Gentlemen’s Leisure Spaces in Britain since 1945: London’s Cigar Lounges and Plural Belonging by Ronald Taylor
So it’s the beginning of fall break, and you fly from Des Moines to London Heathrow Airport. In your bag, you bring two cigars for personal consumption: the Arturo Fuente Hemingway and the Fuente 8-5-8. Both have a unique construction—the wrapper is of Cameroonian African origin, while the tobacco inside is purely Dominican. You land in London, and your first stop is a small cigar lounge in Fulham called Edmundo’s. Edmundo’s is an exclusive retailer of Cuban cigars, and so there you sit, meeting an old friend, Omar, who is British Pakistani. You speak with the shopkeeper, James, who has South African and British heritage. Later, your friend Edward—an American Brit—also joins you in this line of conversation.
Now, of course, with Cuban cigars, you select one, or more likely, your friend selects one for you. In this case, he did, and you smoke it. But one thing to note is that this entire moment wouldn’t be possible without the exportation of Cuban products from one island to another—something that isn’t allowed in the United States due to the embargo.
It is striking that something so illegal in one country can unite a group of people in another. The law is remarkably complex and precise in how it bans certain behaviours: it creates and closes loopholes, makes it difficult to simply flout restrictions, and leaves little room to claim innocence through ignorance or inspired wrongdoing. And yet, in that moment, I was in England—united with friends I had not seen in a long time, sharing in revelry and fellowship. As you enjoy the cigar with your old friends, you talk about what you’ve done over the year and where you’ve been. James, the South African, tells you he’s been to Argentina. Omar says he’s been to the East and to Cuba, and he lists the various countries he has seen around the world. “Merchandise located in or transported from or through Cuba.” — 31 C.F.R. § 515.204(a)(2)
Another harsh reminder—and a reckoning with the fact that I cannot even go to Cuba, let alone enjoy the merchandise this shop sells, in my own home country—because of policies and agreements put in place around the time my grandfather was born in 1950. I am, in effect, unable to connect with an entire group of people because of decisions made more than seventy years ago.
Edward, the American Brit, tells you he has been spending time in southern Europe, mainly Spain, adding another layer of cosmopolitan speech and ideas.
Later on, a guy by the name of T comes in. He is Emirati, a citizen of the United Arab Emirates, and he brings stories from back home. Later in the trip, you speak to another gentleman from Beirut, Lebanon, who is also coming in from Dubai, talking about his old life in London and what it feels like to return every so often. You’re greeted by two Persians—Ronnie and another man—who talk about their new car business. And lastly, you meet people from China who are living in the UK after working for an Iraqi oil company.
So why do I want to tell this story? Because when I think of cigars, I used to think of a very gentlemanly space filled with a profound lack of pluralism—a space preserved for white, middle-aged male components of gentility. But I am also a person interested in stories of origin. Ultimately, this leads me to many questions, which I will pose and attempt to answer later on in this article, but right now, I have to let the reality sink in and absorb it.
I encountered many remarkable individuals during my time studying abroad. By the time I first entered the shop, I had already been living in the United Kingdom for approximately a month and a half. On that particular day, I found myself walking farther through the city than I typically would, and in doing so, I came upon a space that immediately distinguished itself from its surroundings. The shop was welcoming, the staff were attentive and generous with their time, and the atmosphere felt familiar in a way that was both grounding and unexpectedly comforting. It functioned as a local community hub—a third space—where I could relax, study, and engage in my academic work beyond the formal boundaries of the university.
