In Our Mad and Furious City

by Guy Gunaratne

  And every doorstep I come to I hear a story. Face after face of people what tell me how the violence was real and that it was here, that I must be fearful for it could be me next. The Teddy boys was rousing, they say, and I had seen it. I seen bags what they have shit in with a brick in it, thrown through a front-door window. I seen a old, sunk-eyed mother shivering at the step, telling me how she cry every night from fear. A young boy face cut so deep I see him cheekbone. A man what have a bruise on him arm from a police baton. Another woman refuse to even open the door. I tell she no, not to worry, that I was here to help.

  Leave we out of it, she tell me, my children with me, I beg. She go on like that so I go away. I learn later that Teddy boy pack had followed that lady one evening and loose a dog on she children. They have run home, hearing them Teddy boys laughing, hooting from across the street. It made me sick to hear it. But what I could say to that poor mother? I was just a boy with a pin and a pamphlet. I want do more, I remember thinking. The rage in me was spoiling for it.

  In the papers we see crowds of whites numbering hundreds at Mosley rallies, and not just them thugs but a respectable-looking people there too. It was no longer just about them few white boys running about at night. We all knew it was Mosley behind that lot anyhow. But we also knew the police was drinking from that very bucket. The threat was Britain itself, this city. It got so bad the Association issue a new policy, we will take the matter of protection into we own hands, they said. We would get armed, patrol the street, and be ready to fight if we must.

  It was them two Claude and Jimbroad who organize it all. They had risen in the Association order during them bad months. I remember feeling a certain pride at that. My veteran friend Jimbroad, he who had taught me so much, was now the head fellar among all of we. Meantime boys like I, young ones who have a body but not much else, was put into the rank and file to patrol the street. I remember we all line up in a row when Claude give out the metal to carry. I was given a piping, others given a baton or a rod. In the patrol we numbered four or five, told to guard the street and counter any Teddy boys if we must. I was placed in Patrol 6. The group led by Claude. It had me, Clive, that Curtis, one Indian fellar name Rama, and a younger brother name Cedric. I remember it feel heavy in my hand, that piping. A dark metal bar what was cut off from a railing. I swing it a couple of time in the air to hear the whip sound it make.

  Listen Claude, I say, what happen if a copper stop me? What I say if he find I have this thing on me?

  You tell a copper nothing, he said, you spit in him eye if he try to take it off you. Police is the arm of the oppressor, remember that, boy. To the white man, the black man always been a violation here.

  Was like that. The world was a peg away from catastrophe but we go about like we ready for it. Find myself seeing simple living as a endless fight after that. Begin to frame the country in a way that have any other feeling replaced with a drudge-up pain bound to history. Feel as if I was being claim by that history now. Claim by the anguish, and I was a coward if I deny it. So yes I take that metal bar. I take the baton and the knife and the book and whatever else they want give me. I go out on patrol, stalk about we minor kingdoms between White City and Latimer Road. It was as if we hoodlum voices offend only the unrighteous hand of law. For it was we who was truly offended after all, by the sanctimony, by the brute savagery of England. So with bodies stirred up with blood and a history ten times as rich, we belt about, noisy and careless, breaking all manner of codes to rattle at the bars of this city. But Lord, how foolish I was. I did not know how soon that bluster would be snuff out just as quick as it come.

  * * *

  It was a copper that give me a beating.

  Stand up you fucking wog—

  The copper’s lash smack all the breath out of me. They must have been watching we from the road for they had come up from behind to spring we. I only took one strike to the jaw, my arm come up and caught the most of it. But it was enough. I was cowering under the copper blue.

  You there, stand up. You tell me who’s arming you lot. Under a bridge they have we against a wall. Three white, thin-faced police with dark truncheons digging into we backs.

  Where d’you get all these from? These metal rods? We know this is all organized, come on—speak up.

  Hands up and legs spread out, I remember. Curtis had shown the copper lip. The copper had bust the lip open. I hear our metal clatter under the bridge when we surrender it. They ask we questions one after another. Out of defiance or out of fear, none of us have said a word. For me it was fear. I had not ever been in trouble with the law before and I was shaking.

