The Dirty South Read online

  ‘Greetings,’ the audience echoed, including Akeisha.

  I couldn’t believe this shit. Was it for real? A wind-up? From the golden prosperous lands of Nubia? Is she taking the fucking piss? From what my paps taught me those lands are modern-day northern Sudan and Ethiopia. Now, they’re not exactly oil-rich and the ghetto brothers over there don’t wear Nike One Tens. Queen Manash-her-face must have visited there recently and ate all the food. I looked at Akeisha and she was taking it all in, everyone was taking it all in. I half-expected Queen what’s-her-face to morph into Oprah Winfrey and to start talking about the inner you and all that meditation shit. Queen Salad Dodger then waddled about the stage and for a minute I thought the thing was gonna collapse and her weight would force her underground and she would end up roasted in the core of the earth. Unfortunately it didn’t happen.

  ‘We really have an excellent show for you tonight,’ she continued. ‘So without any more delay, first on the Arches stage tonight, all the way from Forest Hill in south east London, is Soulful Sonia!’

  The crowd stood up, clapped and cheered as if Muhammad Ali, Nelson Mandela and Bob Marley was in the house. Meanwhile, I wondered if I knew anyone who lived in Forest Hill… Nope, I didn’t. Forest Hill is the most boring place in the whole of South London and if any cool people did live there they would never admit it… As the bird shit drops, Forest Hill is only about six or seven miles away from Bricky but I’ve never heard in my entire life of anybody going to a party, a rave, a drink up, a wine bar, to wok a girl, to shot some skunk or to buy some garms in Forest Hill.

  Anyway, this tall black chick climbed onto the stage. She looked like Eryka Badu after a very generous dinner. You guessed it. She was wearing a Nefertiti head-wrap, robes, bangles and cheapo necklaces with crosses and ankhs hanging from them.

  She gazed at the crowd and then she sort of hugged herself before closing her eyes… I had the vibe that something seriously fucked up was about to happen. Then Soulful Sonia started to go on like one of them black women who are receiving the spirit in one of them fucked-up churches. Her head started shaking and I half expected her to froth at the mouth and give birth like John Hurt in Alien. Trust me, it was hard not to fall off my chair in hysterics. Everyone around me was taking this shit serious, including the few Muslim brothers at the back and that was surprising ’cos usually they have no time for women doing their shit.

  ‘I want you all to embrace your Africanness,’ Soulful Sonia urged, her eyes still closed, her head still rocking.

  Then the audience proceeded to hug itself. I was amazed. Even Akeisha was doing this shit… I nudged her. ‘Akeisha, that tall chick is crazy, man. The sister needs some serious counselling. I ain’t doing her shit, man. I’m not on it. I ain’t feeling this at all. She’s probably got issues about her mother not rocking her to sleep when she was a baby. Are all the acts psychologically fucked up?’

  Akeisha chuckled. ‘No, Dennis, and you don’t have to do what she says… Just relax, I’m sure there will be an act that you might like later on.’

  ‘Is this crane-legged chick gonna tell us all to start playing with ourselves next?’

  ‘Don’t be flippant, Dennis.’

  ‘I’m kinda peckish, Akeisha. Do you mind if I step out and get something to eat?’

  ‘No, course not. Feel free.’

  ‘I’m gonna get some hot brutal chicken wings, do you want any?’

  ‘No thanks. Dennis, keep your voice down.’

  I started to resent paying the brother at the gate five notes for this show. I looked up to the stage and Soulful Sonia now had her eyes open and she was glaring at me. Burn Soulful Sonia! As I left I heard Akeisha giggling and I walked to the exit with a zip and a boing in my step. Maybe sex was a possibility after the show.

  Deciding to eat my hot wings and fries outside the Arches I made sure I cleaned my fingers and mouth with the tissue provided. I then sprayed a little aftershave on my hands and dabbed my face before re-entering the poetry jam. To my relief Soulful Sonia had finished her fucked-up routine. As I returned to my seat I couldn’t resist a laugh to myself as I wondered what would Tupac think of it all. The wafer-bread-dodging hostess returned to the stage as I took my seat. Akeisha smiled at me and asked, ‘You alright? You might like the next act.’

