The Life and Rhymes of Benjamin Zephaniah

by Benjamin Zephaniah

  I soon got into a routine to help make the time go quick. I had a transistor radio, so I could listen to BRMB and some of the pirate stations. I also set aside time to do nothing but think about life, to think creatively, or about poetry. Then I had my exercise, which included meditation. I felt I had to occupy myself, and I had to keep myself sane.

  This was fine until echoes of my outside life would sometimes literally filter into my cell. Winson Green Prison was located right by the community centre on the same street, where my friends and associates would set up their sound systems on a Friday or Saturday night. Winson Green Community Centre was one of the best locations for sound clashes. I would hear the bass reverberating from across the road as I lay on my bunk. One night I even heard people calling to me: ‘Your girlfriend’s here.’ Followed by her shouting, ‘You alright?’ I shouted back, ‘Come and see me at the weekend.’ That was really painful.

  I occupied a cell for two people, and I saw a couple of cons come and go. First there was a lifer, who looked at me as if he wanted to rape me. All he seemed to do was cough and masturbate, and then there was a really funny, red-haired guy from the Black Country. He also masturbated a lot, but he was full of jokes. He told them non-stop and never repeated himself. For weeks I laughed at his jokes, and then I laughed at his escape plan. It was the craziest escape plan ever. He’d heard that if you lose your memory in prison you have to be set free because you cannot do a sentence for something you can’t remember.

  I had no idea if this was true, but this is what he believed. So one night he pretended that he’d fallen and knocked his head. I rang the emergency bell and he was sent off to the hospital wing. After a few days I thought he really was pulling it off. They came and took his belongings and, after a couple of weeks, I thought he had done it. Then one day the door opened, his clothes were thrown on the floor, and in he walked. He told me it was all going well until an officer had told him that he received a letter from his girlfriend but he couldn’t see it because he can’t remember her. The officer also said that his girlfriend was ‘leaving him for John’, and then the pretender stopped pretending and said, ‘I’ll kill that John Fry when I get out.’ Game over.

  I don’t think being locked up in prison did me any good at all, not in the way the people who sent me there would have liked. It just made me angrier and more rebellious. I used to dream of killing a police officer, which might sound like a contradiction, because I was a peace-loving vegan, but I always retained the right to self-defence, and I thought I had to kill one of them before they killed me. I was now becoming even more aware of the struggles of people all over the world, and I began to fantasise about being a freedom fighter.

  I looked up to the great intellectual C. L. R. James, a truly international thinker, who expressed a revolutionary vision of what we could learn from history, and what was possible. In London, the activists Darcus Howe, Olive Morris, Mala Sen and the Black Panther movement were inspiring me. Being in prison didn’t reform me, it gave me time to think; so I thought, and when I thought, I thought I should blow the place up. But I couldn’t do that because I was in it.

  I was eventually sent to Glen Parva borstal – a brand-new establishment built on an old army barracks outside Leicester. We were the very first inmates, and whereas borstals were known for their tough, no-nonsense regimes, Glen Parva was to be different. Officers would wear plain clothes; they would also act as counsellors – they were to be friendly and approachable, so we could talk to them about our problems. Unlike in other borstals, the cells in Glen Parva had sinks, toilets, mirrors and real wooden furniture, not just an iron bed. Everything was brand new and everything worked. Everything except me.

  Just a few weeks into my stay we were preparing for a gymnastic competition. The idea was that we would form a team, devise a display, and then girls from a girls’ borstal would come in and we would show off to each other. Well, I was happy to look at girls’ stuff if they were happy to look at mine, so I joined the team. Among other things I was working on a trampoline routine, but I noticed day after day that I was getting weaker. Then one day I went to do a somersault and I was in so much pain that I forgot the whole technique and went out of control. I landed partly on the trampoline and partly on the floor. The landing wasn’t as painful as it sounds, but the internal pain I was feeling was unbearable.

  I was taken off to the hospital wing, the first inmate to be taken there, and the borstal doctor thought I just had a bad case of the flu. After more than a week my condition wasn’t improving, and they started to ask if there was any way I could be faking it.

  ‘Faking it?’ I said to the officer questioning me. ‘I’d rather be looking at girls’ stuff than faking it here.’

  After three weeks and no improvement I was taken to a doctor in Leicester. He took one look at me and, without hesitation, insisted I go straight to hospital. I had a form of tuberculosis. After weeks of treatment involving drinking foul potions, partial isolation and a minor operation where liquid was drained from my lungs, I was able to leave.

  Now here’s the good bit. It was thought that I’d contracted TB when I was in Winson Green, from the lifer who had been continually coughing. Being so young I should never have been in prison, so a deal was struck. I went back to Glen Parva for one night and was then discharged. As part of the deal I promised to say nothing. I wasn’t paying attention to TV or radio news back then, but I’m guessing overcrowded prisons were in the news and they didn’t want my story to be thrown into the mix. So I was told that if I was let out a few months early I could boast, with some pride, that I was the first person to ever be discharged from the newly open HMP Glen Parva.

  Not long after I came out of borstal, Trevor appeared in court. We thought he was going down for a long time but, to our surprise, he got off. As he left the court I approached the officers who charged him. They were feeling pretty low, as cops do in times like these, and I began to mock them. I laughed at them, pulled faces and told them what I thought of them. One of them then said, very calmly, ‘I’m going to do you.’ And he did. A few weeks later he arrested me for the robbery of a woman – a robbery I hadn’t done.

  I pleaded not guilty, but in court a woman stood in front of me and identified me as the person who had robbed her. She described how I was supposed to have done it, and told the court how she had been scared to go out in public afterwards, and how her life was ruined because of her lack of confidence. It was very convincing, but I knew I hadn’t done it. I was remanded on bail, and while waiting my solicitor suggested I change my plea to guilty. I didn’t want to, but he reminded me that I had not long done a borstal sentence, and so the judge was going to send me down, but he thought that if I pleaded guilty he could then ask for a lenient sentence. Reluctantly I agreed, thinking he knew best.

  On 19 July 1976 I went back to court. Proceedings started and I changed my plea to guilty. The victim was called once more to let her feelings be known, but she didn’t appear – in fact, she didn’t even come to court. Then, suddenly, the police dropped the charge, so I was told to leave the court, but as I turned to go the judge stopped me and pointed out a little problem. I had pleaded guilty and now, regardless of the circumstances, he had to address that.

  The look I gave my solicitor told him I wanted to kill him. I could see him already gathering his papers and getting ready to run. The judge thought for a while and then gave me the minimum sentence possible for the charge, which was eighteen months’ imprisonment, suspended for two years. I was just glad to be free. I left the court and went home with my mum for a big dish of butterbean stew and some cornmeal pudding.

  I did some streetsearch (street research) and found out that the girl I was supposed to have robbed was a prostitute who had agreed to work with the police to fix me up. This was not such an unusual thing. Girls who worked the streets had an incentive to cooperate with the police because they knew that if they played ball they’d be left alone for a couple of weeks. Apparently the copper w
ho was out to get me had got to this girl and struck a deal. At first she agreed to speak out against me, but after she saw me in court she felt sorry for me and changed her mind. She knew people who knew me, and she knew I was going down if it went the copper’s way, and she couldn’t live with that. So she backed out, but it was too late for me. Now, this didn’t surprise me that much, and I was free, so I didn’t dwell on it, but little did I know that this episode would come back to haunt me much later.

  Trevor and me began to drift apart somewhat. From time to time we would check each other out, but we were surrounding ourselves with new friends. Trevor was into cars and money. I went the other way, and tried to live as naturally, as organically and as independently from the system as possible.

  This lifestyle was inspired by Rastafarianism. I had been growing dreadlocks since I was fourteen, and I’d always thought about politics, culture and, of course, the big questions – where did we come from, where were we going, what was it all about, and why did white people hate us? – but now I was reading (or trying to read – my reading and writing was never good) and reinterpreting the Bible. Having grown up in an actively Christian household, I already knew the Bible really well, but it was all about the past, and not applicable now, and did I really want to live in the past?

  But Rasta said no, this is the new way of looking at things. You did this thing, like a game, where you would interpret the book of Revelation. You’d look at the beast with seven heads, perhaps saying, ‘That’s Russia, that’s America’ etc. It allowed us to be political and spiritual at the same time – something that seems lacking today. I had tried desperately hard not to believe in God, but I always felt there was something greater than us. The Rasta thing was great because it put me on a path. The thing about Christianity is it’s like Shakespeare. It is so deeply entrenched in our culture that you don’t realise that every day you’re probably quoting from the Bible. Rastafari updated it and started to answer some of those big questions.

  I went to live in a squat in Handsworth for a while, known as the House of Dread. It was a couple of houses with the dividing walls removed to make one big dwelling. Everything was owned collectively, duties were shared and, as much as possible, we tried not to use money. Money had the Queen’s head on it, and we didn’t like the Queen. It was a great way to live for a while. It made me appreciate the things we really needed in life, and consider less the superficialities that we fill our minds and lives with.

  It was good to be part of a group by feeling connected to Africa – the homeland. Britain was a small place, JA was a small place, but to the Rastafarian the whole world is Africa. Better to say you were African than say you were Jamaican or English. We had a message to spread. White people had the hippies, but Rastafari was a black thing; but it was also about peace – bringing people together, black and white unite. If you wanna fight, fight Babylon rather than fighting each other. I’m from the Malcolm X school of non-violence. I’m non-violent to people who are non-violent to me. We have to defend ourselves, but killing each other is not good. I always felt that.

  A big event for me was the release of a new Bob Marley album. I would always get one on the day of its release. Most people around me were into Burning Spear, Pablo Moses, Prince Far I, and a much harder sound than that of Marley; he was considered a little too commercial, and too radio-friendly. But I loved the poetry of his writing, the meaning behind the words, and I felt he would understand me. So I got about ten of my poems typed up and sent them to him in Jamaica. For a long time there was no reply and then, one day, there was a reply. It was handwritten and it didn’t say much, just, ‘I love the man works. Keep it up. Britain needs you, so forward on.’ But that’s all I needed. It was as if I had the seal of approval from the master. But I was stuck in Birmingham, trying to find food and stay out of jail. How was I going to ‘forward on’?

  For a long time I tried to go straight, looking for paid work – but this wasn’t easy for a Brummie Rasta in the mid-1970s. Then, somewhat incongruously, I found a job making whistles for the police. It’s hard to imagine now that a whistle was an important part of a police officer’s kit – it’s more like something from the 1950s, Dixon of Dock Green and all that. If the modern copper is in trouble, she or he calls for armed back up, or they pull out their truncheon, pepper spray or Taser, but then they simply pulled out a whistle and blew it. Anyway, I did that job for two and a half days. On Monday I started as a welder, on Tuesday I was a tester, and on Wednesday I was a cleaner. I could see my career trajectory was going in the wrong direction, so I left.

  My longest job lasted four months. I worked as a painter and decorator. We were painting large buildings, mainly factories, and day after day I would listen to stories of previous workers whose lungs had been messed up by inhaling fumes, or the men who’d fallen off ladders or scaffolding and died. I started to notice that every time the boss came round to inspect our work he had a different car. I’m talking Jaguars, Rolls-Royces, Ferraris and Lamborghinis. I asked one of my fellow workers where he got the money to buy all those cars and he said he got it from us. When we do the jobs, he gets lots of money, then he gives us a little money, and we go on to paint the next building while he goes to buy his next car.

  I felt I was being exploited, and that the boss didn’t really care about me, so I left. I tried to find more reasonable work, but I couldn’t. It was hard enough back then being black trying to find a job, but having a police record made it even more difficult. Eventually, sadly, I went back to a life of crime.