I made a deliberate decision to return, and that choice shaped the remainder of my experience abroad. Through repeated visits, informal interactions gradually developed into sustained relationships, many of which have since become what I consider lifelong friendships. What rendered this space particularly meaningful was the form of mutual recognition it enabled. My identity was not simply tolerated but actively acknowledged, and, just as importantly, others were willing to share their own identities, histories, and perspectives with me. Through this reciprocal exchange, I gained insight not only into the lives of others but also into my own evolving sense of self and how belonging is produced and maintained within plural social environments. “Students’ experiences are a product of the multiple identities they bring from their home cultures, the host country they are encountering and their own human agency.” — Streitweiser & Light (2018), quoted in Penter (2025)
This is ultimately why I ended up in the shop in the first place: my own agency led me to enter a space that was unfamiliar to me, drawn by a shared interest. Yet by choosing to remain in that space, I encountered a wide range of identities from around the world, and those encounters shaped and imprinted in me new ideas about the host nation and my place within it.
To get to the heart of this transformation, we must know who everyone is and how they came to be in the UK, and how all of us intersected through this moment in UK history.
When exposed to new people and places, “There is a danger that the experience will be reduced to a constellation of superficially appreciated landmarks and shopping outlets.” — Kinginger (2010), quoted in Penter (2025) I did my best in trying to remember the experiences that I was granted and take advantage of the opportunity to know my interests in a plural and inviting atmosphere. Through this experiential part of my travels in the UK, I will try to tell something more academic and factual through the lens and metaphor of spaces of gentlemanly leisure—because I think it will be more interesting and, quite frankly, more fun to explore ideas, practices, and spaces that I deeply enjoy .“Much education abroad programming that occurs in Western Europe offers students superficial engagement with the host countries, essentializes local cultures, and packages an experience for students to consume.”— Adkins & Messerly (2019), quoted in Penter (2025) In many ways, exploring decoloniality through study abroad can appear self-serving, as it places the individual directly within the history and meaning of what is being studied. At the same time, however, it can operate as a reflective exercise—one that encourages a critical examination of one’s own position within that history and allows for a deeper engagement with the significance of the people and the place one temporarily inhabits. It is within this tension between individual experience and historical structure that my own narrative should be located. And I almost forgot the biggest part: a young man from St. Louis, Missouri, of African-American heritage rooted in the southern and mid-Atlantic United States, sitting in a cigar lounge in the middle of London, England, halfway around the world—me.
What this article ultimately argues is that gentlemen’s leisure spaces—specifically London cigar lounges—operate as informal, post-imperial sites of plurality and belonging in contemporary Britain. Through ritual, duration, and shared practices of leisure, these spaces allow individuals from formerly colonised, colonising, and diasporic backgrounds to occupy the same social terrain without erasing difference or flattening identity. Rather than resolving the afterlives of empire through law or policy alone, the cigar lounge reveals how decolonisation is lived socially, negotiated quietly, and practised through everyday interaction. Ownership, representation, and time matter here more than formal inclusion, as they determine who is read as legitimate within the space. In tracing these interactions, this article uses lived experience not as anecdote, but as historical evidence for how plural belonging is produced in postwar Britain.
Firstly, let’s talk about repatriation. That means a person who is historically, ethnically, and familially from one region of the world but left—usually for economic reasons—and then comes back, again for either social or economic reasons. My friend James comes from this principle in the white South African context; and in many ways this is its own form of repatriation and de-colonialization on the level of an individual life, an individual family, and even an individual society. It’s almost like a personal undoing of a global process. Meaning, coming back to the UK does not erase the deeds or the plundering of wealth that his ancestors possibly carried out on African land in South Africa. That does not mean I like him any less or dislike him any more. But in the pursuit of truth, and in pursuing decolonization through reality, I would not feel complete without stating that fact. Due to the level of wealth his family was able to accumulate—wealth that was accumulated because of their position within colonial and apartheid-era systems—those assets became mobile within the empire. This mobility was not abstract or exceptional; it translated into concrete migration outcomes. As official figures show, “South Africa 4,755 [persons were granted settlement in the United Kingdom in 2001].” The significance of this number lies not simply in scale, but in what it reveals about which forms of movement were made possible. Settlement was not granted in a vacuum; it followed existing pathways of capital, cultural proximity, and institutional familiarity that allowed certain South African families to relocate, stabilize, and often improve their position within the post-imperial British context.
