WhyThis BAFTA Gaff Matters : Especially During Black History Month

I have written and deleted multiple versions of this piece. Some were sharp. Some were angry. Some were clinical. All of them felt incomplete. So I’m lingering in the in-between, where many questions exist, and the answers are heavy with lived experience.

At this year’s BAFTAs, as Michael B. Jordan and Delroy Lindo stood on stage, the N-word was shouted from the audience. It was later confirmed that the outburst came from Tourette’s campaigner John Davidson, whose condition can cause involuntary vocal tics.

And because this happened during Black History Month, it lands differently. I have felt many emotions. I feel for the Black men who had to endure the humiliation of that word being yelled at the exact moment they stood on one of Britain’s most prestigious stages. There is no way to separate that word from its history. Even if involuntary. Even if unintended. The impact does not evaporate.

I also feel for John Davidson, who has to live with involuntary outbursts. Tourette’s is not a choice. Coprolalia is not theatre. It is neurological. And I cannot ignore that reality. And then there’s me.

I am conscious that, in many ways, I am an outsider in this conversation. I am a Black African woman raised in a predominantly Black society. Racism was not a daily force in my childhood. I did not grow up navigating whiteness as a system. It wasn’t until I relocated to the UK that I began to understand racism experientially.

In fact, there have been times when others had to explain to me that certain behaviours directed at me were racist. That is the truth. My lens is shaped differently. And I’m aware of that when I speak on incidents like this.

So here’s my take:

When two protected characteristics collide - race and disability - we ought to lead with care, compassion and empathy.

Not defensiveness.

Not erasure.

Care.

This is not to say I haven’t had moments of despair about what happened. I have. But days of ruminating over the fallout have shifted me into something more pensive. Less reactive. More reflective.

I find myself wishing we lived in an alternative universe - one where words like that simply do not exist. A universe where we don’t need lengthy op-eds to explain why racist language wounds, even when the person who uttered it did not intend harm. A world where ableist assumptions and racial trauma do not compete for moral priority.

But we do not live there.

We live here.

And here, impact matters.

Which is why I struggled with the response. I wish it had been simpler. A straightforward apology for the unintended harm caused. Not an apology for having Tourette’s. Not a defence of neurology. Just an acknowledgement: I am sorry that my condition caused hurt in that moment.

An apology costs nothing. It does not concede intent. It acknowledges impact.

During Black History Month - a time when we are supposedly reflecting on history, legacy, resilience and progress - hearing that word on that stage felt like a rupture. Perhaps not malicious. But symbolic.

And maybe this is the teachable moment.

Maybe it forces us to confront how language, even when involuntary, carries history. Maybe it challenges us to expand empathy instead of rationing it. Maybe it reminds institutions that context always matters.

I do not write this in outrage.

I write it from the in-between.

From a place that recognises complexity.

From someone who understands that my experience of Blackness is layered and global and not identical to every other Black person’s.

From someone who believes we are capable of holding compassion for disability and compassion for racial harm at the same time.

If Black History Month means anything, it should create space for conversations like this - uncomfortable, layered, human.

Not to cancel.

Not to excuse.

But to understand.

And to do better next time.