When at last she had sat down, she looked over at me and mouthed ‘Thank you’, before taking a little book out of her bag. When she opened it, I saw that it was full of Arabic letters, a Qur’an. Aalia had one just like it. The woman’s lips moved silently as she read, her head bent low, biting the fingernail of her right thumb.
The next stop was mine: this was Saints Hill, my childhood home. Up ahead, the tower blocks of Saints Hill Estate loomed.
Dwayne’s ‘endz’.
I paused and looked around me when I got off the bus. I was a long way from leafy Dulwich, that was for sure. I gazed up at the uniform groups of concrete tower blocks, with their rows and rows of front doors and their rows and rows of kitchen windows, and I shuddered. They reminded me of that old film, Candyman, the one I had watched with my cousins, where a black serial killer stalked children in the inner city projects in the US. This was definitely Candyman territory. It hadn’t looked like this when I was eleven. I took a deep breath and began walking.
As I approached St Peter’s, Dwayne’s building, I saw a large group of boys grouped around a car that was pumping loud, throbbing music. One of them was free-styling, spitting to the beat. The others listened to him; some stood around, some sat in the car, others on the car bonnet, moving their heads with the music, joining in from time to time, cheering whenever he came up with a tight rhyme. One of them filmed it all on a mobile phone while another patted the bull terrier at his side.
I was intrigued. I slowed down so that I could hear what the boy was saying. Just to compare his rhymes with Dwayne’s. But his lyrics were quite different; he had a different style entirely. His spitting was much edgier, more staccato, laced with expletives, dissing ‘next man’ and ‘next man’s crew’. The other boys fell about laughing, pumping the air, making faces and posing, badman style, for the camera.
They were having a good time.
One of them, a light-skinned boy with long braids and a gold ring in his ear who was lounging against the car bonnet, saw me watching and winked at me. He nodded at me, full of confidence, and gestured for me to come over. That was when I looked away, stuck my hands in my pockets and began to walk on.
In seconds, he had bounced off the hood of the car and was walking beside me.
“Hey, girl, wassup? Why you actin’ all stoosh? Come and chill with de mandem, innit?”
“No, it’s OK,” I replied, turning and giving him a polite smile while trying to walk faster. “I’m going to see someone.”
The boy laughed and touched his hand to his mouth when he heard me speak. “Raah,” he exclaimed. “You’re one of dem posh girls, innit! What you doin’ down here den?”
“My friend – my boyfriend – lives here.” Still trying to outwalk him.
“Ahh, safe, safe.” Then he stopped and pulled me lightly by the arm. “Teach me how to talk posh like you, den.”
“I’ve got to go,” I said as loudly as I could, even though my voice shook slightly, and I was aware of the other boys all watching, excited, amused, wondering what was going to happen. “Sorry.”
“Ah, don’t be like that! Come on, maybe you can teach me how to talk ‘French’, eh?” And he stuck his tongue out and grabbed at his crotch. The others all burst out laughing and the boy acknowledged the applause of the crowd, nodding his head. “Why not? I’m a fast learner...”
My face burned and my heart thumped in my chest, sweat prickling my armpits. How was I going to get out of this? How could I get away from here without making them angry? What if they did become angry? Would they hurt me? Tales of gang rapes and ‘happy slapping’ echoed in my head, fed by a dozen news reports. Where was the boy with the camera? Was he on standby to film me being humiliated?
“Yo, Dez!” I heard a rough voice shout out. “Leave her alone, man, that’s Dwayne’s girl.” I looked over the boy’s shoulder to see the one who had been petting the bull terrier sauntering towards us. He pushed the boy’s shoulder and he stepped back, his face apologetic.
“OK, safe. Go to your man, innit.” He turned away and bounced back to the others, grabbing their attention with a furiously paced freestyle. The guy with the phone lifted it again and all eyes were on the boy with the cornrows.
It took me a moment to gather my thoughts and realise that the boys weren’t even looking at me any more. But the dog owner was still standing in front of me, eyeing me coldly. I tried to smile up at him. His dog growled, deep and menacing.
