MISHA
It was the thrill of it, really, the thrill of the unknown, the unknowable, that first got me interested. That and his devastating smile. And he had soulful eyes. They weren’t dead like so many of the others I had seen. His eyes spoke of a depth, a richness, a life within, waiting to be uncovered.
When he looked at me, looked deep into my eyes, I felt as if he was drinking in every word I said, that everything I said mattered, not because it was perfect, but because I had said it.
There were teething problems, of course. His street talk perplexed me – so many double negatives! So many grammatical inconsistencies. But once I learned to listen, to tune into the essence of his words, I fell under their spell. He was a poet: a street poet, a poet with no respect for Wordsworth, but a poet nonetheless. He wove a spell with his words, making them dance and jive and shimmy – just for me.
I guess you could say he captured my heart with a poem about chocolate fudge-coloured sweetness, spitting it on a two-step breakbeat.
Thug 4 Life
DWAYNE
“I’m out, man,” said Tony, looking down at the playground in front of the estate. “Last weekend was my last rave. I’m done.”
We were all sitting on the balcony at Jukkie and Tony’s mum’s house, smoking. Misha and I had been seeing each other for a few weeks and I was sending her a text message, the kind I knew made her melt. When Tony mentioned being ‘out’, I stopped thumb-typing and stared at him.
“What are you talking about, man?” I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Tony? Quit raving? “But why, man? What’s up?”
“You know I took my shahadah, innit, a few months ago now. I became a Muslim. And I’ve just been playing around. But now it’s time to quit messing about and do this deen ting. Do it properly. No more raving, no more drugs, I’m out of the game.”
Jukkie kissed his teeth and got up. “Sounds like some lame-arse ting you’re on, Tony. What d’you mean, you’re out? When you’re in the street life, there ain’t no getting out. As for me, I know what I am: a thug for life.” And he went inside.
This thing was blowing my mind. “You mean you’re really gonna take this Islam ting serious, bruv? Are you sure?” I tried to imagine Tony living a clean life: no more guns, no more drugs, no more raving... no more money. “Yo, how the hell are you gonna pay for that new ride and the watches and champagne and ting without food? What you gonna do, sign on?”
I laughed at the thought of Tony, Mr Big Stuff himself, going into the Job Seekers’ office to apply for a job as a driver.
But Tony didn’t laugh, y’know. Instead, he chewed at the skin under his thumbnail. “I don’t know, man. I don’t know. But I can’t die like this, y’get me. Imagine we out raving tonight, bunnin’ weed, drinkin’, and we crash the car and – pop – that’s it! Done! I ain’t goin’ out like that...”
“Easy on the drama, man! No one ain’t gonna die, not any time soon. There’s plenty of time for that Muslim stuff later, innit? We’re young now, we’re making money – life is good. Don’t go mashing tings up by getting too serious... now turn up the volume, man, I love this track.” And soon my head was nodding to the sick beats.
I didn’t care what Tony said: there was no way he was going straight. Not while it was all going so well for us in RDS. Man would have to be a fool to turn his back on the streets when we were running tings.
RDS had been my crew since I was 11. Only we never called it that back then. We were just a group of friends who all lived on the Saints Town estate. Our mums all knew each other and we all went to the same school. Trevor, Simon, Leroy, Nicholas, Ali, Ross, Baba, Tony and Marvin.
Tony and Marvin Johnson were brothers – same mum, different dads – and I’d known them forever. Tony was six years older than Marvin and me and I looked up to him big time.
Tony was always smooth, man, always on top of his game. From way back, I could remember seeing him waiting in the stairwell at the bottom of our estate, shotting, waiting for the junkies with their wild eyes to come for their fix.
In those days, we used to think it was good fun to shout out and warn the older boys if we saw or heard the 5-0 coming. We didn’t know that, one day, we’d be the ones standing in the stairwell, listening out for the sound of a siren.
