The Dirty South (5 page)

Anyway, Mum was now working even longer hours. She got some kinda promotion but it didn't seem to make her more happy. She was always bitching about how tired she was and her reaction to
dirty plates and cutlery left in the kitchen sink was bordering on the mad side of nagging. I even saw Mum sharing a fat-head with Paps after dinner, a new development. In the front room they would sit, watching some shit about the seals of the Falklands or something with Mum bitching about her day at work. Mum and myself don't talk as much as we used to and I don't have to suffer all those kisses and hugs that I received from her whenever I returned from school or wherever. Maybe it's easier for mums to show nuff love to their little boys and spoil them… But once we reach seventeen we turn out to be selfish, lazy bums who leave dirty plates in the sink and piss on their see-through toilet seats. Anyway, at this stage of my life, my parents were proper boring.

Meanwhile, Davinia was getting untold pats on the back and ratings from teachers. She also noticed that boys were taking an interest in her and I told her straight that young bruvs were only interested in a wok. Simple as. Davinia would say I was overreacting or ignore me so I started to call her a ho. She'd always run off complaining to Paps. Burn Davinia. At times though I had to be nice to her… She had learned to plait corn-row style really neatly and most of the brothers were showing off that style. So when I hadn't called Davinia a ho for about a week, I'd knock on her door, tell her I was proud of what she's doing at school and ask her to do my hair. The stupid girl would oblige me. Davinia's bright with her studies but sometimes she lacks common sense.

Granny was brewing at her own flat in Cowley estate, no longer needed as much as she once was. She came around sometimes for Sunday dinner and Mum was forced to cook rice and peas and lay on a serious salad with peeled cucumber and shit. If she didn't Granny would chat about that even when she hardly had any money she always cooked rice and peas for her family on a Sunday with all the trimmings… Mum would always politely refuse Granny's help in the kitchen… Granny would then sit on the couch in the front room, sipping endless glasses of rum punch that she made at home. She would call for Davinia and me and then she would tell us stories about Jamaica from when she was a little girl. I heard tales about great uncle David's travels in America, mad bushmen,
pit toilets, donkeys, three-mile walks to school, outside dances, the maroon wars, pervy preachermen, more mad bushmen and a tobacco-chewing old man with one tooth… Sometimes, Granny would tell her tales by doing this strange dance. Fascinating shit. Davinia even did an English essay about Granny's stories for school and she got more ratings and pats on the back for that shit too! By the evening, Granny was a little tipsy and Mum had to drop her home and walk her to her gates; Paps always had trouble climbing the steps in Granny's block.

As for me I was working part-time at a garage owned by my auntie Denise's husband Everton; my Paps' best friend. Auntie Denise and Everton had eight-year-old girl twins, Natasha and Natalie. Auntie Denise was cool. She never lectured me. Everton and Auntie Denise shared my tastes and they dressed in all the latest garms. Auntie Denise always dyed her hair in a world of different colours and she still stepped to the latest bashment dances and performed her shit on the dance floor. She liked Tupac and watched films like
Boyz in the Hood
. The last DVD my mum bought was
Shaft
, some film where every black brother had a mad afro… Only the Lord knows when my parents will finally make it into today's world.

Everton always had a zoot dangling from his mouth and when one morning break I rolled my own fat-head he didn't say shit. He just looked over with a kind of half smile. Why couldn't Paps be like Everton?

The job I had was a kinda compromise after Paps and myself had a serious row about me not going to college to study history or something. He had this dream of me being a university professor. Burn that dream 'cos I've never heard of a black university professor. We had a beef once about how many black men are in neat jobs like Managing Director of a name-brand company and shit like that. Paps couldn't answer me when I said I bet there weren't more than ten black professors in the country. Even if I did have the qualifications and shit they'd make it harder for me. They always make it more difficult for black people. Black sportsmen, singers, rappers and the odd token black on reality TV shows were
the only fucked up role models in my world but even if there was some black history professor out there I couldn't see the likes of me getting that goal and nor did any teachers at my school.

