HE HAS A NAME, IT'S MALAKAI
You drive into the entrance where the buildings separate into a wide road. Clothes are hanging on lines draped across balconies. Everything; refrigerators, bicycles, children’s toys, and old furniture are stuffed into the balcony corners and in some instances do not leave any room for people. An extended family of Chinese folk gather around a small portable stove and share noodles out to the kids who sit quietly, whispering in Chinese. A group of teenagers walks by your car with phones blasting hip hop and dancehall tunes, and if they are wearing jeans, they drag on the ground as they walk. If they are wearing sweats, the hoods of their sweaters are over their heads. One teen seems to lead the pack. They are all pointing and plotting, playing some sort of hide and seek game, or catch. You keep driving, past the Audi with the smashed windshield, the black plastic bag taped to it blowing in the wind. The wind picks up the dirt, it swells and prances across the front of your car. You squeeze into the last spot available, and try to ignore the stares from the overweight woman, sitting outside her ground floor flat with a cigarette in her mouth and a bottle of whiskey.
It is flat number 34, on the second floor, the numbering makes no sense. You ring the bell and three people answer it, one in the foreground, and two in the background. They shout at you to tell them your name, like they never expected you, like they forgot. After a few minutes the biggest voice buzzes you in. On opening the door the flies from the garbage bin jump at you and threaten to get lost in your nose or ear holes. You push them out of the way with your waving hands.
You are greeted by a dark lady, with wide hips and a round nose. She looks at you up and down behind the door that she doesn’t fully open, and then shoves a skinny boy in front of her.
‘Here yuh go, good luck with this one, he is good for nothing,’ she says, slamming the door behind him.
‘Where we going,’ asks the boy, whose cap is low on his forehead, blocking out his eyes. You take him to your car, he bangs the door shut and slumps down in the passenger seat. His sweater raises up to reveal his green-striped shorts underneath his sweat pants. He fiddles with the radio, but finds nothing he likes, so turns on the music on his phone and puts in his earphones. You reconsider taking him to a movie. You were going to see an action film, but he probably watches those everyday as he sits about waiting for the afternoon when he could sit about outside, with the other sit-abouts.
You instead take him back to your flat, brushing aside the niggling worry about your safety. You try to ask him about school, but he grunts and says, ‘I don’t do school man, education is anarchy’. You ask him what he likes to do and he says, ‘Whateva fam, fun tings’. He doesn’t look at you when he answers, but his head is buried in his blackberry, which constantly flashes red at the top right corner.
That was your first day of being a mentor, you had to pry at him to let him open up to you, but he wasn’t interested and asked to leave early. The second time he told you about his friends thinking he was weak for letting you take him around like a child. The third time he didn’t turn up. But you keep trying, coming up with things to do together so that you can connect. You take him to a museum and talk him through the history of England, but he drags his feet and says, ‘Them man had nuffin’ and come Africa take everyfin’ and make black people work for dem. This nation built on the backs of blacks fam, believe it’.
One day you agree to take him to a pub to watch a football game together. He curses at the screen when his team loses. You don’t know what to do anymore because it seems you aren’t getting anywhere with him. He is aggressive, distant, and disinterested. But one day, while you are searching your brain for something to tell him, he says something out of the ordinary.
Then one day, you are both at your apartment and you are teaching him how to cook curry chicken. He seems fidgety, and constantly leaves the room to answer the phone. You sneak up close to the door to hear his conversation. His uses slang that you can’t really comprehend but you pick up pieces of conversation.
‘Bruv don’t do it. I tell you man, not worth it…No I ain’t turn a pussy, I tell you gone get jail time fam, that ain’t cool…Yea Bryon, Jagger and dem goin’ hard wif dis but it will end sour bruv, I know it..Come on fam, don’t get involved…’
He comes back into the kitchen and tells you to turn on the news. There are riots in London, in areas just 10 minutes away from yours. Scores of teenagers with bandanas covering their faces and hoods over their heads are throwing things at the police, and torching cars, and blowing up dustbins, and cursing at the people around. It is happening all over London, in some areas that are usually quiet, and kept clean. Everyone is panicking because they don’t know what will happen next, and if there is something bigger behind it. Large portions of buildings are on fire, probably the biggest fires you have ever seen. The reporters and interviewees are calling it ‘sheer criminality’ of majority young black males who are bored and reckless. You look at him sitting on your couch, biting his nails, and shaking his head. He sees you watching him.
‘I know what you tink, yeah, my friends in that, yeah they are, I told them don’t get involved, but they say the police don’t respect them. I would be there now yeah, if this was two months ago. But when them man talk this way, I just shake my head.’
He doesn’t have on a sweater, but a neatly ironed striped polo. He sits upright on the couch, and you notice he speaks better. Since you first met him, he’s showed kindness, and a willingness to learn and change. He is full of passion and talent, but doesn’t know where to direct it. You showed him avenues, and he is now exploring them. Some days he calls you to hang out even though it isn’t your day for mentoring. A few days ago he went to the job center and found a job in a supermarket. It is only the start, but he would be free to continue, because he didn’t take part in the riots, because you were there for him, to change his life just a little. To open his eyes to the kindness that is available to him, so that he does not have to lash out at society. He is now one less young person lost to the grapples of the societal gutter. You thought you were simply offering your time, but instead you offered him a new life.
At VCTT, we believe that if you volunteer today, you WILL change tomorrow. When you see things like the London riots, the first thing you should think is not ‘how can we get rid of these scums of society’ but ‘what can I do to HELP misled youth, so that they can voice their struggles in a non-violent way?’ Start now, change your perspective, lend a hand, change a life.
*Please note: All images are taking off the internet, they are not originals of the blogger