But Tony didn’t stay on the street corners for long. Nah, Tony had bigger plans, bigger dreams. He was into fraud, Tony was. It came easy for him because he was a smooth talker and knew how to con people. Plus he was good with computers and that. So, when Tony began to roll in a Jeep and flash a gold Rolex about, we youngers knew what was up: Mr Big Stuff Tony was scoring big-time.
Tony became a proper legend on the Saints Town estate. People told nuff stories about him: some said that he had a huge stash of coke hidden in his girl’s ground-floor flat. Others said he had shot a policeman in New York and got away with it. Some said the police had even made a deal with him to keep the ‘hood under control and keep the drugs on the estates and stop it leaking out into the suburbs, where the posh people lived.
But those were all rumours at the end of the day. What I knew for sure was that Tony had a lot of money for watches, gold chains and diamond rings. And cars, of course, a new one each month. Sometimes it was a Porsche Cayenne, or a Bentley convertible or a black Range Rover Sport with blacked-out windows and matching black rims. I learned to drive in that car.
Tony was a natural leader: he knew how to get respect from people – and he knew how to keep us youngers in line. We all knew that Tony had our backs – we trusted him – and that’s what made the RDS such a safe crew: mans were loyal to each other. Tony was the one who had made us that way. He was the big brother I never had.
Then there was his little brother, Marvin, who we started to call Jukkie. He had been my mate since nursery school. I’ll never forget how one of the older kids had pushed me off my tricycle after I had been at nursery for about a week. Marvin jumped that kid, pushed him to the ground, and beat him down with his fists, as if he was the senior and the older boy was just a snivelling newbie.
“That’s my friend!” he shouted, just before the nursery teacher came to haul him away. “Don’t you disrespect him, yeah?”
As Tony’s younger brother, Marvin knew all about respect: who had it, how to get it and what to do if people didn’t give it to you. While the teacher told his mum what had happened he bounced past them both and put his arm round me.
“Don’t worry, Dee,” he said, his voice full of confidence. “You and me, we’re cool. I’ll look after you, yeah? Safe.”
He was the same height as me, the same age, but to me, he looked six feet tall. He was Tony’s little brother and he had my back. What more could I ask for?
But that was all back in the day when we could spend the whole time riding bikes, cussing each other, nicking stuff from shops, getting told off by each other’s mums. That was back in the day, when we walked without fear wherever we wanted, when we went to play basketball down Larkside because my cousin lived there. That was back in the day, before my cousin killed a man and had to fly to Jamaica to avoid getting arrested.
Those were the days of innocence.
Then Trevor Dennison, who was about two years older than us, came on to the scene. Me and Marvin were only 11 when Trevor, who everyone started calling Trigger, invited us to start ‘juggling’ for him and Tony. Back then, Tony had felt that we were too young to play the game – but after Trigger gave us our first taste, even he realised that we were just as hungry, just as primed, as any of the older boys. Then he let us get a piece of the action.
“So, d’you boys wanna make y’selves some dough?” Trigger had asked after letting us try a bit of his joint.
The smoke burned the back of my throat and I struggled not to cough. Marvin just took it in, nice and easy. The idea of making money sounded good, especially as Mum had been bugging about buying me the new trainers I really wanted.
“Yeah!” we said, our heads feeling light.
“Here, take this.” Trigger pushed a couple of packets into our hands. “This stuff is worth at least £500, yeah? You can pay us back when you sell it.”
“Sell it to who?” I wanted to know.
“Eediat!” Trigger spat on the floor beside my worn black trainers. “To the mandem at school, innit! Go for the Year 11s first, yeah? I’ll come check you later, see how you got on.”
To tell you the truth, I wasn’t sure about selling at school. I knew that others did it, but I just wasn’t sure. And Mum would bare kill me if she found out.
“Stop dreaming, fool, and put the stuff away before someone sees you!” That was Marvin, always the practical one. “We’re gonna be rollin’ soon, blud!” he crowed. “No more tired trainers for you! No more Primark T-shirts! We’re gonna be big men, just like Tony! And no one ain’t gonna be able to tell us nuffin’!”
That’s how it started: a few bags of weed.