Anyway Everton needed an extra pair of hands to help him out. I learned quite a few things; how to change and gap spark plugs, how to replace break pads, how to time an engine… You know, shit like that. The only problem was, I didn't like the grime and the grease and I was always paranoid about that garage smell when I chilled in the evenings and chirpsed chicks. But the seven notes an hour did sweet up that shit.

To further nice up my wallet on what Everton was paying me I was also shotting at youth clubs, colleges and basically anywhere else where skunk was craved. Even fifteen doors away on my very road, where this white woman lived who worked at the town hall. Her name was June Haver and she wanted her fix every Friday night. She looked so innocent in her trouser suits, pulled up hair and glasses but I reckon I even could've woked her if I wanted to. Anyway, Noel and myself made most of our profit at Stockwell ends. Or to be more specific, Stockwell Youth Club which was right in the middle of Stockwell Park estate.

Most of our deals at Stockwell happened outside the youth club 'cos the white woman who ran the place was no pussy. She was different to the few white women of that age who I knew. She wasn't afraid of black brothers… The way it went was white girls at school who had money felt at ease in black brothers' company, laughing, joking and burning fat-heads with us and allowing us to touch their tits. It's only after they left school for a couple of years when they started to grab their handbags more tightly when you passed them on road. White trash girls never blanked you on the road and they carried on like they were black anyway with their Croydon facelift hairstyles and their cheap gold. Anyway, Julie was the name of the woman who ran Stockwell Youth club. She ran Noel and me out of her club a few times with her cursing and shit…

When we weren't shotting Noel and me would play table tennis, shoot pool, log onto the internet where we entered chat sites and communicated with chicks… All the time we would check out any
newcomers and kinda force them to buy our skunk. We spent a lot of our time watching the chicks, who formed the dancing group
Scarman's Children
, performing their dance steps. Nuff bootys and breasts were shaking in tight-fitting leotards and brothers were proper glued to the drama of it all, dreaming of untold woks.

It was while I was ogling
Scarman's Children
when this buff girl proper-catwalked right in front of me. Fit she was with a neat tidy booty and cat-like eyes. She was a lighter skin tone to me, a browning, and she was wearing this proper-tight tracksuit and untold rings on her fingers. She had a confidence about her that I liked. She wasn't as pretty as Akeisha Parris but I guess no-one ever will be. I'd never seen this chick before but I just had to chirps her and get her digits. She was chilling with two of her friends by a pool table. So I made steps towards her, putting on my strut. I heard Noel giggling behind me. He whispered to a bredren that she's out of my league and Dennis doesn't have the game to chirps them kinda chicks.

‘What's gwarnin',' I introduced myself. ‘I haven't seen you at these ends before. Is it 'cos all the men at your ends are butt ugly?'

She chuckled and offered me one of those glances when you know a wok is a possibility. I knew I was better looking than most brothers. That might sound arrogant but timid brothers don't get to wok fit chicks. Simple as. ‘I'm from Peckham ends,' she replied. ‘Just chilling here with friends who live Camberwell ends.'

‘I don't step to Peckham ends that much but if I knew that buff chicks like you were there I would step there more regular. You know it.'

She laughed again and my confidence grew. ‘So what?' I said. ‘You're not gonna tell me your name? That's kinda rude seeing as we're having a proper conversation.'

‘You tell me your name first,' she smiled.

‘Dennis.'

‘Ann. Ann Sheridan.'

‘Well, Ann,' I said. ‘Man would like to see you again and link up so what are you saying? I need your digits kinda urgently.'

Ann thought about it as her two friends looked me up and
down. They were brute ugly. I felt a sweat coming on from my armpits and my face was warming. Finally, Ann smiled and took out her mobile phone from her tracksuit pocket. It was a brand new model… I liked that 'cos it told me she had some P's behind her and I was tired of chirpsing ghetto chicks who couldn't even afford to buy me a Kentucky chicken nugget and a single fry. ‘You give me your number as well,' she asked.

Relief…

Not wanting to appear desperate, I called Ann a week after our first meeting. ‘So when are we gonna link up?' I asked. ‘When are you gonna show me some love?'

