“It’s when you tell someone about Islam and invite them to become Muslim.”
“And..?”
“Yeah, man, she accepted Islam, bro! I was so happy, man, it was like God – Allah – just answered my prayers. Lorraine’s a good woman, y’get me. She didn’t deserve all that crap I put her through.”
“So now...?”
“Well, we got married, innit...”
I did a double-take. “You married her, bruv?” I couldn’t believe it. Marriage just wasn’t something young guys like Tony did. I mean, you could have kids with your baby mother and maybe even live together – but marry her? Nah, that just wasn’t something that mans did.
“Yeah, we’re both Muslims now, innit? Can’t be fornicating and that. Got to make things legal, y’get me, make it halal and ting... anyway, what you been up to?”
I didn’t answer Tony’s question. I was still shocked by the change in him. He had been a real playa back in the day, with a different girl every week; he had taught me some of my best chat-up lines! And now here he was, all married and ting. Talking about fornicating!
That was some deep church talk, right there. Mum would have been impressed. But then Tony wasn’t going to church, was he? He was a Muslim... a Muslim. Images of the Twin Towers crashing down flashed through my head.
“So what, are you on some Al-Qa’eda ting, bruv, blowing up planes and stuff?”
Tony laughed and said, “Nah, blud, don’t watch that stuff, man. That’s just the media hype, y’get me. ‘Nuff man are becoming Muslim nowadays – we had about five young brothers from the endz come and take shahadah just this last Friday.”
“I thought that only happened in jail, man.”
“That’s coz when you’re inside, you got ‘nuff time to reflect, to think about your life, where you’re going, what it’s all about. And Islam? Islam is just the truth, bruv, plain and simple. It just makes sense...”
“Woah, getting heavy now, talking about truth and ting. You do your ting, innit, if it’s working for you. That’s safe...”
“Yeah, it is, alhamdulillah. I mean, don’t get me wrong; it ain’t easy. But it’s good, still. It’s made me change my life around, get cleaned up. I’m off the weed now, clean, and I’m on a course at Brixton College. They told me take a plumbing course but I said, nah, I wanna study business, y’get me. Make some food the legit way...”
I almost laughed out loud: Tony, the big man playa and hustler, a plumber?
But I had to respect him still. He was doing something different, rewriting the script, as Misha would say. How many man could say that? “You know what, bruv? Gwan – you’re taking care of business. I respect that. Your girl... wife... must be pleased too, right?” It still sounded so mad to talk to Tony about his ‘wife’.
“That’s right, bro,” replied Tony feelingly, “mans got to come correct. In Islam, that’s the man’s role, y’get me, to provide and ting. So I know I need to get straight!”
We laughed but I could hear Jukkie grumbling in the background.
“How long you gonna listen to this foolishness? Are you here to play X-Box or what?”
Before I left Jukkie’s crib, Tony gave me a book:
The Autobiography of Malcolm X.
“Try and read it, bruv,” he said. “It’s a wicked book.” Then he shook his head and laughed. “Man, I never thought I would hear myself say that!”
True dat!
Revelation
MISHA
Effie opened her front door, her face lit up with a mega-watt smile.
“Misha!” she squealed, pulling me in. “What took you so long? I’ve been ready for ages!” We hugged briefly and she pulled me through the hallway towards the living room. “Come and say hi to Mum and Dad before we go. I told them about Oak Hill so you can imagine how pleased they are...”
I smiled, half-pleased, half-embarrassed, as I allowed Effie to lead me into the living room where her parents were sitting, reading. Dr Mensah took off his glasses when he saw me.
“Ahh, Misha,” he exclaimed, beaming. “Our shining star!”
“Hello, Dr Mensah,” I said, smiling, “how are you?”
“I’m very well, thank you,” he said, “and how are you? How is your mother?”
“We heard about your good news, Misha,” said Effie’s mum in her soft voice. “Congratulations, my dear.”
I turned to her. “Thank you, Dr Mensah, but I haven’t been fully accepted yet.”