Soon we were all into it. It was safe making our own money, coz none of our parents could afford to buy us the designer kicks, the crisp garmz, the stuff that made us look and feel good. And of course, no one’s mum was gonna hand over money for cigarettes, a bottle of Jack Daniels, a spliff or something harder.
A few years later, we all knew how to make money. We became experts, innit, with mad money-making skills. A little dope here; a nice watch stolen there, while out in the West End; a delivery, a favour. Me and my crew had arrived. And we had a name now: RDS, short for Run Da Streetz and Tony was The Main Nigga in Charge.
Those years changed us, man, I tell you. We became boys who ‘ran tings’: we wore red bandannas under our hoodies, and we didn’t give a damn about school or our parents or even the police. Our parents couldn’t tell us nothin’. And we would take the fall for each other, standard.
I think that’s when Mum really gave up on me, y’know. Before, she had always called after me as I left the house, bopping like a badman, ‘Dwayne! Come back here, boy!’ She had stayed up late to wait for me, scared every time she heard a police siren. She couldn’t sleep when I didn’t come home.
But then she just stopped.
“His father was the same,” she began to say all the time. “Wort’less, nuttin’ but trouble since the day he was born.”
Rising Star
MISHA
“Well done, darling, I knew you could do it.” I could hear the pride in Mum’s voice as she hugged me, the letter from Oak Hill still crisp in her hand.
I smiled up at her. I still couldn’t quite believe it myself but the letter said it quite plainly: On the strength of her mock exams and her predicted results, Oak Hill School for Girls is pleased to offer Misha Reynolds a provisional place in its prestigious Sixth Form to study Mathematics, Physics, Biology and Chemistry. The offer will be confirmed once the final exam results have been published.
Mum kissed my forehead and squeezed me again. I felt a bubbling inside me then, a surge of pride and satisfaction. This was what Mum had been preparing me for: greatness. And with 13 GCSEs to sit and at least 10 predicted A and A* grades, I was well on my way.
Don’t get me wrong: I’m not big-headed or anything – that’s just how Mum taught me to express myself. It’s hard to shake that kind of habit.
But although I was pleased, a tiny part of me felt bruised. I had really wanted to take my ‘A’ Levels at my current school, a well-respected private school in Dulwich, but Mum insisted that I apply to Oak Hill. She also insisted that I drop my favourite subjects – French and Spanish – and apply to do Sciences and Mathematics.
“Oak Hill is far more prestigious than your school,” Mum had said. “And they have a much higher number of students getting into Oxford and Cambridge. You’re better off there, Misha, where the top students are.”
“I suppose so, Mum,” I nodded. It was easy to agree with Mum. I had been doing it all my life. “It’s just that I really like my teachers – and the Sciences aren’t my forte.”
“You can do anything you put your mind to, Misha,” Mum had said firmly. “I don’t have to tell you how complex this society is, darling. The whole system is riddled with racism. Black people need to work twice as hard to succeed and as a black woman, it’s not enough for you to be good, or even very good: you have to be the best.”
It was a sort of mantra, a regular part of our life together as single working mother and only daughter: be the best, work hard, never use your race as an excuse. I knew that was why, when Mum finally started earning enough money to be able to get a mortgage, she bought a house near the best independent girls’ school in south London, far from Brixton where I was born, where she grew up.
At the time, I couldn’t understand how Mum could bear to be so far from Gran, so far from the familiarity of Brixton and the Caribbean community there, and live in such a white suburb but, as I got older, I began to figure it out. Mum didn’t want to be near other black people, especially black people on estates, ‘low class’ black people: ‘ghetto people’. As far as Mum was concerned, we were better than them. We were upwardly mobile: educated, cultured, refined and as far away from state benefits as you could get.
“If black people are going to get ahead,” Mum would say, “we’re going to have to stop segregating ourselves. We need to get rid of our ghetto mentality. We need to aim higher, to be the best. That is what I want for you, Misha.”