‘How comes it's only now that you call me?' she said. ‘It's been a week!'

‘Man is busy, innit.'

‘Even in the evenings?'

‘Yeah. Man has a little business to attend to.'

‘I know,' Ann replied. ‘You're a shotta.'

‘Where you learn that from?'

‘Word gets around on road.'

I paused, wondering who told her. ‘Anyway, like I said, this man needs some loving. When are we gonna link up?'

‘Next Friday night. My parents are out that night and I have the flat to myself.'

I closed my eyes and imagined running my hands over her bumper but I still wanted to appear calm. ‘I'm not sure about your programme,' I said. ‘I don't like to be taken advantage of and on first dates I like to get to know the girl first if you know what I'm saying. I'm a respectable brother!'

Ann giggled in contempt. ‘What fuckery!'

‘So Friday night for real,' I said. ‘But I don't know where your gates is.'

‘My flat is difficult to find so just make you way to Peckham estate. You know the big one that is near the new library and I'll link you at the main forecourt.'

‘OK, that's all good. And make sure you have some nibbles and something to drink. Man needs food and liquor while he's showing
some love. Oh, one more thing. Make sure you have some bump and grind music on the go.
For real
.'

‘OK,' she laughed and ended the call.

I was proper content 'cos I didn't have to do that dating shit like take her to a wine bar or something and waste my dollars. Burn that shit and the idiot brothers who do it. When I link with a girl I just wanna give her a wok. Simple as.

Next Friday evening I slapped on my deodorant big time and put on my name-brand vest and garms… I usually don't step out with my gold rings and gold chains but what's the point of buying that shit if you don't wear them for occasions like this? I wanted to impress Ann to the max. I finished up dressing by pulling on my new Nikes after checking that they were spotless. Before I left I made sure I placed two condoms in my wallet; I didn't get too much sex education at home but Mum always said to me not to trust no girl and wear a ‘jacket' at all times. ‘I'm too young to be a grandmother and so much loose girls get themselves pregnant just to get a flat,' she would bark as Paps would try to conceal a grin. It was embarrassing but her message struck home.

I took a 37 bus to Peckham. There ain't nothing looking sweet in Peckham. The place is a proper dump, well grimed, with dodgy people selling phone cards and dodgy people chilling around cheap chicken takeaways and shottas doing their shit in cab stations.

As I made my way to Ann's estate, I said to myself that if she wanted a regular wok she'd have to step down to my ends. The estate reminded me of Stockwell Park with its dirty yellow, brownish brickwork and its long walkways and little squares. I gave Ann a ring when I arrived at a forecourt where nuff cars were parked.

‘Ann! Yeah, I just reach. I'm just standing near this big car park next to a kind of square.'

‘OK, babes. I know where you are. I'll just be a couple of minutes.'

I had a half-smoked fat-head in my inside jacket pocket so I took it out and lit it. I had taken three tokes when this African brother appeared on a balcony in front of me. He was about sixteen so I didn't really pay him any mind. Then this other brother got out
of a car. He was walking slowly with his hands in his pockets and he was watching me, following my every move. He looked African too. One of the rules of the ghetto is that if a brother starts to stare you out you must return his gaze until
he
looks away.

Maintaining my own stare at this brother who was walking towards me, I heard footsteps coming from my left. There were now three of them. I spat out my spliff. Footsteps were now coming from behind me. I spun around and saw the shit was up to my neck… A guy running towards me with serious intent. For a short second it all seemed so comical 'cos this brother was rushing towards me with his baggy jeans falling below his hips showing his Calvin Klein boxer shorts. It was after that when a cold fear struck me. It's a horrible feeling… It starts with a cramping sensation in the stomach, then it spreads throughout your body until it gets to your brain. Your brain is trying to force you to make a choice. Run or fight. I didn't do either. I still don't know why to this day. So I just stood there, fucked up with fear. Rooted to the spot. The brothers rushing me seemed to get bigger and bigger. Their faces had a hungry look about them. Desperate. I couldn't move.