“I don’t think we’ve met..?”
“You’re Misha, innit?” he almost snarled. “Dwayne’s piece...”
I balked at being referred to as a ‘piece’ but I could tell that he meant to make me feel uncomfortable. I wasn’t welcome.
“And you are..?” I tried again.
“Jukkie, Dwayne’s bredren. What you doing down these sides, anyway?”
“I came to see him.”
“Yeah? Well, watch your back, yeah. We ain’t keen on strangers round here. A posh girl like you could get hurt...”
It was only then that I realised that he was playing with a small Swiss Army knife, turning it over and over between his fingers.
“Err, thanks for the warning...” I whispered and backed away, struggling to take my eyes off the knife. “I’ll tell Dwayne you said hi, shall I?”
“I don’t need you to tell him nuffin’, y’get me?” And he kissed his teeth, turned on his heel and strode back to the group of boys beside the car. His dog looked back at me one last time and bared its teeth.
I couldn’t get into that St Peter’s lift fast enough.
Home Turf
MISHA
Dwayne lived on the fifteenth floor. It was a long way up and the lift stank of urine; graffiti tags and swear-words scarred its walls. I held my breath for as long as I could and was relieved when the bell sounded and the doors opened, just as I ran out of air. ‘Dwayne comes home to this every day,’ I thought. He really was from the other side of the tracks.
I was still shaken by my encounter with Jukkie, Dwayne’s friend. Why had he been so hostile towards me, his best friend’s girlfriend? Why the veiled threats? I shook my head, trying to block out the sight of that knife turning over and over.
I didn’t dare look over the edge of the railings that lined the corridor. I didn’t think I could handle the view, fifteen floors up. And I certainly didn’t want to see Jukkie and the other boys again, even at this distance.
Dwayne’s house was 15F – 15 for the floor, F for the flat. I got to the door and hesitated, suddenly unsure. Was I doing the right thing? What was I hoping to find out? Was I really ready for whatever the truth turned out to be? Was I ready to see Dwayne in his own environment, no matter how awful it turned out to be? I shivered. But ‘Auntie’ Aalia’s voice was still ringing in my ears and I knew that I was doing the right thing.
I rang the doorbell and waited.
After a few moments, I heard a young boy’s voice on the other side of the door. “Who is it?”
“Umm, it’s Misha,” I called out. “I’m here to see Dwayne...”
And the door opened immediately.
I looked down at the toffee-coloured boy with light eyes and beautifully braided hair who stood in the doorway, a look of curiosity on his face. “Are you Jerome?” I smiled tentatively.
“Yeah, that’s me,” he replied, full of confidence. “You’re Misha, Dwayne’s girl, innit?”
“Umm, yeah, I am. Is he here?”
“Yeah, he is. Come in. My mum’s gone to church.”
“OK, then. Thanks.” This was it. I stepped on to the dark brown carpet of the hallway as Jerome ran off into the living room. “Yo, Dwayne!” I heard him call out. “Someone’s here to see you.”
“Sorry,” he said when he came back to find me standing in the dim corridor, “could you take your shoes off, please? My mum doesn’t like shoes on her carpets.”
I bent to untie my laces. “Of course, sorry...”
Jerome stood watching me, his head to
one side. “My brother said you were nice...”
I got up and raised an eyebrow at him. “So what else did he tell you about me?”
Jerome grinned. “He said he really checks for you, innit.”
I ducked my chin, my cheeks warm. ‘He told his little brother about me,’ I thought to myself with a flutter in my belly. I followed Jerome into the living room, fearing the worst. But there was no squalor here, only sunlight shining through the muslin curtains on to the neat and orderly living room. The room was decorated in shades of deep yellow and terracotta, with dark brown accents.
I was suddenly ashamed of myself. Why had I expected mess and mayhem? I guess my ideas about how people lived on council estates had been shaped by Mum. Even when we lived in Brixton, I had never been allowed into any of my friends’ houses if they lived on an estate.
So I didn’t expect the matching three-piece suite, the mirrors on the walls, the dried flowers displayed in tall wooden vases that sat on the floor to either side of the disused fireplace.
