As a brown woman in Britain, it took 48 hours to confirm my worst fears

Last year, when the details of the Southport attack emerged, my Black and Asian friends all had the same reaction: “Oh God. Here we go again.” 

We knew that before the facts had been settled, before the investigations had finished and before grieving families had buried their dead, race would become part of the story. Again. We knew the incident would be used by right-wing politicians, exploited to whip-up rage and racism towards people who looked like us, and attempt to justify anti-immigrant rhetoric.

Watching the reaction this week to Henry Nowak’s horrific death has given me that feeling all over again. The same way it did with Southport murderer Axel Rudakubana, and with the Huntingdon train attack last November. Any major incident where the perpetrator comes from a minority ethnic background makes our hearts skip a beat. Because we know what comes next.

Let me be crystal clear: what happened to Henry Nowak is vile. His family deserve answers. The fact that his father publicly pleaded with people not to use his son’s death to spread division, hatred or tension tells you everything you need to know about the dignity of that family.

But I have also found it remarkable how quickly Henry’s death became evidence that Britain’s police have somehow become institutionally anti-white.

I don’t buy that. Black communities have spent decades raising concerns about policing: disproportionate stop and search, disproportionate use of force, failures to recognise vulnerability and a lack of accountability when things go wrong. The Macpherson Report into the murder of Stephen Lawrence found the Metropolitan Police to be institutionally racist more than 25 years ago, and an independent review three years ago found that still to be the case.

None of that diminishes what happened to Henry Nowak. But a single tragic case does not erase decades of evidence about how race operates in British policing.

Instead of asking serious questions about police accountability and the use of force, we were suddenly talking about race. Immigration. Two-tier policing. Nigel Farage. Protests near the home of Vickrum Digwa, Henry’s killer. Debates about kirpans. Social media outrage.

As ever, race became the tinderbox.

That’s when I realised something. The last 48 hours have crystallised a fear I’ve been denying. What happens if Nigel Farage wins the next general election? What does Britain look like if people pushing these narratives end up holding the keys to the country?

I used to think this stuff was just rhetoric. Something confined to the darker corners of the internet. Then came Brexit. Then the riots in 2024. Now Reform UK is top in the polls and Farage isn’t shouting from the sidelines anymore with a flat cap on and a pint of beer in hand. He’s shaping the national conversation. And, calling for Henry’s death to be met with “pure, cold rage” and that “white lives matter as much as black lives,” a slogan used by white nationalists in the US during the Black Lives Matter protests.

My first article for The i Paper was about realising that there is no such thing as a “good immigrant”. No matter how hard you work, how much tax you pay, how much your community contributes towards the NHS, how many businesses you build or how many chicken tikka masalas you serve, there will always be people who see you as an outsider.

At the time, I thought I was writing about the present. I’m starting to realise I might have been writing about the future. Because something has changed.

When I’m filming around Britain now, I find myself noticing things I never used to notice. Flags outside houses. Conversations in pubs. The demographic makeup of a room. Maybe it’s in my head. Maybe it isn’t. But I know I am more conscious than ever of my surname, my skin colour and how I might be perceived. And I hate that.

Because for the first time in my life, I’m asking whether I’d ever leave Britain for something other than work, love or adventure. And I never thought I’d ask that question. Because I don’t want them to win.

Henry Nowak’s death should have sparked a national conversation about policing, accountability and justice. Instead, it started another argument about race and identity. One of those conversations might prevent another tragedy. The other just keeps us divided.