by Humza Arshad
Contents
CHAPTER ONE: A Bee Named Mustafa
CHAPTER TWO: Little Badman / Big Trouble
CHAPTER THREE: Punishment Time
CHAPTER FOUR: Grandpa’s Greatest Trick
CHAPTER FIVE: Coach Khan
CHAPTER SIX: The Grandpa Situation
CHAPTER SEVEN: Aunties, Aunties Everywhere
CHAPTER EIGHT: Weird Weekend
CHAPTER NINE: Access Denied
CHAPTER TEN: The Assembly
CHAPTER ELEVEN: Terrible, Terrible, Terrible!
CHAPTER TWELVE: The Warehouse
CHAPTER THIRTEEN: The New Canteen
CHAPTER FOURTEEN: Grounded
CHAPTER FIFTEEN: The Talent Show
CHAPTER SIXTEEN: Badman Done
Disappearing Coin Trick!
Acknowledgements
About the Authors
Humza Arshad
Humza Arshad is the first British YouTuber to have his own scripted comedy series on BBC Three in the mockumentary series Coconut. Since accumulating over ninety million views on his channel Humza has used his influence and comedy for a greater purpose. In 2015, Humza performed at one hundred and twenty schools using comedy to prevent at risk teens of becoming radicalised. He is currently an ambassador for YouTube’s Creators For Change campaign.
Henry White
Henry White is a comedy writer, working in television, online, and most recently in children’s fiction. He grew up in West London, began his career in animation, has written and directed adverts for the BBC, worked as a sitcom staff writer, and enjoys penning silly songs for comedy channels. He also has a birthmark shaped like a duck.
To my mum and dad, my family, my three-and-a-half fans (I may have more but that’s just an estimate) and, most importantly, to God – Humza
For Ellen, who read with me – Henry
CHAPTER ONE
A Bee Named Mustafa
You’ve probably heard of me, right? Little Badman. No? Oh. Well … Doesn’t matter. You will do one day. I’m gonna be big. And not like my Uncle Abdul, who ate his own bodyweight in samosas and ended up in hospital. The good kind of big. Rich, famous and respected. Like Jay-Z, or that old white man from KFC.
I was always destined to be big. Even when I was born my mum said it was like trying to fit a nappy on a dishwasher. I call it big boned. Whatever. Point is, I’m a big fish in a small pond. Like a shark in a fish bowl, or a pit bull in a hamster cage. Sooner or later, I’m gonna explode out of there and the world is gonna know my name. Humza Khan. But you can call me Little Badman.
My path to greatness wasn’t always clear. Even a ninja-rapper-gangster like me has to start somewhere. And I started in the hood. Proper gangland territory: the Little Meadows Primary School, Eggington. To say there was a lot of gun crime would be an understatement. There was loads. Just not in Eggington. Mostly in America, I think. Still, I reckon it shaped me into the twelve-year-old I am today.
But nothing, and I mean nothing, shaped me as much as my final year at primary school. I don’t know if you’ve ever seen any war movies, about Vietnam or Iraq or the Galactic Empire, but none of that compares to what I went through in my final year at school. To call myself the greatest hero the world has ever known would be arrogant, so I won’t do that. I’ll leave you all to form your own opinion once you get to the end of my tale.
And, like so many of history’s greatest conflicts, it all began with something so small. In my case, it was a bee named Mustafa …
I was sitting in class next to Umer, when his pencil case started to vibrate.
‘Is it me or is your pencil case ringing?’ I asked, watching the little metal box rattle along the desk.
‘Nah, that’s just my bee,’ replied Umer. ‘He’s always doing that.’
‘Why’ve you got a bee in your pencil case, man? Let that bee go!’
‘No way,’ Umer said, trying carefully to peer inside the lid without the bee escaping. ‘I’m keeping him. I’ve never had a pet before.’
‘A bee ain’t a pet. You can’t stroke a bee or teach it tricks. A bee’s a bee.’
‘Doesn’t mean it can’t be a pet,’ said Umer. ‘My cousin had a worm named Liam.’
‘Yeah, well, at least a worm ain’t gonna sting you.’
‘Mustafa wouldn’t sting me.’
‘Who the hell is Mustafa?’
‘My bee,’ replied Umer.
‘You called your bee Mustafa?’
‘Yeah, Mustafa Bee.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I … must-av-a bee.’
‘I don’t even know why we’re friends, man.’
See, this is the kind of thing I have to put up with. I’m not saying Umer’s an idiot, but you can only watch someone put their shoes on the wrong feet so many times before you start to wonder. Still, he is my best friend. Not forever, obviously. When I’m a famous ninja-rapper I’ll probably be best friends with Busta Rhymes or Dr Dre, or one of the Power Rangers. But, for now, I’ve got to put up with Umer.
‘Ow!’ shouted Umer, slamming the pencil case shut.
‘Did you just get stung?’ I asked.
‘No,’ replied Umer, rubbing his swollen thumb. ‘Well … maybe.’
‘Oh great,’ I said. ‘Now you’ve killed him.’
‘“Killed him”?’ gasped Umer, staring at the pencil case containing his bee. ‘What are you talking about? I haven’t touched him!’
‘You don’t have to. Once they sting you, that’s it – they die.’
‘What? I didn’t know that!’ cried Umer. ‘Why did you do it, Mustafa? Why?’
‘Quiet down, man – we’re gonna get in trouble.’
‘Oh, