Short Story
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Folks don’t give a f*ck why you’re on the road. They just know you've got to do what you've got to do when you're on it. Me? I never wanted this life, but I learned to live and love it. I didn’t get up one morning and think, “Yup! I’mma risk jail to flex on the gram. Need dem peng tings to see me clad up in a dark green uniform and cuffs.” Nah, bruv. Mandem was starving, innit. Mum was working four jobs and still couldn't keep the heater or lights on half the time. It was a blessing that we could even afford rent. The clothes on my body were wearing off. Fading. Like my dreams and aspirations to be a star. You sleep at night with a stomach and mind filled with wishes, and you wake up in the morning to realise they actually were just wishes. ‘Cause your likkle siblings are by your side now, talking in hushed tones about their stomachs rumbling. And your mum is away again, busting her ass off for a country that barely cares if you live or die. My lil sister has diabetes, and it took seven months to get her an appointment with the NHS. School wasn't an option either, so I had to work a job that could, at least, feed me at the time. I was sixteen, man. F*cking sixteen and exhausted.
I’m aware you don't know who I am, so I don’t mind introducing myself. Name’s Mason. From South London. Born and bred in LA, but moved to Camberwell when I was twelve. Pops left us before I got to know what a goatee was, talk more of growing one. He used to drink a lot and he hit mum a few times too, so when that nigga bounced, not a single tear dropped from my eyes, man. I just picked up the remote, pressed play, and focused on the TV. I had other things to worry about than the devil’s young-un taking the back door on us.
My first entry into the roads was through a man named Tariq. Half Jamaican, half British. He was not a bogus roadman like Khalz. He was Big Tariq. Grown, beards and all, and old in the game. A real one. The first time he saw me was at Ali’s, counting a few pennies to buy chips for myself and my siblings. He reached out to me and gave me a £100 note like it was nothing. I was excited, bruv. I knelt at his feet and wept. Told him he didn't know what he'd just done for me, but he said he did. Said he knew exactly what he'd done for me, because where I was, was where he used to be, and that I reminded him a great deal of his younger self.
He said I was filled with potential to do great things, so somehow I got the courage to ask him if I could work for him. Because I figured if he could carelessly give me a £100 note, something my mum’s jobs have her laboring for days to get, then he could teach me how to get more. He told me to meet him the next day at his ends, and when I did, because Tariq wasn't one to beat around the bush, he told me what it took to get crispy notes like that all the time. I hesitated. He was asking me to be exactly like him. To go against all the teachings of my mother and pastor. All the principles that I held dear to my heart, because I knew those were things that were hard to come by. Things money couldn't buy.
When Tariq saw the look in my eyes, he said to me, “You can stack cheddar or stack excuses, yuh nuh.” I told him I'd sleep on it, and he said I should take my time. It didn't take long for me to change my mind. When the bills started trooping in like they used to, and mum’s wrinkles started tripling, I went to Tariq. He hugged me and told me I’d made the right decision. Gave me a £50 note and told me I’d have to earn the rest now. No more freebies. For the first time, I felt like someone saw me for who I really was, and I didn't want to miss out on that. After all, my mother always said: Opportunity comes, but once. I didn't tell my mother about Tariq, or the £100, or the £50 notes. I just told her I found a new job that could give us fresh clothes and put food on our table. She was happy the money was coming in, but too tired to ask what and where my job was.
Fast forward to the future where I’m twenty and making proper bread. Man’s got that drip, kicks always boxed new, proper blowers, but they steady ringing like the feds had them on speed dial or sum’n. While working for Tariq, I moved bricks a couple of times, but I stopped and became the middleman. Trust me, that paid way more than anything I’ve ever done. But, see, every and any blessing on the road comes with a countdown.
One cold winter night, my bredrin Frederick calls me. Says we’re supposed to do a quick stop at Burgess Park and then get something to eat after blazing. I say cool, and even though I feel a lil off about the whole night out thing ‘cause of my mum and siblings who might need me to do something for them, blazing always sounded like a good idea, especially that period where my mind was going through some rough patches. After I got dressed, my gut still told me, “Nah, man. I ain't sure ‘bout this journey,” but my ego said, “Ayo, bad man! Stop acting like a yute.” Of course, I listened to my ego. I mean, I’d been around Camberwell for years now, and I knew some really good and tough men, so I was kind of secure. Plus, I had a Glock no one knew about. It couldn't be so bad, could it?
We get there, two mandem’s outside, waiting. They seem cool and nothing seems fishy, so I step out of my bredrin’s car, nod my head, and say all’s clear. Frederick comes out with the delivery bag, trying to keep it as calm as possible. Then I see it. I doubt it at first, but I know I ain't tripping. One of them is actually reaching. I scream as loud as I can for Frederick to get down, but it's too late. Sounds of gunshots fill the air. Some from me, a lot from them.
My mind’s blown when Frederick hits the ground. I swear on my life, bruv dropped before I could even process the fact that I'd just shot a gun for the first time, and that there were sirens in the distance. I stop to look at him for one last time, not caring for a moment if I get caught up by the cops. Our lives flash before my eyes. I can’t believe that one moment, he was living and breathing in the passenger seat of his car, laughing at my humorous jokes and catcalling the two girls we saw en route to Burgess. Then the next moment, he's dead. One shot in his neck and another in his chest. There’s blood everywhere, so I run. Leaving the car and the lifeless body of my brother in the hood. I run in my uncertainty, feeling the need to bounce from everything.
When I get home, I see my mother sitting hands akimbo on the staircase, waiting for me. She is about to yell when she sees the look on my face. All I want is to be in her arms, and she holds me. Tries to console me. Tells me it is going to be okay, even though she has no idea what I'd just come home from. That night, I cried like a proper kid. Clean ugly cry. The type that gets stuck in your throat and chokes you. The type where you don't care about the watery substance dripping from your nostrils.
After Frederick’s burial, I texted his elder sister and guardian. Nothing much. Just wrote “I'm sorry, Rosie.” She never replied. Not like I expected her to, anyway. Next summer, I moved my entire family to LA amid threats from Tariq and the other mandem for daring to violate the gang's motto—keeping each other safe no matter what. They also said I set Frederick up, which obviously wasn't true. So, I took my entire savings and began to carve out a reputable life for myself and my siblings. It's the least I owed Frederick and myself. Got a job stacking shelves and labeling cars. Got clean. Got a girlfriend whom I am so in love with. And got into college.
Some folks laugh when I tell them my story. They say I wasn't courageous enough. Say I ‘chickened out’ over something so ‘minor’. But I don't care anymore. At least now I can sleep comfortably without having to check my window every 5 seconds. At least I don’t have to miss the funeral of a loved one because I was there at the time of his death and might have slightly caused it. At least I don't have to pretend I'm not scared when I hear the sound of a siren or when I hear a bike pull up on my block. At least I see my mum smile more often now, and that's a massive thing, bruv.
And even if I'm in LA, I’ll always be a South London boy through and through. Just not a roadman anymore. ‘Cause the road doesn't send any flowers at all—the road doesn't care about flowers. Or you. Or me. Only what we can bring. And in exchange for that, it buries us and keeps moving. Same cycle. Same pain. Same trauma. Not even gonna lie, Frederick deserved better. I mean, he was just trying to be there for himself and his family. And so was I. But this mean life don't do no refunds, so I'm doing my best to set the record straight for the coming generation, you get me?
When I walk past a convenience store, I think about that £100 note. I think about Tariq. And I think about Frederick.
Bless your soul, my gee. We’ll meet again on the other side.
By Precious Nelson Esate
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