How should we mark Black History Month in 2026?

As Black History Month enters its 40th year in the UK, historian Paula Akpan talks to Danny Bird about the benefits and drawbacks of exploring diverse experiences under one umbrella.

Illustration of calendar

Published: October 26, 2026 at 3:30 PM

Save

Danny Bird: What does ‘black British history’ mean? Is it a coherent topic, or shorthand for a more complex reality?

Paula Akpan: I think it’s the latter. We often talk about ‘black British history’ as singular, whereas there are many different histories and communities, which can mean that nuances get overlooked. In theory, it should encompass everything from black queer and working-class histories to black elites and ancient black histories, but it often gets distilled into more legible narratives.

Ad

The Windrush generation is a good example. It’s a critical part of black British history, but its prominence can displace histories of west African migration and African communities. History is often broken into palatable stages that don’t reflect its complexity.

Man with two children

A Jamaican family in Brixton, 1952. The ‘Windrush generation’ of black people from the West Indies had different experiences from African immigrants | Credit: Getty Images

How distinct are African, Caribbean and black British histories?

I see them as a trifecta. These strands depend on one another because they reflect diasporic African and Caribbean experiences. To understand migration to Britain, you need to understand where people came from and how those places were shaped by British colonialism.

Notting Hill Carnival shows how these histories run alongside one another: it draws on Caribbean traditional celebrations such as Mas and J’ouvert, while connecting to black British history through the Mangrove Nine [black activists who stood trial following a 1970 protest against police raids] and [carnival founder] Claudia Jones’s legacy.

You can’t understand West Indian experiences in Britain without understanding the histories of the places people left. In Trinidad, for example, becoming a teacher or nurse offered one of the best routes to employment in Britain. My mum was a nurse and her experience was shaped by a country whose history was itself deeply shaped by Britain.

Some African migrants I’ve met want to be understood as African, rather than as a product of Britain or empire.

How have different generations engaged with black British identity, from Windrush migrants to people born and raised in the UK today?

Generationally, there are different tensions around what black Britishness means.

I know people born here of Jamaican heritage who identify as British Jamaican rather than black British, which can feel too homogenising. That can be especially true for those who arrived very young, or as so-called ‘barrel children’ – those left in the Caribbean while their parents migrated ahead of them.

Older generations may not always recognise the distinctions younger people make between English, British, black British and even black Londoner. Some friends would simply say: “I’m a Londoner.” For people from the Commonwealth, associations with empire can be something they don’t want to carry as part of their identity. Others who migrated from Africa or the Caribbean continue to identify primarily as African, Nigerian or Caribbean. My dad, for example, has been here for 30 or 40 years but still identifies as Nigerian. That can maintain a connection to home while navigating the dislocation between identities.

Grouping diverse experiences together has been a deliberate, effective strategy against racism. But do you feel that that unity has come at the cost of historical nuance?

For now, I’m at peace with it, partly because I see black British history as a discipline largely owned by academia. Important work happens in communities, through things such as black history walks, but the discipline itself still feels overwhelmingly academic. I’ve always felt that my own work sits slightly outside that world.

Political blackness raises questions about homogenising language. Many black elders still see it as a powerful way of building solidarity within non-white communities, but solidarity can obscure differences, including racial hierarchies and the fact that other marginalised communities can perpetuate anti-blackness.

When academic work sits behind paywalls, I have to ask who the discipline is for. If ordinary black people cannot access what should be their own histories, there’s something fundamentally inaccessible about how that history is produced. I see an ivory tower quality, though social media is helping to challenge it.

Woman with plants in background

“More attention needs to be paid to differences in class, resources and geography,” says Paula Akpan, reflecting on the diversity of black lives | Credit: Damien McFadden

When did a ‘black British’ identity emerge, and why does that matter?

It depends on where you start and what you’re trying to establish. Some black British history is almost ‘proof of presence’: for example, pointing to evidence that black people were here during Roman times – often in response to rightwing narratives about when black people became part of British society.

I understand black British history more in relation to the 1950s onwards, when people began calling themselves ‘black British’, or identifying as British Nigerian or British Jamaican. But not everyone identifies that way. As I’ve already mentioned, some African migrants I’ve encountered want to be understood as African, rather than as a product of Britain or empire.

Black Britishness was divisive in 1970s and 1980s black feminist circles, where some saw it as splintering communities that stood in solidarity with oppressed people globally. And there’s still a push and pull over claiming Britishness when black people are so often told they don’t belong.

How does foregrounding gender and sexuality change the narrative that may be more familiar to some people?

Black women activists were central to campaigns around educational standards for black children. This was particularly the case for Caribbean children, some of whom were wrongly sent to special-needs schools because of assumptions about their behaviour and intellectual ability.