Jerome noticed my surprise and chuckled. “Mum likes things a certain way, y’get me? She’s a bit of a neat freak, really...”
“It looks great,” I assured him.
That was when Dwayne came into the room, still dazed and confused with sleep, wearing rumpled tracksuit bottoms, in the process of pulling a white t-shirt over his head. “Jukkie, wassup, man? Where’ve you been...?”
I coughed.
Dwayne stopped dead in his tracks, and poked his head out of the top of his t-shirt at last. “Misha?” He seemed stunned to see me there. “Hey, girl, what you doin’ here?”
“I came to see you,” I replied, feeling shy all of a sudden.
Jerome perched on the edge of the sofa, looking on, unimpressed. “Yo, Dwayne, ain’t you gonna kiss her or somethin’?” He ducked as Dwayne swung his fist at him playfully.
“Shut it, you! Come on, Misha, let’s go to my room – where we can have some privacy...”
“Woooh!” hooted Jerome, ducking again as Dwayne passed him and pushed him on to the sofa.
I giggled. Jerome reminded me so much of Mark, my stepbrother. The same impish grin, the same careless charm. Jerome made me miss him.
‘I’ve got to call him when I get home,’ I thought.
Dwayne looked around self-consciously, then flipped his duvet cover over the sheets and went to pull back the curtains and open the window. It was funny to see him look so vulnerable, so unsure of himself.
“Sit down, babe.” He gestured towards the small sofa that faced the bed. “You OK? You need anything? A drink or something to eat?”
“Just hold me, Dee,” I said. “I need you to hold me.” And he did. In his arms, I forgot all about the stinking lift and the graffiti and the tower blocks outside. I forgot all about Jukkie and the boy downstairs. Of course Dwayne was nothing like them. He didn’t belong here, not really. He was better than all of this. And I felt the tightness in my heart begin to ease.
“I just can’t believe you’re here, man,” he murmured, a soppy smile all over his face. “It’s so good to see you, girl... Let me go get you a drink.”
Alone in his room, I was able to look around. Dwayne’s room wasn’t anything like what I expected a 16-year-old boy’s room to look like. Aside from a few clothes scattered over the grey carpet, the room was pristine, almost military in its neatness. The dove-grey walls were covered with posters of various hiphop artists and a dart board; a bench press and ironing board stood to one side.
Nothing suspicious. On the floor next to his bed lay a book, face down on the floor. Dwayne had been reading in bed? Curious, I picked it up to see what had cured him of his allergy to books and reading. It was The Autobiography of Malcolm X . I sat back on my heels, totally taken aback. Where had he got this from? It looked like he had almost finished it too.
As soon as Dwayne was back in the room, I blurted out, “How’s the Malcolm X book going?” I took a sip of my drink, hiding my expression. “Is it any good?”
Dwayne’s face lit up. “Listen, yeah, that book is off da chain! Mans going to sleep late and ting, just to get to the next chapter and find out what happens!”
“Really? I don’t think I’ve read it...”
“Oh, Misha, you should, y’know, you really should. It’s funny, a lot of what he describes in the book, I can relate to: the total wildness of his life before he joined the Nation of Islam, the hustling, the drugs...”
He paused then, glancing up at me, trying to understand my expression. I kept it neutral.
He continued: “I can understand why man would want to be on that Nation of Islam ting, y’get me. For the first time, you feel good about yourself, about being black. You’ve got a community that’s trying to better itself, build something for the next generation. That’s powerful, man.” His eyes were bright and I looked at him curiously.
“Dwayne? Are you actually convinced by the Nation of Islam’s ideas?”
“Some of it sure makes sense to me!”
“What, about white people being devils and the Qur’an being the book of God?”
Dwayne shrugged. “The way I see it, white men been acting devilish for a long time, y’get me. Brother Malcolm just calling them out on their badness.” He laughed then. “But nah, I don’t believe that all white men are devils just like I don’t believe that all black men are angels. There’s good and evil in all of us, y’get me. That’s how God made us.”