  You got something to say you little black bastard?

  One police ask me and he lean so close I felt breath on my cheek. I feel my body tremble. My eye close. I stop breathing in readiness for a hit. But he did not belt me again. Instead I say quietly to him the only words that come to me.

  No sir.

  I did not know why I say it like that. And I must have sounded stupid because he laugh at me, the copper. Then the others laugh too. The sound of them laughing at me echo under the bridge.

  Ain’t you had enough of this yet? Eh?

  They laugh more. And then they walk off like they was only after a jolly and never cared about the questions they ask. I turned and saw that they even have left all we metal on the ground, just where we drop them. The other fellars began picking them up and putting them in them jackets again. I look over at Claude. He was holding the back of the head but he was all right. Then I catch a look from him. Was a look of humiliation and a sorta disgust. Humiliation not for him, but for me.

  Is it you who said that? he ask me, you call that pig sir did you?

  The other brothers make a noise like I had spoil the pose. Like I had let them all down by saying it. Claude turn around with the other boys and he leave with them. One of the others call back at me as they went off.

  You bend over next time the police beat we?

  They laugh. They did not wait for me to catch them. They walked off back to Chapman’s leaving me under the bridge trying to gather my things alone. I walk home after that and say nothing to nobody.

  SELVON

  St. John’s Road bus stop, we step off here. Already busy near Wembley Central. See them cars jammed, roadworks near the news shop or suttan. Bare aggro and cars beeping. We cross the road tho, past the Iceland, past Poundshop, and see enough people standing outside the Lebara shop waiting for a bus that’s stuck in traffic. They proper cussing the driver to hurry up. Kiss my teeth.

  A clique of tiny stush Chinese girls pass us. Chatting loud. They sound like they breathing helium or suttan. The boxing club is by the car park, ennet, so we duck into London Road. Smell from that Quality Fried Chicken hits me. Ardan is chatting into my ear about this or that. Trying to brush off them Muslim man, brushing off his parr back in the Square.

  So you gone bang that Missy girl then? Or you bang her already or what?

  I just want to get to the gym and bout. I go along tho because I know he’s feeling shook from getting beat down earlier.

  Nah, ain’t banged her yet, I say, but I’m looking to.

  Is it? Thought you already banged her. That Missy girl is a piece.

  Myman’s oblivious tho. Man don’t know about the moves it takes to bang a yati like Missy. He don’t know that level of finesse, like. Obviously, he don’t. It’s like I’m still in year nine with this bredda, chatting breeze on park bench or suttan. I nod anyway, like yeah.

  I’ll text her tonight, ennet. If she’s about.

  See the gates are open up the road. I see the red block letters reading Marc’s Boxing Club and I see mandem milling about out front. It’s a low warehouse with rusted-out walls made of thin metal and black and brown bars on window. Been coming here since thirteen, still. Most man don’t have a routine like that. Wouldn’t keep it up as much as I have. I run, I box, and I do weights. To proper train I must pull focus on all them things there. Never slack off or ski
ve a day. Most man got distractions. Not me. I don’t let none of that buoy me.

  I look around at the road to the gates and I’m like, this place could bring down any man. See this. Empty lot next to the gym, just vacant space with weeds growing and black spots on ground from the crackheads lighting up. Even this gym here, the place is crumbling. Used to be an old warehouse, ennet, factory or suttan to bake bread. The smell still hangs off the walls inside. Dust of an old order mixing up with the sweat of the new. All I do tho is head down and go beast-mode when I can. Mission to get out these Ends is enough.

  We come to the two boys at the gate, Johnson and Pat-Ning sitting there. They nod at me eyeing Ardan’s dog. They thinking who is this scrawny bredda I’m coming with. I nod back and we walk past them.

  Don’t worry blood, my dog’s harmless, goes Ardan.

  We go in and the warehouse is now peopled with heavy bodies. Youngers are skipping rope by the side in gray vests. Sweat dripping off their noses. The sound of padded feet and short breathing. Old-heads coaching them on, counting and cursing and molding them man.

