Getting shot isn't how people imagine it.

For me, it was a relief. 

I had been haunted by the scenario in my dreams, like a scene from a movie stuck on repeat. Some nights, I'd make it; other nights not. Staring down the barrel of a gun, I wasn’t so sure that the peace I thought I had grudgingly made with death would last.

***

Christmas Eve, 1999. Outside the Ministry of Sound, a club in south London. This is where those nightmares would come to life.  I had broken several of my own rules that night. The first being: "never stay till the end of the rave."  Nobody wants to be the last guest at a dinner party watching your hosts wash and dry the plates. Nobody wants to fail to pick up the hint that the party is over.

The second, which wasn’t any kind of moralising, prohibitionist stance: "Don't get drunk". In a venue full of hyenas, you do not want to be drunken prey.  Lives were lost over shoes being stepped on, drinks being spilt, shoulders been bumped. There were rules of survival it was imperative to follow.

My car was parked opposite the club. The road was buzzing, the festive holiday spirit adding to the energy, noise, and general chaos.

The orchestra of engines revving, car stereos blasting out garage music, distant girlish laughter, alongside guys peacocking, throwing around their rehearsed chat up lines to secure numbers.

I open the door and sit in silence, happy to be still and alone, away from the crowds. Peace, even if for only a moment. I am interrupted by a gentle knocking on my window, jolting me out of my dream, I'm faced with a guy in a white Scream mask.

I lower my window in anticipation of some sort of joke, some drunken act of foolishness. As soon as I catch his gaze, I recognise immediately that there will be no punchline.

Behind the mask, were two eyes black with focus. It will take me a moment to fully grasp what is going on, to fully understand that there is a handgun at my temple. This was no prank.

Who knew all you needed was a gun pointing at you to sober up? Adrenaline had usurped the Dom P and pills that had turned my brain into a washing machine on a spin cycle. I can assure you that in a moment like this, your life really does flash before your eyes. Every day of my nineteen years, a whole lifetime, cheaply squashed into mere seconds.

My hands sweaty, clench the steering wheel for support, bracing myself for impact... CLICK... CLICK... the noise of metal on metal. Then, silence.

I tentatively open my eyes to stare at the masked man – the absurd figure who separates me from heaven or hell. Both of us momentarily mesmerised in the moment, the silence shattered by a shout of ‘FUCK!'.

He scurries to the passenger side window. I turn the key, the engine roars to life, my foot smashes the accelerator but I don’t move. Why am I not moving? Panicked, I realise I had not put the car into drive. I greedily turn the wheel whilst ducking my head towards the floor. I hear the tap of metal then this time, no silence, my luck runs out, the shots ring. I don't know where I'm going, I just know I need to get out of here.

You never respect the value of life until faced with the possibility of it being taken away. Mind empty, heart pounding, I drive as if on auto pilot, crashing into railings outside a petrol station on Old Kent Road.

There was no pain until I noticed my suit jacket, wet with a sticky redness. My white shirt badly stained. Touching my sides, the blood gushes onto my hands.

I've been shot, I’ve actually been shot. I'm no longer numb — this is not one of my dreams.

Pain, fear, dread, all mix into a heady brew.

The door doesn’t open. There is a disconnect between what my mind is telling my body and what my body can do. I want to get out the car, but my legs don't move. I manage to use the weight of my body to get out.

I find myself now on the cold concrete, face up. I am gazing up into the morning sky. I feel as if I've been hit by multiple trucks. Everything I had wanted I had, yet all of it in this moment was useless. This brand-new Ozwald Boateng suit blood stained, torn, bullet riddled, dirty Gucci loafers encasing feet that won’t move, my brand-new Porsche, a mangled wreck of steel. 

"Kofi. be careful, I know you. You will get everything you desire, but don't get all you want and lose what you need."

My mother’s voice echoes in my head.

‘Don’t get all you want and lose what you need."

***

Summer. 1997., Badric Court Estate, South London.

There’s nothing like a summer in South London. The streets sing with a chorus of sirens; the air is thick with danger. Everywhere is the promise of adventure. The barber shops not only serve as a place of grooming but are also our main source of news. The clippers hum. Trevor MacDonald is redundant here.

‘Who’s coming home from pen?’

‘Who’s going back in?’

‘Who got robbed? Who robbed them?’

‘Who got duppied? Who’s doing the killing?’

We children pretend not to listen to "big man" business. Flat capped elders sip on Guinness outside the betting shops, playing violent games of dominoes, whilst awaiting the results of the 2pm at Aintree. Well-trodden tales of life back home are loudly rehashed, over and over.