I did another double-take. Dwayne, talking about God?
“I see... and just what else have you been thinking about since you read this book?”
“Well, I ain’t just reading that book – I’m reading this one too.” And he picked up a green hardback book from the coffee table behind him. It looked just like the one I had seen the Muslim woman on the bus reading.
“Is... is that a Qur’an?” I asked, somehow dreading the answer.
“Yeah, it is,” Dwayne replied, his face glowing with a shy pride. “It’s been giving me ‘nuff to think about, y’get me. I’ve started thinking about life and what it means. Which is the true path and that. And... I’ve been thinking about what it would be like to be a Muslim.”
I sat up abruptly. “What?” I could hardly believe my ears. Here was Dwayne, non-religious and aware of little outside the bubble of his own life, talking about black consciousness – and thinking of becoming a Muslim! “Why on earth would you think about becoming a Muslim, Dee?”
He leaned forward, his eyes bright. “I’ve been reading, Misha, reading the Qur’an and ‘nuff tings about Islam. At first, it didn’t make much sense but then, as I started to read more, I started to get it. Right here.” He pointed to his head. “And here.” He pointed to his heart. “You remember I told you about Jukkie’s brother, right, the one who became Muslim?”
I felt a shiver run through me at the mention of Jukkie’s name. But I swallowed hard and nodded.
“Well, I’ve been spending ‘nuff time with him for the past two weeks, asking him questions, debating, reading books and ting. I’ve been going there every day after school... and I’ve been praying too. Not like how Muslims pray, but in my own way, y’get me.”
“How come you never told me about all this then?” So, Dwayne had been keeping secrets from me, just not the kind I had been expecting. “How come I’m only finding out about this now?” In truth, it felt strange to see Dwayne light up over something I didn’t understand. I had become so used to teaching him, having him defer to me, that it felt strange to listen to him talk with such passion about something I knew nothing about. If I’m honest, I felt almost... jealous.
“I’ve just been on a bit of a solo ting, Misha,” Dwayne replied seriously. “Everything that’s happened over the past six months has made me really think about my life and where I’m going. It’s like there’s this mad chain of events and it’s leading somewhere. I can’t be sure that I know the destination but I’ve got an idea. Check it: first I meet you and you make me see a whole
other side to life. And then Ms Walker pulls me up at school and puts me on this advanced maths programme, kinda saving me from totally flunking out. Then Tony, the big brother I never had, starts to do what I’m trying to do: turning his life around, getting an education, settling down, and I’m thinking that there’s more to life than this madness we’re on – it’s like God is preparing me to make a change...”
“I always knew you had it in you, Dee,” I said, admiring the passion in his voice, the light in his eyes. “But that doesn’t mean you have to become a Muslim! That’s a bit drastic, isn’t it?”
“Don’t you see, Misha? Nothing is ever random; everything happens for a reason. So there’s a reason that I’m reading the Qur’an and feeling what it’s saying. There’s a reason I’m chatting to you about this now... I know there is.”
I didn’t say any more, I just sat there and watched him. He was talking, telling me more about the Qur’an, but all I could hear was a ringing in my ears. He looked like the Dwayne I knew but he sounded different: serious, passionate, inspired. I had never seen him like this before.
It was wonderful – and terrifying.
A New Lens
DWAYNE
How can I describe the way I felt when I saw Misha standing in my living room that day? Of course she looked hot, so that was great, but then I was like, man, what’s she doing here? She wasn’t meant to come down my sides. I didn’t want her getting involved in my life at that level. What had she seen on her way up? Did any of the mans see her? And did I leave anything in my room that would make her start asking questions?
Good thing the book was there. That totally distracted her. Otherwise she may have noticed other things and started asking difficult questions, questions I wasn’t about to answer, y’get me.
So I was jumpy as hell as we left the house. Misha had told her mum that she was going up North London to see her dad, so she couldn’t stay long. She had to get to her dad’s quick, before her mum rang and checked up on her. I wasn’t gonna argue. The sooner Misha got off my estate, the sooner I would be able to relax.
Black Sheep Page 10