Within two generations, that wealth was able to move, stabilize, and in many cases grow. As a result, his family was able to live the same — or even a higher — quality of life in the United Kingdom than they had previously enjoyed in South Africa. “White South Africans position themselves in British society by drawing on their privileged background and ‘attributes’ – whether in the form of ancestral ties or reference to skin-colour and cultural proximity to Britain.”— Halvorsrud This article is pivotal because it is one of the few secondary sources that speaks directly to the estimated migration of South Africans. Official immigration data alone cannot fully capture this movement. Halvorsrud illuminates the situation of the South African diaspora and the duplicity within the identities of those migrating to the United Kingdom. In many ways, he seeks to explain not only the increase in migration, but also who these people are and how they understand themselves within the British context. Nevertheless, this movement is still part of the broader colonial conversation. It includes the colonial residue of British South African history, as well as the privileges that are systematically tied to lineage and racial origin. “As many as about 90% of South Africans in the UK can be classified as white.” — Halvorsrud This figure alone is indicative of a choice to move back to, or toward, a more homogeneous nation—one in which these migrants are no longer positioned as a minority. I am alluding here to the continuation of a system that prioritizes economic and structural prosperity in ways that allow identity to recede as a liability, often at the expense of others. Repatriation, in this sense, is not a moral undoing of empire, but a continuation of its material pathways.
And then we have to go even deeper, far deeper than the first layer that sits on the surface of this narrative. We need to look at why people like James left, why people economically tied to the state—people who in many ways lived under what was essentially a form of martial law placed upon the movement and governance of the majority population—felt compelled to depart. “This mainly reflected a rise in grants of extensions to nationals of South Africa from 70 in 2000 to 1,120 in 2001.” This statistic shows the rise—the increase and rapid growth—of white South Africans coming to the United Kingdom. It demonstrates movement at an unprecedented rate within a single year, with the number of individuals increasing more than tenfold through extensions of visas and grants. In just one year, the scale of this growth surpasses that seen in South Asia and in parts of East Asia, which, based on prior data, exhibit more linear or gradual patterns of migration. I attribute this nonlinear surge to the downfall of apartheid and the subsequent reckoning with its aftermath, a moment that reshaped political, economic, and social conditions and made relocation not only possible, but in many cases desirable.
The state constructed a model of economic stability for a very small number of individuals, for a tiny elite within society, and this engineered a bubble: one group pressed firmly at the bottom and another lifted precariously at the top. This model narrowed the number of available jobs and industries, jobs being created and governed by the same set of individuals who evaluated the currency and managed the economic structure, but the overall volume of the economy remained low. Eventually, it becomes clear that the economy simply is not large enough to sustain growth—especially when you factor in new generations, new populations entering the labor market, and the inevitable demands placed on a system already stretched thin. And when we look directly at corruption—not only corruption caused by the South African government but corruption left unchecked by that government—we find the next critical point. Because when corruption goes unchecked, inflationary events follow. Prices are no longer honest; they are constantly adjusted, hidden, manipulated, and reshaped by corrupt actors. This leads to economic instability, high levels of unemployment, and poverty at an accelerated and far more intense rate.
To analyze the situation fully, all of these metrics must be held together: the political environment, the social fragmentation, the economic squeezing, and the moral exhaustion. These are the forces that led to the repatriation of James’s father to the UK and the decision to raise his family not in South Africa but in the United Kingdom. These are the deeper factors that, when properly understood, show how these personal migrations become part of a much longer-term equation of survival, dignity, and future orientation.