“They’re waiting till after the exam results are published,” Effie explained. “But that won’t be a problem, will it, Misha?”
“Oh, I am sure it won’t be a problem,” Effie’s dad said, an approving look on his face. “Now, if you can only influence Efua here to become more studious...”
“Ohhh-kay, Dad,” Effie said, pulling me towards the door, “we have to go. Misha’s dad is expecting us.”
“OK then, girls,” called Effie’s mum, “have a nice time. And Efua, don’t be late home. You girls have school tomorrow.”
“All right, Mum!” Effie called back before we bounded up the stairs.
Once in her room, Effie looked in the mirror, eyeing her reflection critically.
“Do you think I’m too short to wear these jeans?” she said, turning to look at the way her skinny jeans fit.
“Not necessarily,” I murmured. My main question was how she hoped to be able to sit down in them.
“Well, not with these shoes on, anyway!” laughed Effie, picking up a pair of high-heeled ankle boots and waving them in front of me.
I gasped, my eyes open wide. “Effie!” I shrieked. “Where did you get these? They cost, like, a grand from Selfridges! I saw them in the weekend paper!”
Effie smirked and started putting the boots on. “They were a gift...”
“Another gift?” I said, incredulous. “Who from? ”
“Lawrence.”
“Is he your latest honey, then?”
“Uh-huh.” Effie picked up her favourite tube of red lipstick.
“Hey, Effie, easy on the lipstick; we’re going to Selfridges, not a party.”
Effie looked at her heavily made-up face in the mirror and wrinkled her nose. “D’you think it’s too much?”
“Yeah, just a bit. I’d stick with the lipgloss.” I shook my head. “Anyway, why is this Lawrence character buying you one-thousand-pound boots?”
Effie turned to me, her eyebrow raised, a sardonic smile on her face. “Why d’you think, Misha Baby?”
My eyes were wide. “You mean you..?”
“Yes...” Effie smiled patiently.
“With him?”
“Yeah, and what’s wrong with that?”
“How old is he anyway?”
“Oh, about 21...”
I stared at her, incredulous. I couldn’t believe she could be so nonchalant about this. “Effie, what 21-year-old do you know who can afford ‘gifts’ like these? Aren’t you worried about where he might be getting all this money? He could be a drug dealer, for all you know!”
“Well, we can’t all have sweet Romeo and Juliet romances with little sixteen-year-olds, can we?” Effie teased.
“Effie!” I couldn’t keep the concern out of my voice. For once, I wanted her to take me seriously, not make a joke out of everything. “Are you sure you know what you’re getting yourself into?”
Effie smiled and said, “You know I can’t resist guys like that. They’ve just got such a mysterious air about them!”
“Hmm, mysterious or dangerous?”
“Ooh, preferably both! And it’s flattering! He could have any girl he wants and he chose me. Plus, there’s the excitement and the fun times. Guys our age don’t know how to treat a girl – they think that taking you out for a box of chicken and chips means they’ve scored! With older guys, it’s different: they give you more, they’re experienced; it’s just totally different!”
“Do your parents know?”
Effie burst out laughing. “Oh, please! C
an you see Dr and Dr Mensah agreeing to their daughter going out with a guy like Lawrence? No, as far as they are concerned, I am studying hard at school and will soon be on my way to uni like Ama...”
“So, what, you’re not planning on going to uni any more?”
“I didn’t say that, did I? God, don’t be so dramatic! I just want to have a bit of fun first, that’s all.”
“Well,” I murmured, “I hope you know what you’re doing...”
“Don’t worry, Misha, as you know, I can handle this. I’m a big girl; I know how to take care of myself. If I were you, I’d be worrying about my own business. After all, you’re not quite Little Miss Upfront and Honest any more, are you?” She knew that I was still seeing Dwayne even though Mum had told me to end it. “Does your mum suspect anything?”
“We’re being really careful. He only calls me while she’s out at work or after she’s gone to bed. And no text messages, in case she checks my phone.”