  I look back and see Ardan trying to find a spot to tie the dog. Next to this lot Ardan looks like a boy, a civilian, ennet. He’s not dressed to fight, not in his Reebok Classics and faded trackies. I watch him tie the dog against a pipe. There next to him is a bench with a doll’s head fixed to it. It’s fixed with silver tape. Marc’s Club is full of rando shit like that. Bare posters, chains hanging down from the ceiling, discarded teddy bears stuffed into the light rigs. Off-key shit like that.

  I turn and look toward the changing rooms. Marc appears out the office chatting in French patois to his boy Lou. Marc is French, ennet. Him and his brother René been owning this gym since ’99. They the kind of street French that mix in with our crowd easily. Not the Arabic sort but the same grimed-up Paris clan that come from the similar climate. Plus he knows his music, ennet, so that gives him affordances. Makes me think that if breddas like him are in Paris then Paris must be just like London except for bare model gash and shit food.

  Marc gives that younger Lou a stack of papers. I watch him walk away with it. As I head toward Marc I look through the open door of his office. Gray table with workbooks, posters, fight schedules on the wall, and newspapers all over the place. In the middle are two chairs, one for him and another for his brother.

  Yes Marc bruv.

  I say it reaching out my hand. Marc sees me and juts his face up, keeping his head out the way as he half hugs me. Our chains chink together. Marc is safe. Short with all the bulk about his shoulders.

  How are you Selvon? How is training?

  Yeah good yuno. All good.

  Ardan comes up and stands next to me. I glance at him and back to Marc.

  This is my mate Ardan. He’s from Estate.

  Marc nods, looks him up and down, looks back at me.

  He sparring with you? Him?

  Yeah kind of.

  Ah, oui? Light session today then? He got gloves?

  I look at Ardan but he ain’t listening. He’s looking around like he’s just woke up.

  No he don’t, I say, you got any spares?

  Marc’s face goes sour and looks past my shoulder at the ring, where a black boy and his partner are sparring in a circle.

  They all used up Selvon. And no gloves, no sparring. Pardon my friend.

  Marc shrugs. Kiss my teeth.

  Then Ardan steps past us, his face looking shook and terminal. I don’t see what he sees but he holds his finger up and walks toward Marc’s office. I go to call him back but he walks right up to the open door like he’s tranced or suttan.

  Marc watches him and he opens his palms out wide.

  Hey, yo. Where you think you going?

  Marc walks up behind him. I see Ardan is gawping at some poster on the wall.

  He points at it and looks over at Marc.

  Yo, ain’t that NTM?

  I see Ardan’s eyes are bright, like a flame, and he’s half smiling like he knows it. I don’t say nuttan as I watch Marc’s head cock back as if he just heard a commandment.

  What you say?

  That’s NTM, ennet? On the wall.

  Marc looks back at me and laughs, laughs loud and hard and slaps Ardan on the shoulder. He looks at me with his thin eyebrows raised and gold teeth showing. It’s as if this hard-nut Frenchman just dissolves into some surprised kid.

  How does your boy know about Suprême NTM, Selvon? NTM is a Paris rapper bro!

  I don’t know what the fuck he’s chatting about. So I walk over to cop a look at the poster myself. Looks to be some blown-up album cover with a face staring out from a deep-blue light. No words on the picture. Just some white boy. Blue face, staring from behind a glass frame. I look around the room as the sun shines through a small square window. The walls, every inch covered in big glass-framed posters of random rap albums. French rappers mostly, seems like.

  I shrug and look at Ardan.

  Course I know NTM, he says, heard that song. What was it? The one where he used that Method Man sample. Shit, what was it again?

  Marc looks at Ardan now for the first time properly. His voice is low and serious.

  Ah, oui. That’s My People it was call. A big hit that summer.

  Yeah, yeah, that’s the one, man.

  That’s right, you listen to French hip-hop?

  I listen to all hip-hop. I’m a fanatic bruv.

  Me too. Big fan.

  Marc nods and Ardan nods. They speaking some next language. Seems like it to me at least. Their faces look serious now as they go on talking. Ardan steps into the office and Marc doesn’t check him, he just follows.

  Yeah. I know some Paris rappers. Pretty sick. JoeyStarr and Kool Shen and that.

  Yah, oui, oui.