Another person I call my friend is Omar Khan, the proprietor and owner of the shop. When you own a space of pluralism, that space does not become corrupt simply because differences exist within it. Instead, equity, concept, and representation are demonstrated through ownership itself. Omar makes a substantial amount of money from his venture, and that money goes directly into his family, his children, and the people closest to him — people who all hold identities and place within British society. Although racism remains an extraordinarily direct and ignorant force, economic legitimacy cannot be ignored. Ownership restructures how one is read. The man who owns the space does not have to listen to dismissive rhetoric in the same way, because his position is no longer defined by outside reference groups or imposed narratives. His legitimacy is embedded in the legal and economic fabric of the society itself. In this way, ownership transforms plural space into power. It stabilises belonging and shifts pluralism from a tolerated condition into an authoritative one. He is an equally compelling figure because, from everything I have listened to and observed, his father was born in Pakistan, and Omar identifies as a Pakistani Muslim. His family immigrated to the United Kingdom, and he himself spent the vast majority of his life living in the UK. Omar is, in many ways, a living example of the successes possible within pluralistic spaces, because he is not merely participating in the community—he actually owns the lounge. There is something meaningful there: What motivated his father’s generation to leave Pakistan for the United Kingdom? The scale of that movement is not incidental. As official figures indicate, “Pakistan 11,535 [persons were granted settlement in the United Kingdom in 2001].” And if you look at who was granted settlement in the United Kingdom, it was mostly women and children who were dependents of men within society, indicating that the primary reason for this migration was family reunification. Overall, unlike in the South African context, the growth of Pakistanis coming to the United Kingdom appears very linear over time, and the reasoning aligns with patterns of steady migration as well. This was not one large, sudden spurt of movement, but rather families coming together and people relocating their lives to a new country gradually over time, pointing to the idea of already existing family networks moving slowly rather than individuals arriving all at once.
How does that single decision ripple outward, shaping Omar’s identity, shaping Edmundo’s environment, shaping British plurality, and shaping the gentility of spaces like cigar lounges?
From everything that has been shared with me, Omar’s father left Pakistan because of profound economic instability caused by political dysfunction and specifically military corruption. A large foreign-service or diplomatic class, as well as powerful government actors, controlled national industries and access to opportunity. This is one of the core tenets of Omar’s identity and one of the major influences behind his emergence within the UK. As an article I read states, “Following the Second World War, the breakup of the British Empire… the immigration of South Asians from India and Pakistan to the United Kingdom increased, especially during the 1950s and 60s.”
This struck me because it is indicative of a nation rebuilding after wartime. My assumption in this case—and in reading between the lines of this quote—is that the increase in immigration from South Asia, particularly from India and Pakistan, to the United Kingdom during the 1950s and 1960s was driven in large part by labour shortages created by the war. Large numbers of people had died, and many of the jobs that men had traditionally occupied were temporarily filled by women, creating long-term gaps in the workforce. If one had formerly been a subject of the Empire and that empire had broken apart, there was still a residual connection between the former imperial ruler and the society it once governed. That connection produced a level of familiarity, understanding, and institutional overlap between the people of South Asia and the United Kingdom, making migration not only possible but intelligible within that post-imperial context.
On one side of the coin, Omar is a Pakistani man and a Muslim; yet by the same token, he is British. He was raised in a Christian-majority society, surrounded by people of different races, cultures, and values. That exposure alone shaped how he sees himself and how he navigates the world. His identity is hybrid, layered, informed by origin, by upbringing, by culture, and by the unique social environment of the UK—a Christian nation guided by powers that trace their charter and worldview through empire and through institutions shaped by India, the Middle East, and beyond. As the BBC reports, “British Pakistani is an actual identity we truly are part British and part Pakistani.” We often overlook the depth of society’s impact on individual identity, yet being born to parents from a particular country does not automatically mean that one belongs to that country in a lived or experiential sense. The presence of dual identity complicates this assumption. Nationality and racial identity are not synonymous, and although individuals are shaped by the broader society in which they are embedded, pluralistic identity cannot be reduced solely to racial background. Instead, it is formed through ongoing processes of self-definition and social interaction within plural spaces, such as a cigar lounge, as well as within the larger social environment.