  ‘Yeah, sorry I had to go out but I just had to fill that hole. You know how it goes… What’s the next act?’

  ‘The next act? Oh, just the reason why I brought you here.’

  ‘And now for your spiritual nourishment,’ the fat chick announced. ‘All the way from the Notre Dame estate in Clapham, we have the legendary Yardman Irie in the house tonight! Yardman Irie was the mic man for sound systems like Soferno B, Neville King, King Tubby and Crucial Rocker. But he’s gonna chant for us tonight!’

  I’ve heard of that name! He looked familiar. This Yardman guy had been inside my gates when Paps has his people around on boring Saturday nights.

  Dressed in green army fatigues and black army boots, Yardman Irie took to the stage as the crowd whooped and hollered. His dreadlocks were tickling his backside and in his right hand he was carrying this trophy thing. It looked like a golden microphone… He was followed onto the stage by this dread who was carrying a nyabinghi drum under his right arm. He looked like the kind of man who would eat you if you booed him. Yardman scanned the crowd and as he saw the Muslims at the back, he scowled… This might be interesting, I thought.

  ‘I know the brother,’ I nudged Akeisha. ‘I know the brother! My paps is his brethren. He comes to my gates. He killed out the fried dumplings last time he came.’

  ‘But have you heard him perform?’ asked Akeisha.

  ‘No, but I served him mango juice and snapper fish nuff times.’

  To be honest when I used to see Yardman inside my gates I thought he was a brother down on his luck. His wardrobe was always well sad. He didn’t wear Nikes, Adidas or even Reeboks.

  ‘Greetings to each and everyone,’ Yardman bellowed. ‘May the Most High be with you.’

  ‘And He with you,’ the crowd responded, save the Muslims.

  The dread started to lightly tap on his drum as Yardman held up his golden microphone thing for the crowd to see.

  ‘I won this so-called award a couple of weeks ago in a poetry slam,’ Yardman revealed. ‘This slam was organised by a poetry performance agency that call themselves Sour Pears and Maggots. They’re all white, nobody black on their fucking committee. They told me they would get me into the right places where I’ve never been. The right people will get to see me perform and they’ll say I’m good. I’ll be featured in the right magazines and be interviewed on the right radio stations… They thought I was stupid. I replaced right with white.’

  Yardman paused and looked into the crowd with his fiery eyes. I reckoned he smoked a massive head before he bounded onto the stage. The tension cranked up and I wondered how the white people in the audience were feeling. It was getting interesting.

  ‘But you know what?’ Yardman continued. ‘My mother thinks I’m good. My brothers think I’m good and my sisters think I’m good. I DON’T NEED NO RAAS VALIDATION FROM ANY WHITE MAN. SO BURN THEM AND BURN MY TEMPORARY VANITY!’

  From his trouser pocket, Yardman took out a lighter, clicked it and showed the flame to the crowd. To loud cheers he placed the lighter under the golden microphone. The thing refused to catch alight but now everyone was on their feet with their arms aloft in a clenched fist salute, even some obviously confused white people did this. I began to feel the vibe as the drummer increased the tempo. Akeisha started to nod her head as Yardman prepared to deliver his sermon. Before he began chanting, he threw the microphone thing over his shoulder. He then stood with his arms spread wide apart, imitating a cross. I’ve seen Michael Jackson do this shit but it seemed more real with Yardman doing it. He then burst into song, well, more like a chant. His voice easily filled the room.

  ‘Purify your heart clean

  I beg you give it up
>
  Give up your heart to Jah Kingdom

  Don’t you know that you are the children of the Negus.

  Too many youths simmering in the ghetto

  They don’t know which way to turn

  As the government puts them on go-slow

  Programmed by dumb programmes.

  By the age of thirteen

  They start selling the grammes.

  Nobody to teach them how to be a man

  How macho they can be is their only plan.

  As I look across the Brixton skyline

  Once there were schools

  Now expensive flats are designed.

  Many victories have been fought and won

  But the racists out there are still not done

  Too many glass ceilings for my black people

  They are put in place by the high officials.

  Too many black brothers opting out of the system

  For they only see blatant discrimination.

