Whenever I meet people outside of Wales and I say I’m Welsh, there’s always a slight pause. It’s not dramatic, but it is noticeable. It’s the kind of pause where someone is recalibrating what they thought they knew. If I say I am British, no one questions it. If I mention my Cameroonian heritage, that makes immediate sense to people. But when I say I am Welsh, something shifts.
The unspoken question seems to be: how?
That reaction tells me more about the limits of people’s imagination than it does about my identity.
I grew up in Wales and I understand the humour, the defensiveness and the overlap of confusion and pride. I also understand how small the country feels and how connected everything is. None of that feels foreign to me. It feels familiar because it shaped me.
At the same time, I grew up knowing that my presence in certain spaces carried a certain weight. Wales is small enough that you are rarely completely anonymous. If you are different, you are visible and if you are one of few, you are hyper-aware of it. That visibility makes you observant and sensitive to shifts in atmosphere. It increases your perception of social dynamics whether you ask for it or not.
What complicates this further is the way conversations around Black British identity are often overwhelmingly London-centric. When people discuss Black British culture, they usuallyreference London estates, London slang, London music scene and London politics. Even when it expands to Birmingham or Manchester, the framework still centres large English cities.
Wales is very rarely part of that conversation.
As a result, being black and Welsh can feel like existing outside of the main narrative. Not invisible exactly, but peripheral. The default image of “Black British” identity does not usually include the valleys, or Cardiff Bay, or growing up in a country where the population is small enough that networks overlap constantly.
This points to a huge under-amplification of Black Welsh stories which is quite maddening because black people have been in Wales for generations. Butetown and Tiger Bay were multicultural long before diversity became a policy objective. The docks in Cardiff connected Wales to the world. Families from Somalia, Yemen, the Caribbean and across Africa built lives here and are still breaking barriers till today. Black Welsh identity is not new, but is often treated as if it is – both in and outside of Wales.
What I find interesting is that Wales itself understands marginalisation. Welsh identity has historically been suppressed within a broader British framework. The language was discouraged and the culture was flattened. There is a national memory of being sidelined. And yet, that empathy does not always translate into a deep understanding of Black Welsh experiences.
There are moments where being black in Wales feels expansive and full of possibility. There are also moments where it feels like you are expected to represent progress without being fully acknowledged as foundational to the contemporary culture itself.
The London-centric nature of Black British discourse adds another layer to this. When one city dominates the narrative, it subtly positions other black experiences as secondary. It narrows what is seen as authentic and reduces the complexity of regional identities.
Being black in Wales is not the same as being black in London. The scale is different, the visibility feels sharper and the pressures are different too. In smaller creative industries and community spaces, the same few black creatives and professionals are often expected to diversify entire rooms.
These experiences and observations have shaped how I move, how I build and how intentional I am about building community. Especially for black women in Wales.
For me, this is partly why I care so much about platform-building. If the dominant narrative of Black British identity does not automatically include us, then it is our responsibility to contribute to that conversation from where we stand. Imitating or competing with London and other big cities is not the goal of course, because that is not even possible. The goal is to contribute to the narrative to expand the definition of “Black British” with the nuance that is necessary.
I refuse the idea that my Welshness dilutes my blackness. I also reject the suggestion that my blackness makes my Welsh identity conditional. They coexist fully and they inform each other. They make me more aware of structure, more conscious of representation, and more determined to build spaces that feel intentional rather than performative.
When I create and lead platforms here in Wales, whilst my personal experiences are a big influence, the main influence comes from the need to contributing towards a broader archive. I am asserting that black Welsh identity deserves documentation, analysis and cultural presence beyond token inclusion.
If conversations about Black Britishness remain centred in one city, they will never fully capture the complexity of the Black British population. People like me, who live and build outside of London, have a role in widening that frame and weaving this complexity into the national conversation.
The question “Black… and Welsh?” only feels contradictory if your understanding of both words is narrow.