From speaking with him, the number one thing that stood out was his willingness to push through difficulties—including moments of xenophobia and racialization—in order to seed and pursue economic opportunity. He intentionally chose resilience. He chose negotiation of identity. And these choices reveal how identity itself becomes a flexible, adaptive space between one’s nation of origin, one’s adopted home, and the shared social world created within places like Edmundo’s.
As the same article states, “I realised the colour of my skin somehow disqualifies me from being British… my nationality was British, but my identity was not.” To me, this is yet another example of society defining individuals according to its own expectations—expectations about what British identity is, what shapes it, and how it is defined. If anything, a person born under British imperial rule could be considered British, even if they were not born in England. That Britishness would not be grounded in ethnicity, but in identity and historical affiliation. In this quote, race is treated as synonymous with identity within the nation. To me, this assumption is deeply flawed. It is hubristic and ultimately ignorant to assert that national identity is inherently or exclusively tied to racial makeup.
Looking forward into the space we currently observe, it becomes evident that this is not merely a room full of remarkable individuals. It is the foundation of a new, globally minded, socially mobile, and economically mobile class—one built on unspoken agreements of acceptance, mutual respect, and a shared desire for cohesion, upward mobility, and cosmopolitan belonging. These are not just small narratives; they are microcosms of a larger British transformation.
The leisure space I occupy at Edmundo’s functions as an informal decolonial space because of both representation and ownership. As I often like to explain, no matter where a man comes from, he still likes a cigar. He must toast the foot until it is completely lit, and then he must smoke it with intention. That ritual alone creates a shared reality.
There is a level of plural safety and camaraderie in this space that is built through ritual — chatting, smoking cigars, relaxing, reading. It is ultimately a form of cross-cultural negotiation, but it is casual rather than confrontational. This negotiation is not rushed. A cigar often takes an hour at a minimum, and many people prefer to stretch that time. If the conversation lasts ninety minutes, it often leads to another cigar, and by then the dialogue has deepened.
That duration matters. Time allows trust, reflection, and openness to develop. That alone can become a propeller toward something better — or at the very least, toward a clearer understanding of others.
The last friend is Edward. Edward is unique because, although we both come from the central region of America—the United States—his path diverged from mine in a meaningful way. Like me, he is American, but he was raised in the UK. Dual citizenship and all. His background lends itself to a kind of dual-anchored identity. In meeting Edward, I also connected with his father, who shares a background much closer to my own. Edward was born in New York, raised there for part of his early life, and then his family moved to London when he was a child. He has lived there ever since, now twenty-seven, still rooted in that family home. His father, a successful international lawyer, began his life and career in New York City but was originally from Michigan, the Midwest of the United States.
This detail matters because I am from St. Louis. I come from the same gritty, sometimes underappreciated but deeply formative Midwestern landscape. So how does this translate to experience? I find myself connecting across generations, across age groups, across travel histories and shared relocations. Through these connections, I made two solid friendships within the same family, and this created a unique identity formation in me and shaped how I view the UK.
Many people struggle to integrate into the United Kingdom. It is cold, it is wet, it is dark early, and the sun may not rise until later in the day. But for me, England took me in like a warm blanket. It grounded me. It gave me space to think and breathe because I made real connections. I felt a profound level of safety and comfort. I was never fearful of the police because they had no guns. Guns were illegal. There was violence, but not lethal violence. My environment felt more peaceful. I knew that even if I encountered ignorance or a lack of education, the probability of encountering explicit racial aggression was lower.
When I first came to the UK to study abroad two years ago, I participated in a study with a doctoral student at the University of West London who used parts of my experience for her dissertation. Eighteen months later, we conducted a follow-up interview. The first interview was recorded at the end of my five-month stay. I was patriotic and optimistic about returning to the United States, but I was very apprehensive about the safety concerns I mentioned earlier. It felt like I was returning to a system with more fire, more volatility. Yet I still carried optimism about America because I was an outsider reflecting on my own country.
In the study, I used my middle name, Gregory. The researcher plans to continue following my life through periodic interviews. The second interview took place about a week after my second return from London. At that point, looking at the United States from the outside, I wouldn’t say I was anti-American. But I had significantly less optimism in our governmental institutions and felt much more open to work or residence elsewhere.