  JoeyStarr had sick flow. I didn’t know what the fuck he was sayin tho because I don’t speak no French. But he rapped like a psycho, standard.

  Marc laughs again and folds his arms. He joins Ardan standing and looking at the posters.

  Ah his name Didier when I knew him.

  You knew Suprême NTM? Serious? Both of them?

  Bah, oui. We lived in same district in Paris, me and Didier. Bruno too.

  Kool Shen you mean? I didn’t even know his real name was Bruno yuno. Proper Frenchy names.

  They just guys to me. Didier et Bruno, Bruno et Didier.

  They go on chatting. I watch Ardan look at the poster, at the face in blue as if he’s looking into a mirror. Myman’s lost in some daze. Marc and him talking about these photos as if they talking about their ancestry or suttan.

  As I watch him I’m thinking how little I know Ardan. Know him really. He barely knows me either tho, truth be told. We spent bare years sitting next to each other in class and he’d watch me chirps girls and I’d watch him watch me. But we never really chatted relevance, ennet. I stare at him now and watch him go on about these random French rappers like he’s a cultured gee. Ardan. Myman couldn’t even string a sentence usually, now he’s talking to a donny like Marc as if they were kin.

  Ardan points over to me.

  I remember when Selvon and our mate Yoos watched that one movie La Haine. Remember that Selv?

  They both look at me and I nod back, yeah. Marc claps his hands together and shuffles past me nodding his head in agreement.

  Supercool movie, man, supercool.

  Marc steps out the room and points over to the lockers.

  Come boys, I think there is some gloves in the back room. Some braces too. I will get them for your friend.

  I step out and wait for Ardan. See him standing there, hands in pockets, staring at each frame with the same look on his face. Remember him scribbling away in his books in class, just writing bars, and him mouthing everything he wrote as he wrote it. I never asked about it. Maybe I should’ve.

  He turns and walks toward me and he sees my face watching him.

  What? he goes to me.

  Nuttan. Go get your gloves, ennet.

  I
ain’t noticed before but Ardan is the same height as me. I look over to the ring and the ones who were sparring are tapping out. I swing my bag over my shoulder and walk over to the lockers to change into my gear.

  YUSUF

  When I turned eleven years old my family took us to Pakistan. It was a day before my birthday. We spent the morning at my aunt Sanah’s house eating iced cake and overly sweet coconut cubes drenched in sugar-syrup. Later that day Abba took my brother and me to the Sarhad to see Mohabbat Khan. It was some glorious palace, a white mosque where two tall minarets seemed to spin into the sky when I stood under them. Inside the courtyard were decorated walls built in like the seventeenth century. The purity of the spires and sweeping arches, the intricacies of the art gave me mad galaxies to drift away within. I remember walking toward the prayer hall with Irfan. He was holding my hand leading me along. My small head was the last of me to follow, goggling at the patterns on the wall. Every so often he would give a sudden yank of my arm and then slack as if I were his yo-yo. Abba had insisted we look after one another as he attended to his work.

  The place was built to venerate God, he said. We were all his children. Here, Abba would have to share his role as our father with Allah, who saw everything.

  The ceiling was a pulsing explosion, flowering in all directions as far as I could see. As we stood there under the dome my father stepped over to my brother and me, laid his hands on our shoulders, and crouched, smiling with his mustache cut perfectly thin to his upper lip. Looked like he wanted to impart a miracle. He spoke to us about the swirling art, the significance of the greens, the purples, and red circles, the elaborate geometry, all painted hundreds of lifetimes ago. He told us that the dome had hung there in fantastic color for an eternity.

  The three of us stood so close, a small family cluster inside a worshipping stream, all dressed in bright white. My own sleeves were far too long for my arms, flapping around my fingers, our feet bare. This was an ancient place, my father said, aching with wisdom. On the edge of a decade of life on this planet, I instinctively understood the sense of wonder he tried to offer. Even if most of what I knew of Islam had just as much to do with listening to Nas’s Islamic references in raps or watching Muhammad Ali speak about the most high, everything that day seemed manifest and maximal to me. It was my brother who seemed nonplussed by it all, though Abba tried to coax as best he could.