ‘pitches’ spread over 22 central London stations where buskers can set up and perform.” This doesn’t stop roaming unlicensed buskers from working moving trains carriage by carriage, sometimes accompanying their performances with impassioned speeches to their captive audiences, who invariably fail to even look at them, let alone give them money. ↩

The Metro, London’s first free newspaper, initiated its Commuter Cupid service in May 2006 in a bid to bring together couples exchanging fleeting glances on public transport. Those wishing to place a notice on the miniscule off-chance that the person they’re actually talking about will end up reading it, and who are prepared to risk that dream individual turning out to be as incompatible with them as statistics suggest they will, can do so here. ↩

location information

Name: Bond St Tube Station, Central Line
Time of story: Morning
Latitude: 51.514444752021404
Longitude: -0.1493239402770996
Map: Google Maps

020 “There’s not going to be enough pavement to go around.” — Evelyn Owen

019 “Then our eyes flicked back together again, and a tear was gathering on her cheek.” — Stephen Ledger-Lomas

018 “One of them shot me 'die hippy' neon rays from under his star-shaped glasses.” — Dylan Carline

017 “I often wonder how many of those photographs I have popped up on.” — Gemma Barder

016 “'Thank you, London!' cries possibly-famous scruffy lead singer.” — Jen Paton

015 “Around us, drivers beep their horns and pedestrians trample on my clean jumpers and skirts.” — Emma Hardy

014 “No chance for bloomers and wigs to outnumber tracksuits - we were on our own.” — Cecilia

013 “Then the unthinkable had happened. We met and became ‘friends’.” — John

012 “Nothing is forever, to live is to suffer, please give generously.” — Andrew Flynn

011 “The taste is salt water, and the rubbery texture never-ending.” — Janet Nesaule

010 “I pressed the side of my hand to my forehead, pointlessly.” — Tim Wood

009 “His voice falters, but refuses to capsize.” — Benjamin Mmusi

008 “A hollow understanding of togetherness wrapped around everyone.” — Zoonie (or Cait for short)

007 “In amongst the railway arches and Victorian masonry, the dead spaces remain intact.” — Richard Kovitch

006 “A big scruffy bloke began watching.” — Joseph Ridgwell

005 “Why did I feel so warm and fuzzy inside?” — Yuki Nakano

004 “I smiled and nodded in an informed and knowledgeable way.” — Pictorial Soup

003 “Bobo-the-hobo, swag, mighty mezz. It's all there right in front.” — Craig Mod

002 “To my shame, I realise I am crying.” — Jayne Newton Chance

001 “Her skirt snaps in the wind like a flag.” — Heidi James

Sponsor

Interested in sponsoring Hitotoki? Contact us at sponsors@hitotoki.

Write for Us!

We’re looking for short narratives describing pivotal moments of elation, confusion, absurdity, love or grief — or anything in between — inseparably tied to a specific place in London.

submission form

Hitotoki