“Would she do that?” Effie was incredulous.
“She’s done it before – and if I give her a reason to think something is up, I know she’ll do it again.”
Effie whistled. “West Indian Psycho...”
“Don’t,” I pleaded. “Come on, we’d better get going – we’re already late.”
“BMT – black man time, innit?”
And the heavy mood lifted as we laughed and left the room.
Aalia was less than impressed by my plans to continue seeing Dwayne behind my mum’s back.
“I don’t know, Misha, it seems like a big risk to take.” Her brow was furrowed as she picked the onions out of her salad. “How do you know he’s even worth the stress if your mum does find out?”
I sighed and tugged at my fringe. I didn’t really expect Aalia to understand – but a bit of faith in me would have been nice. “I just know, OK?”
But Aalia was persistent. “I mean, aside from the fact that he’s a hottie and he makes you laugh, what do you really know about him? You didn’t even know which school he went to until he dropped it at your house. You don’t know where he lives, what his family is like... what if it turned out he lived in a crackhouse?”
I stared at her. That was impossible – wasn’t it?
Aalia laughed at my expression. “OK, maybe not a crackhouse but you see my point, don’t you?” She put her hand on my shoulder. “Look, Misha, I’m not judging him but I think you need to be more careful. Your mum trusts you. You’ve taken years to build that trust; don’t throw it away over some guy who will be here today and gone tomorrow.”
I smiled ruefully at her. “You are such an old auntie, do you know that?”
She giggled. “Hey, I don’t have this moustache for nothing, you know. It’s my job to keep you on the straight and narrow. So I suggest you do a little bit of research about Mr Dwayne Kingston before this goes any further. Any gang activity? Prior convictions? Baby mother? Better find out everything now than get a nasty surprise further down the road. Does that make sense to you?”
I gave her a hug. “Yes, Auntie. It makes perfect sense.”
To be honest, I hadn’t even considered the possibility that Dwayne had been less than 100% straight with me. The thought that he might have been lying to me – or at the very least keeping things from me – scared me to death.
I had come to trust him.
I wasn’t ready to face a betrayal just yet.
DWAYNE
I’d never been a book reader. I learned to read at school, of course, and I remember liking it for a while. But then it seemed that most of the books they expected us to read were chatting about people who were nothing like me, going on about stuff I couldn’t relate to. The world of books was nothing like my world.
Aside from the ones they forced us to read at school – and most of the time, I just skimmed through anyway – the last time I read a book on my own was when I was, like, 10 years old. After that, books totally disappeared from my life. Anyway, who needed them when life was so much more exciting? And it was real, in your face, not some made-up fairy story.
So the early days in RDS, the days we were shotting for the elders, nicking stuff from shops, smoking our first blunts, those things took over. The music took over. I didn’t have room in my life for book stuff: I wanted the real deal, the knowledge you can only learn by going out and doing time on the streets.
But I took that book from Tony anyway. I reckoned if Tony thought it was good, there must be something to it.
And there was.
I started reading about Malcolm X’s life when I got home that night – and I couldn’t put that book down. I was proper hooked! I mean, it was long and sometimes he used words I didn’t know, but the story he told was off the chain. It was like he was speaking to me, to my own story, to the reality I was facing. He knew what it was like to be a black boy surrounded by madness and badness – and to believe that the only way to survive was to jump right in and fight your way to the top.
But Malcolm survived it. He managed to come out of the madness and choose a new life for himself. He became someone people listened to, someone people admired. He got respect. And wasn’t that what I had been fighting for all my life?
While reading the book, I found myself asking questions I had never asked before. Does God exist? What does ‘manning up’ really mean? Why were we black boys rapping about, dreaming about and going about killing other black boys? Were white men devils? What were our original names before the slave masters gave us theirs?
That book opened my eyes.