In my analysis of my time in the UK, the story I aim to tell in this article is one of plurality, belonging, and the nuanced negotiation of identity. To omit myself from this narrative would leave it incomplete. As such, I briefly situate my own experience here, drawing on the following description written about me as part of a study conducted at the University of West London. “For Greg, while his salient identities (black, male) remained the same, the change in context allowed him to step back and view how he experienced them at home differently.” — Penter (2025). In many ways, I was given a break. I was able to stretch my arms above my head and let out a breath in comfort and relaxation because I was far away from home, away from the racism that is made for people who look like me. Free, and without the responsibilities and burdens of my background and community, I could explore rest, sleep deeply, and allow myself to take a break from day-to-day pressures and external factors that push me to the edge or cause others to “other” me. Man, I miss those days. I miss the feeling of peace.
I see this now as a natural reaction to stepping outside your own national environment; once you have observed other nations up close, you gain a broader vantage point, and optimism is redistributed differently. “In the 30 years since the present British Nationality Act was passed, we have seen an enormous change in the relationship between the United Kingdom and the former Commonwealth and Empire.” — British Nationality Bill, Hansard.
British identity is changing—there is no mistake about that. There is a concept of white Britishness, but at least within the London context, it was greatly diminished by the diversity and plurality of the society itself. I experienced it. I was a part of it. I contributed to it through my racial identity and my national identity. I was a part of it in the cigar lounge, where I sat and enjoyed the company of the people around me. I enjoyed it. I was not different because of it, yet I was part of a social fabric that championed and celebrated difference within itself.
“Belonging is a basic human need, and it is one of the tragedies of the world we live in that there are so many people today who are, either formally or effectively, stateless.” — Hansard. I want to belong. The desire to be part of something larger than yourself cannot be overstated. Where would you feel comfortable staying in a society if you did not feel you belonged to that society, or if others within that society made you feel as though you were not meant to belong as well? I know that I want to feel like I belong, and I also know that almost every other person I have met in my life feels the same way. Society shaped my identity in the United Kingdom through the ability to belong and not feel out of place—the feeling of community and shared space. “Uncertainty about one’s position leads very easily to a feeling of being unwanted, and that is serious.” — Hansard So, in the end of my exploratory process, it is evident to me that simply by telling this story of plurality and decolonization, a small part of an empire can be unfolded in a cigar lounge in the middle of West London.
As I finish my cigar, I am reminded of what ultimately made it meaningful in the first place. The wrapper—dark, leathery, and rich with oils—recalls the leather chairs, the ritualised behaviour, and the slow passage of time that initially give the lounge the appearance of being homogeneous and without variation. The foot of the cigar reminds me of something else entirely: restriction, embargo, nationality law, and immigration acts. Like people, the cigar exists within a web of legal and political context before it is ever lit, shaped by regulation long before it becomes an object of enjoyment or exchange. And yet, once lit, complexity reveals itself. The smokiness evokes a South African braai—the slow-burning fire, the patience it demands, and the way people gather around as a social ritual. Alongside it emerges a creamy froth—tea from Pakistan, woody undertones reminiscent of a Midwestern rainy day, and the sweetness of baklava from Lebanon—each distinct, yet dependent on the others to form balance. What initially appeared singular reveals itself as layered, cooperative, and interdependent.
As the cigar moves into its final third and the smoke clears, I am better able to perceive the background notes that hold the whole together. In that clarity, it becomes evident that without difference, diversity, and complexity, neither the cigar nor the space I occupied could be enjoyed in the same way. The cigar lounge, like the braai, like the nation itself, does not erase history or undo the empire—but it exposes how identity, belonging, and coexistence are practised quietly, through ritual, time, and shared space. In that sense, a small cigar lounge in West London becomes a site where the afterlives of the empire are not only visible, but momentarily reworked.
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