  Not too many will pass their examinations in June

  They don’t even have the attention span to watch a cartoon

  So many young brothers on the quick-march to their ruin

  Wearing big Nike trainers and their gunshot wounds.

  Too many black brothers in institutions

  Forgetting who they are and where they come from.

  Now we have the black politicians

  But all them worry about is their rich pension plans.

  Too many brothers refuse to have Jah in their lives

  Others fill the gap and they’re telling pure lies.

  The crescent moon is getting dangerous and stronger

  But resist the hype you Lion of Judah follower.

  So purify your heart clean

  I beg you give it up

  Give up your heart to Jah Kingdom

  Don’t you know that you are the children of the Negus.’

  The crowd was in a frenzy as Yardman punched the air and kept the pose of a clenched fist… At the back the few Muslims who were there were incensed but their shouts of ‘Kaffur! Kaffur!’ were drowned out by the cheering and applause… I nudged Akeisha, ‘You know what them Muslims are saying?’ I asked.

  ‘No,’ Akeisha admitted. ‘What does kaffur mean?’

  ‘Unbeliever,’ I revealed.

  As we swivelled around to look behind us we spotted a number of Muslims cursing as they departed the poetry jam.

  ‘Yardman is not exactly PC, is he, Akeisha,’ I remarked. ‘All that crescent moon is getting dangerous shit. He certainly fucked off the messy beard crew.’

  ‘He’s taking a stand,’ explained Akeisha. ‘Haven’t you heard that black Christian kids are being threatened by Muslim kids in schools?’

  ‘What? No, I don’t believe that. That’s what them scaremongers say. The Muslim thing is just a tiny thing in Bricky. There are a few black brothers who wanna play the rebel ’cos they can’t get no girl and shit… That’s all. It will never take hold and it will soon blow over.’

  ‘I wish it was that simple,’ said Akeisha. ‘Six months ago you would never see a Muslim brother at a poetry jam but we’ve just seen about five of them step from here tonight. Have you seen all those brothers trying to get into that mosque in Gresham Road? I’m telling you, Dennis, it’s no fashion thing. It’s here to stay. Some black girls I went school with are now wearing long garms and covering their faces. Now they bitch to me about how their new men treat them. They’re too scared to confront them themselves. In my opinion for women Islam’s a subservient religion. Christianity and Rastafari will no longer be the dominant faith in Bricky, Dennis…’

  Because the rest of the show was so bad, Akeisha and myself argued the Muslim issue until we left the place. It felt good to talk about serious issues with an intelligent sister. We even discussed the crusades and how Saladin kicked the butts of the Christians.

  ‘It’s worrying, Dennis,’ Akeisha continued the religious theme. ‘So few young people go to my church. And my mum, who’s always had a thing for rasta, says you don’t see the red, gold and green of Rastafari all that often these days. Brothers and sisters of our age don’t wear them colours proudly like our parents did.’

  ‘What do you expect, Akeisha? Bricky used to be controlled by West Indian people, they had it under a serious lock. And with them they brought their beliefs and the church. And in that community in my paps’ time you had that generational conflict with Rastafari and the church. But at least that conflict was with basically the same religion. Now, Bricky is slowly turning African. And most of Africa is Muslim… So you’re gonna see your Mosques and these things rise up. They’re gonna fill the vacuum.’

  ‘But I don’t like it,’ said Akeisha. ‘I can accept most of it but some of it is bad-mind. Look how Christian kids are being bullied at school.’

  ‘People are just making elephant shit out of rat piss, exaggerating all the while… Maybe those kids weren’t even Muslim at all but pretending.’

  ‘That’s my point, Dennis. That’s why it’s so worrying… Why would black kids with West Indian grandparents go around pretending they’re Muslims and threaten other kids?’

  I couldn’t answer that one.

  We walked along Bricky High Street talking about some aspect of Caribbean history. I can’t really recall what aspect of history we were discussing but what I do remember is how good I felt walking with Akeisha. Look and shed tears, motherfuckers…

  Reaching her gates at 11 30 p.m. I was relieved that there was no sign of Myrna. I parked myself on the black couch in the lounge as Akeisha went to a bedroom to check on her son, Curtis. In those moments when I was waiting for Akeisha to return, I was looking forward to wild sex like that Tommy Lee guy and Pamela Anderson on their bling boat. I closed my eyes and visualised Akeisha naked. She had toned thighs, generous breasts and her eyes were begging with me.

  She returned and she had taken her hat and leather jacket off to reveal a tight-fitting white crew-neck pullover and her hair pulled back in a ponytail. It improved the look of her perfect cheekbones. ‘Would you like a drink, Dennis? We haven’t got much alcohol but there is still some of Paps’ Jamaican rum, but I can’t imagine you drinking that, Dennis?’

  Jamaican rum? If I was with the brothers I would have gladly drained the fire-water but I was with Akeisha. ‘Jamaican rum?’ I said. ‘That drink messes up your kidneys, man. No, I don’t drink that. A coffee will be cool. Two sugars, brown sugar if you have it and a little bit of milk.’

  I didn’t normally take brown sugar with my coffee but I thought it was kinda cultured and classy to ask for it.

  Sitting on the couch I couldn’t see Akeisha. I heard her tinkering in the kitchen and I just had a sudden urge to go to her. So I got up and made my way to the kitchen. My heartbeat started to sprint and my forehead suddenly felt warm. Lust filled the rest of me. The kitchen was small but everything was neat and fitted… There was a washing machine and the fridge was taller than me. The fitted cupboards were clean and paint-advert white. A Flash kinda cleaning smell got up my nostrils…

  Akeisha was filling the kettle with water and she had already placed two mugs on the side… I walked up behind her wanting to kiss her. She turned around. ‘Dennis, you scared me. What is it? You want something to eat as well?’

  Instead of answering her I lunged forward and kissed her hard on the mouth. At the same time I squeezed her left breast with my right hand and I placed my left hand over her crotch. Akeisha pulled away her face, backed off and with a mighty swing of her right fist, punched me slap bang on the nose. ‘WHAT DO YOU THINK?’ She checked herself and lowered her voice. ‘What do you think you’re fucking doing, Dennis?’

  Dazed, I reeled back, covering my face with my hands. My eyes began to water but as I re-focused I saw Akeisha looking at me with disgust. I think she busted my nose…

  ‘I’m proper sorry, Akeisha,’ I apologised. ‘Shit. I didn’t mean to do that. I got caught up in the vibe of the night. Proper sorry, for
real. Believe me, man. Trust! It won’t happen again…’

  ‘You’re fucking right there!’

  ‘I didn’t know what I was thinking, Akeisha. Damn! I just thought… I fucked things up, haven’t I? I just thought. Proper sorry, man.’

  Shit! Was I in pain! Couldn’t let her know though.

  ‘That you could taste some pussy tonight,’ Akeisha finished the sentence for me. ‘All because I have one child it doesn’t mean I’m some kind of skettel or ho on road. You understand, Dennis?’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, I understand. I’m so sorry I disrespected you.’

  ‘I just didn’t expect you to be like that, Dennis. I was just thinking that you know so much about things and life and history. You’ve just spent the last half an hour giving me a lesson in Jamaican history. And now this! I thought you was different from the rest, Dennis. But you’re just like the other brothers in Angel Town and Bricky, just looking for a wok and don’t care how you get it or about the consequences.’

  ‘I am different, Akeisha. Trust me, I am different.’

  ‘I think you’d better leave.’

  ‘Can I make it up to you next week? Let me take you out for a proper dinner.’

  ‘Just leave, Dennis. I’m tired and I want to go to my bed.’

  ‘I’ll call you. You will pick up, won’t you?’

  ‘Dennis! Go home.’

  ‘Akeisha, I am proper sorry. You must believe that. You will pick up when I call you?’

  ‘I have to think about that.’

  ‘Don’t kill me for one mistake, Akeisha.’

  ‘This conversation is over.’

  ‘Akeisha!’

  ‘Remove yourself from my house, man!’

  She then marched to the front door and opened it for me. Did I feel like shit. Slowly I walked out of her flat and I heard the door slam behind me. I was feeling too ashamed to turn around. I’m not sure how I got home that night but when my head hit the pillow I was still cursing myself. She was right, from an articulate young brother I had turned into a sex fiend. How the fuck am I gonna win her back?