Mum hugged me again, looked at her watch and said briskly, “I’ve got to go, darling, I’ve got a meeting with the mayor in less than 45 minutes... on a Saturday, would you believe?” She drained her coffee cup before pulling on her grey wool coat. Then she reapplied her lipstick and smoothed her hair. “There,” she said, knotting a purple silk scarf around her neck and throwing her shoulders back. “How do I look?”
“Fantastic, Mum.” I wondered why she still had to ask. People regularly mistook us for sisters. With her smooth nut-brown skin and dazzling smile, Counsellor Dina Reynolds – Mum – was one of those many black women who just did not seem to age. I hoped I would inherit that from her side just as I hoped I wouldn’t inherit early greying from Dad’s.
Just then, my mobile vibrated. A text. I picked it up and read the message:
Hey sweetness. I wanna c u 2nite. I’ll cum 4 u @ 8. D.
My heart fluttered ever so slightly. I had to look away to hide my smile from Mum. Thankfully, Mum’s Blackberry vibrated too, giving three sharp rings. She turned towards it to look at the screen.
“Oh, Lord!” she exclaimed. “I completely forgot: Auntie Loretta got us tickets for the Alvin Ailey performance at the Royal Albert Hall tonight! And it’s the last show! How could I have forgotten?” She chewed her bottom lip briefly, then her face brightened. “Right, I’ll have to meet you after work. Have you got your travelcard or do you need a new one? And do you have anything to wear or do you need to pick something up? I can’t believe I forgot...”
I bit my lip. I had seen the great African American dance group perform before and had been blown away by the power and grace of their performance. Mum had sent me to ballet and African Dance lessons until I was thirteen – so I could totally appreciate the Alvin Ailey dancers’ expertise. I would have loved to see them again, had it not been for Dwayne... I had to think fast.
“Er, Mum,” I said, trying to sound casual, “do you really think I should? I’ve still got loads of work to do on my course-work ... I might have to give it a miss this time, what do you think?”
Mum thought for a few moments, then sighed. “Well, I suppose you’re right. Your studies do come first.” She glanced at her watch again. “Now I really have to go or I’ll be late for this meeting. Help yourself to fish from the freezer for your lunch and have the lasagne for dinner – and make sure you make yourself a salad!”
“All right, Mum, enough! Off you go!” I laughed as she finally got out of the door. Then I leaned back against it and reread Dwayne’s text message.
Hey sweetness. I wanna c u 2nite. I’ll cum 4 u @ 8. D.
All of a sud
den I felt light-headed, and a thousand butterflies fluttered in the pit of my stomach. I simply loved the way he did that, made it sound as if he needed me, as if seeing me was as vital as air.
Of course I’d had other boys tell me they fancied me, but I’d never listened to their ridiculous chat-up lines, never fallen for their charms. One of the unspoken lessons I had learned from eavesdropping on Mum’s conversations with her friends was this: never trust a man.
But although I still knew hardly anything about Dwayne, I knew there was something different about him. I felt it in my bones.
Cutting Up Mandem
DWAYNE
Marvin was known as ‘Jukkie’ because he had a way with knives. But because he knew how to put on the baby face, he was the only one of my friends Mum could stand. Mum always smiled when she opened the door and found him standing on the mat outside the door, his hood off, cap in his hand.
“Good morning, Mrs Kingston,” he would say in his most proper voice. “How are you today?”
“Well, Marvin,” Mum would reply, smiling like crazy, “I’ve seen better days but I can’t complain. How’s your mum?”
“She’s good, y’know, Mrs Kingston, really good. She asked me to remind you about that carrot juice you promised to make for her. ‘The best carrot juice she’s ever tasted,’ she says!”
Then Mum would laugh and open the door to let Marvin in. “You tell your mother I’ll bring it on Sunday – when she invites me round for her roast chicken and macaroni pie!” She would laugh again and Marvin would laugh too, leaning towards her, touching her arm with his long fingers.
Then I would see him turn to walk away and roll his eyes. Mum didn’t know about how Jukkie got mad when he drank whisky, how he loved to carve man up, just for the hell of it. She thought he was still the polite boy she used to teach at Sunday School. Parents are such chiefs. They only see what they wanna see.
Black Sheep Page 2