Black queer women and lesbians faced other pressures, too. Their sexuality could be treated as a threat to the black family, and lesbian mothers sometimes lost their children to state custody. Black queer and lesbian histories have often been treated as too contentious, while their concerns could be dismissed as distractions from ‘real’ issues.

There were also tensions within black liberation movements, in which ‘lesbian’ was sometimes used as an insult against heterosexual black feminists. These pressures meant that sexuality was pushed aside. Even histories of black feminism can give black lesbian feminism little attention. Some histories rise to the top because they seem accessible, while others are dismissed as niche.

Group of people protesting

Black Londoners protest against police harassment, west London, August 1970. Confrontations between marchers and police led to the prosecution of the so-called ‘Mangrove Nine’ | Credit: Getty Images

Has class been underplayed in black British history – and, if so, what does that tendency obscure?

I think class can feel loaded, because there’s an assumption that being black automatically meant being working class or poor. But there were significant differences between black working-class and middle-class experiences in the 1970s and 1980s. Someone with greater means might have avoided some of the exploitation experienced by a migrant living in a landlord’s or landlady’s house, often in a single room.

There’s also a geographical gap. Black British history has focused heavily on major urban centres, while black histories in smaller towns and villages can feel like an afterthought. Material conditions could be very different, including access to black communities and resources that helped people affirm their identities.

My dissertation research looked at various people, each of whom was the only black person in their town – sometimes the only black queer person – and who eventually wanted to move to a larger city. More attention needs to be paid to differences in class, resources and geography.

“More attention needs to be paid to differences in class, resources and geography,” says Paula Akpan, reflecting on the diversity of black lives.

Is black British history primarily for black Britons, or should it reshape how everyone understands Britain’s past?

For black British history to become something everyone learns, there would need to be a confrontation with difficult truths about British colonialism and its impact on the countries from which many black people descend.

Treating black British history as a standalone discipline can make it seem like a bonus rather than something integrated into the wider curriculum. But naming it as a distinct history is important because it makes the subject easier to find, particularly for young black people wanting to understand their place in British society.

Until Britain meaningfully engages with its imperial past, I don’t think that will change. The Commonwealth and the King’s role as head of state in several Caribbean countries are visible legacies of empire.

We also need to be honest about what black people arriving from Africa and the Caribbean experienced here. As the saying goes: “We are here because you were there.”

My primary audience is black readers: I want to make difficult-to-reach histories more accessible. If non-black people learn from them too, that’s fantastic.

Treating black British history as a standalone discipline can make it seem like a bonus rather than integrated into the wider curriculum.

Whose stories and experiences have fallen out of the historical record, and why?

Black trans histories are particularly difficult to locate. Terminology changes, so people we might understand today as trans or bisexual may have identified as lesbian, making their experiences difficult to trace. I’ve found sources in which someone appears to be grappling with gender in ways we might now recognise as trans experience, but that history has been folded into another area of scholarship.

Black disabled histories can be similarly difficult to locate, reflecting the marginalisation of these groups and the ways in which those hierarchies shape what gets recorded and studied. And I’d like to see more work on black lesbian mothers and black queer experiences during the Aids crisis, which are often absorbed into broader queer histories.

There’s also a tendency to focus black history on uprisings, riots or desegregation. Those histories matter, but they can overshadow other social issues and everyday experiences. These are some of the histories I’d personally like to access more easily.

How could museums, schools and the media better reflect the plurality of black British histories during Black History Month (and throughout each year)?

On a simple level, we need to thread African and Caribbean histories connected to Britain throughout the curriculum. I’ve been doing school author talks and have been pleasantly surprised when schools say that my work fits with what their Year 7s are already studying about the Mali empire. That might be in March, not October. It makes black history feel coherent and part of the wider body of historical knowledge.

Some schools still want me to visit during October because it’s Black History Month. I understand that, particularly with school budgets so stretched, but what message does that send? That this is the only month when black history is worthy of attention, rather than it being something that belongs throughout the curriculum?

Group of people walking

Queen Camilla and King Charles visit Nairobi, Kenya in 2023. The legacy of empire and colonialism remains visible in both the existence of the Commonwealth and black experiences in the UK | Credit: Alamy

When we cram black history into one month, more complex stories can be lost. Which histories are considered palatable? Which show Britain in the best light? How much confronts colonialism, the transatlantic slave trade and Britain’s treatment of black people?

When I was younger, Black History Month often meant studying figures such as Mary Seacole: ‘good’ black people who helped build Britain and could be celebrated without much discomfort. That can suggest that minorities have to earn their place by demonstrating their value, rather than simply being allowed to exist on the same terms as their white peers. The easier, more palatable stories can therefore come at the expense of complexity.

Paula Akpan is a historian and writer. Her latest book is When We Ruled: The Rise and Fall of Twelve African Queens and Warriors (Trapeze, 2025).

Ad

This article was first published in the November 2026 issue of HistoryExtra Magazine

Ad

Ad

Loading...

Ad

Loading...