We did not care about any other part of London. Our world began in SW, ended in SE: even these two postcodes may as well, to us, have been two different nations altogether. Peckham for instance, was heavily Nigerian, whereas Battersea was more Ghanian. The Caribbeans were everywhere.

We dressed differently. We spoke differently. Our dress code would be Armani straights, diamond socks, Reebok Classics or Nike TN's. We wore white-black cycling caps. In the winter, we donned old school Shearling flyer jackets. Stone Island overshirts for the summer.

If you were making "real" money, you'd have an Avirex or two. Certain parts of South East London were closer to East London than to Brixton or Junction. The South East dress code was grittier, baggy jeans or Nike tracksuits, Warner Brother cartoon insignia Iceberg caps, Nike Triaxs or TN's. Probitos dressed us – anyone who was anybody would go to shop there, it was located just off Oxford Street, it was our Harrods.

In fact, the dermarcation was even clearer: SW would go to shop at Probitos. SE would go to rob it. 

Growing up in the 80s, now a teen in the late 90s, you could sense something was changing. England had tried to feed us images we could not relate to. Our heroes were not Frank Bruno or Lenny Henry – both of them were sell-outs to us, antiquated images of the docile, safe, black man. We cheered as kids when Iron Mike took him apart.

Tyson represented who we wanted to be. Every generation has their youth subculture, from the Teddy Boys in the 50s, to the Greasers, Punks, Skinheads. The young working class have always been the cultural spark that lights up a city. We had watched our parents work themselves ragged, some to early graves. Others just to keep their heads above water, people who diligently worked two jobs and still didn’t have enough money at the end of the month to pay bills or keep the electric from not running out. A life of constant work and misery just getting by was, understandably, unattractive to us.  We had grown up under Thatcher and her laissez-faire economic policy, and had seen who were enriched and whose communities were destroyed.

In short, we knew that there was an unregulated, highly competitive market on our doorsteps. And, like Thatcher, we wanted little state intervention. When you have very little to take pride in or claim as your own the small things begin to matter:  Your reputation, your name and where you come from is everything.

Money was the only thing at that time that gave me a glimpse of ‘freedom’. I needed it, as much and as fast as possible.  Being kept away in my room was difficult to deal with, but solitude had primed my mind to see it not as a cell.  It was instead a cocoon from which I would emerge.  I was clever enough to be amicable with most of the local gangs in my area but had an allegiance to none. My only allegiance was to money.

Through various schemes and savings, I had amassed the grand fortune of £165.80. It collected no interest at my particular bank: a Nike shoe box, stashed under my bed, but it would be enough to start my empire. It should have been £166, but my sweet tooth had caused me to spend the 20p on a pack of cola bottles.

It may not sound like much now, but, to a fifteen-year-old back then. it was a King’s ransom. Forgoing lunch, I had saved my £5 weekly allowance, politely borrowing money from school friends who knew, deep down, I had no intention of paying back. That may or may not be classed as robbery nowadays.

My biggest money maker was selling individual pages from pornographic magazines. As you can imagine, in an all-boys school before the internet, these were keenly sought after. It had become a weekly game of cat and mouse between me and Mr. Kumar at the shop. The operation was slick: wait until the shop was busy, grab a copy of the Sun, and appear to be reading.

‘Hey buddy! This is not a library! Either hurry buy or get out!’

You’d hear him shriek, in broken English, from the till. Distracted by a customer, I’d reach on my tip toes to grab a copy of the escort magazine. Using a Stanley knife, I’d sliced the inner lining of my school blazer to make a large, magazine-sized inner-pocket.  The perfect hiding spot. Then, newspaper in hand, I would press my forearm against my ribs, holding the magazine in place, walk to the till and pay for my newspaper.

Mr. Kumar would stare at me, trying to see if I showed any sign of worry or stress, trying to psych me out. This became my favourite part, a battle between two old time gun slingers. Who would draw first? I had spent so many nights reading up on my heroes Baby Face Nelson, John Dillinger who would never run out of a bank after committing a heist, so as not to draw attention to himself.  The way my heart would thump out of my chest became part of the buzz. Learning how to control my nerves under pressure felt like holding my breath under water and, as soon as I stepped out the shop, I'd let out an immense exhale. Job done.

By the time I had started college there was sizable list of both buyers and sellers of goods. Clothing? Electronics? Stuffed toys?  You name it, it was bought and sold.  There were few questions and the pay was good. I would act as a middleman, making sure both parties were happy with transactions and I wouldn’t deal with any new clients unless they came recommended.

In this line of work, trouble need just a day to find you.

And find me it did.