I grew up in Hackney, the Hackney that I grew up in didn't have swanky bars, hipster cafés or shiny new build flats. I grew up in a Hackney where families surrendered council homes, to escape a borough where youngsters were accustomed to spotting syringes and empty condom wrappers laying on the floor. The majority of my friends were young, black boys that lacked father figures or role models. Looking back now I think this was why we clung together, as a way to support and uplift each other. Too often we were demonized by the very education system supposedly setup to help us elevate from our dire environment. Large police vans would emerge onto the estate and conduct routine checks once they spotted more than two individuals walking collectively. We just wanted something to do or somewhere to go that would help us avoid the inescapable disputes taking place amongst our peers. The disputes would spark off over anything from girls to postcodes, but once the spark was ignited multiple factors would continue to fan the flame. I have never been an advocate for violence so I would do everything in my power to avoid being burnt, this meant staying at home with mum or playing football at any given opportunity.
I remember travelling home from Hackney Marshes one Tuesday evening. It must have been spring season as it was still bright outside. Tobi, Tunji, Mustafa, Ibrahim, Ola and I jumped on the bus 236 together at Marsh Hill after Tunji and Ibrahim paid for their chicken and chips. Sitting at the back of the bus, I downed my orange Lucozade as they discussed football training. I initiated the banter, "Ola you can't talk though because I put the ball through your legs multiple times," everyone burst out laughing. "Tobi, you shouldn't laugh either bro, I dribbled the ball past you at least half a dozen times and then the ball was in the back of the net just like that." Tobi flung a punch at my shoulder, a few commuters turned back to look at us cautiously, I continued to tease.
It was a straightforward journey, I bumped fists with the lads as each took their leave at their respective stops. It was only Mustafa and I left to continue our journey. When the bus reached Laxfield Court to let passengers off, Mustafa turned away from the window suddenly squirming around in his seat whilst focusing on the bus doors. I did not understand this unexpected change in behaviour until I noticed the large group of boys standing nearby. I had butterflies in my stomach as I slowly twisted myself around and looked straight ahead; I could still feel their eyes on us. The boys were stretching their necks as giraffes do and peeping through the bus window, eagerly trying to learn who we were. Mustafa repositioned himself to stare them down as the bus moved off. The exchange played out like an identity parade, once they discovered Mustafa's face this was enough evidence for them to carry out a chase. They sprang into motion instantly and rushed after the 236 like their lives depended on it, some pulled out shiny objects from their pouches. My heart was racing through the blocks, I knew if they eventually caught up with our bus then it would be us against them and the odds were not in our favour.
Mustafa must have been thinking the same as me because he got up immediately and ran to where the bus driver was stationed, clasping his hands together like he was about to pray whilst yelling, "Driver don't stop the bus, dem boy dere wanna kill us!". The bus driver was a Rasta man, he eyed Mustafa and then peered into his side mirror. When he approached the bus stop for Regents Court, the driver nodded at Mustafa, picked up his speed despite the frustration shown on the people's faces waiting at the bus stop, waving for him to stop. Still this did not deter the group of boys from continuing their chase, some continued directly while others took a detour through Pownall Road in hopes of catching up with the bus before the next stop. Mustafa's lips quivered and he scratched the crown off his head in panic, he begged the driver to let him off at Queensbridge road. As the bus doors opened, I watched him hop off and sprint home without even acknowledging me. My heart raced along with him. I had seen events similar to ours occur in music videos and a couple movies but this was the first time I had been involved in such a situation, it felt surreal. I expressed a sigh of relief when I made it home to mum that day.
Unbeknownst to me, Mustafa and many of the boys chasing after us had gone to the same primary school, a few were even pictured next to him in class photos. Before secondary school, they had organised sleepovers together. Shortly after this event, I learned that this group identified themselves as the 8th Street Gang and were intent on catching Mustafa because of his connection to the Dippy Boys. Whatever friendship they once shared had clearly vanished due to their current association with these respective gangs. This bitter rivalry had claimed lives on each side during an earlier generation and the flames of this street war seemed to be spreading ferociously into our generation. It was a shame because after the chase, I never saw Mustafa on the 236 again, he ended up in prison. I felt sorry for him because he was trapped in a vicious cycle and had become a hostage to the streets, his gang affiliation limited his mobility around Hackney.
Too many times, I witnessed the older generation complain about the younger guys but do nothing to help. Maybe they were scared, perhaps they did not have all the answers but I knew for sure that I did not want to evolve into that adult who simply complained about the youth. I wanted to make a difference, so I made a conscious decision that day to use my passion for football to mentor young males within my community and guide them in the right direction. After acquiring my football coaching badges, I coached boys facing similar troubles as Mustafa and the group pursuing us on the bus that day.
The Hackney I grew up in no longer sleeps at night, there is a hipster wearing ripped skinny jeans and vans found on every corner. Many of these new faces do not even live in the area but access the multiple overground stations which connect people from all over London. More people are trying to secure homes here because property prices have soared through the roof – Hackney is the place to be. The majority of my friends are busy planning weddings, building careers or running businesses. Now we have so much to do and little time to do it in. Though, the ongoing disputes remain and innocent people still get caught up in the crossfire.
I recall seeing stars in the sky the Sunday night that Mustafa was released from prison, I came back to Hackney to visit mum after church. I parked up as usual and took a pineapple KA from the boot of my car to quench my thirst. I heard a flurry of footsteps behind me but before I could turn around, I heard the loud sound. I felt the pain surge through my chest which made me fall to the floor and struggle for breath, I was bleeding relentlessly. Only this time I did not make it home to see mum.
Edited by EzraLoves