All of a sudden, I started noticing things around me, things I hadn’t paid attention to before. I saw how many black women wore weaves and straightened their hair: Malcolm spoke about that, said it was because we as black people had been taught to hate ourselves and want to be white. I saw how many off-licences there were around my endz – Malcolm preached against alcohol too. I took note of the lyrics in my rap tunes – Mos Def, Q-Tip from A Tribe Called Quest, all Muslims, rapping about Allah and prophets and Islam.
And I wasn’t the only one.
Around that time, I started to see Muslim youth everywhere, all around South London. But these weren’t Asians or Somalis: they were West Indian boys, English girls, some of them as young as 14, all high on this new Muslim vibe. I even heard that some of the guys from PDC, the Peel Dem Crew from Angell Town, had become Muslim in prison. Islam was the hottest thing to hit the streets since hiphop. It seemed like every next man was wearing a kafiyyeh, a Palestinian scarf, or a skull cap, a kufi. Everywhere I went, man would be shouting out, ‘Salaam alaikum, ackee! What’s good?”
I grew up going to church, innit, but by the time I was ten, I didn’t have the patience to sit through those dry sermons in a suit. My feet itched to be on road with my boys, causing mayhem. I gave Mum so much grief that, in the end, she had to start going without me, dragging Jay behind her by the collar of his too-big suit. Of course, all he wanted to do was stay behind and hang with me.
I talked to Tony about the book. I told him that a lot of what Brother Malcolm said made sense to me – although some bits were a bit mad, still.
“Yeah, Brother Malcolm was on the Nation of Islam for a long time, innit. So he believed that white men were devils and that black men were superior...”
“Until he went on Hajj... right?”
“Right! That was the first time he understood that the colour of your skin isn’t the most important thing in life, that it is possible for different races to treat each other like brothers – to be brothers.” Tony looked at me carefully then. “But if you really want to understand what Islam is about, you have to read the Qur’an.”
“What, is that like the Muslim Bible?”
Tony smiled. “Yeah, kind of...” And he gave me a book with a hard green cover with nuff gold patterns all over it. “Let me know how that moves you, bro.”
So, for the second time in a month, I started reading another mad long book. I struggled with it at first. It was nothing
like Brother Malcolm’s book which was more like a movie, all exciting and ting. The Qur’an was serious, man, proper deep: all about God – Allah – and worship, Paradise and Hellfire, rules about how to live a good, upright life. And it talked about prophets too. I had read the Bible, innit, so I knew all the stories and that. I was surprised to read similar versions in the Qur’an, like they were part of the same message. I felt myself being drawn deeper and deeper into this strange new way of looking at the world.
Da Endz
MISHA
Wrapped in my pink terry dressing gown, hair pressed straight, I looked through my wardrobe again, mentally discarding anything that looked too middle class, too posh, too expensive in an understated kind of way. In the end, I settled for jeans and a fitted white t-shirt and my only pair of trainers. Where I was going, I needed to blend in. I looked in the mirror as I brushed my hair back into a high ponytail, a style I never usually wore because Mum said it wasn’t classy. A bit of mascara, lip gloss and some silver hoop earrings and I was ready to go.
The bus ride up to Brixton was uneventful. I read a book while sitting downstairs, looking up briefly whenever the bus stopped to let more people on. A Muslim woman with a huge black scarf and double buggy got on, struggling to manoeuvre past the other passengers. Her children were young and they looked close in age. The father was obviously black. The woman looked tired and her face was pale, the colour of skimmed milk, as if she hadn’t been getting enough sleep. I noticed that she avoided eye contact with the other passengers, preferring to concentrate on the adverts that lined the upper wall of the bus.
“Excuse me,” I called out, “would you like to sit down?”
The woman turned to me, clearly surprised. Then she smiled and I noticed her tiny diamond nose stud and how blue her eyes were. “Yes, thanks,” she said quietly. “I’d love to.” Her strong South London accent took me by surprise. I had expected her to speak with a foreign accent, Eastern European, maybe – Bosnian or Kosovan.
I stood up and held on to one of the poles while the Muslim woman moved her big double buggy closer to the seat. Some of the other passengers grumbled but the lady just smiled apologetically at them.
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