  15

  CARS, MONEY, GIRLS

  I really did try to go straight many times. I tried my hand as a self-employed painter and decorator, advertising my services among friends. One evening, a classy-looking woman approached me in a blues and asked if I could decorate her flat. I said, ‘Yes, of course.’ When I turned up to give her a price she said something very strange: ‘It’s a deal, Benjamin, but what I’d like to do is double your price. I will pay you twice as much on one condition: you must agree to decorate in the middle of the night.’ I thought that was strange, but I was keen to make all the money I could, so I agreed.

  On my first night I found out why I’d been offered a nocturnal job: she was on the game. In those days many girls worked the streets but this woman worked for herself out of a flat. I’d often hear her with a punter. Most of the time it would be straight sex, but sometimes I’d hear the more theatrical stuff: ‘You naughty boy! Say sorry to Mummy!’ and the sound of some guy’s arse being slapped. One day she was a strict nurse: ‘You haven’t taken your medicine!’ Another day someone would be crying like a baby. ‘You wet your pants, didn’t you?’ Imagine me in the next room, halfway up a ladder with my roller, trying to keep my mind on the job.

  It wasn’t only about the painting. I had to be trustworthy and keep my mouth shut. She could rely on me for that. In fact, she was so pleased with my work that she recommended me to other girls. Those girls would recommend me to other girls, and I’d soon created a niche market. It was so niche that I drafted up a business card that read:

  Benjamin Zephaniah.

  Painter and Decorator to Pickpockets, Hustlers and Concubines.

  Discreet and Well-Hung Papering.

  Specialist in Late-Night Services.

  But they were never printed. Still, it was good work and I was the only one doing it. The girls trusted me with their gear and they were confident that I wouldn’t speak about them or grass them up.

  I knew a fair few girls who worked the streets back then. They approached it like career women, determined to do it for a while and then retire. It was very rare that anyone was being pimped, and I didn’t know anyone doing drugs other than smoking a bit of weed. If something went wrong the girls had to have someone in the background, like a minder, but they weren’t pimps like you’d see in American films; it wasn’t Miami. I didn’t know anyone who was being forced by another person to be on the game. These women were pretty tough hustlers in their ow
n right. I lived in places where rooms were operated by these girls and much of the time we’d have a really good laugh. There was always gossip and activity.

  It was during this time that I first went to Jamaica. Someone paid for me to fly out and do a little business in the capital, Kingston. I didn’t tell my mum I was going, as there would have been all sorts of questions and demands. I was barely in contact with my family at this time, in any case; I thought them too soft, too well behaved and not very streetwise. Very occasionally I would call my mum from a phone box, just to check in, and if there had been any emergencies I’d have heard about them on the street grapevine, but I was very much a free agent.

  In a number of early interviews I told people I’d spent a lot of my youth in Jamaica. That was true enough, but what I hadn’t explained was the reasons why. Let’s just call it underground business. I guess you could say I was in an import and export situation, and I used to visit the country to see my suppliers. Yes, the British and Jamaican authorities would have disapproved of some of the things I got up to in Jamaica, but it was survival, and I was doing my little bit for globalisation long before them. Nuff said.

  Although it’s a bit of a cliché to say it, what struck me on arrival was the wall of heat that hit me as soon as I stepped off the plane in Kingston. I’d never felt anything like it in the UK, and I spent some time trying to work out what clothes to wear to stay cool. Although the environment was new to me, at the same time it felt familiar. I was recognising all the places mentioned in records, like Orange Street, the Gun Court and Constant Spring. It was like stepping into a film or a song.

  If you look at a lot of reggae album covers from the 1970s, you’ll see photos of the artists hanging out in the street or at record shacks and recording studios with people in their neighbourhoods. Big Youth was always outside his local record shop. Doctor Alimantado would walk down the road looking as he did on the cover of Best Dressed Chicken in Town. I’d barely arrived in Kingston when I saw Gregory Isaacs outside his record shop.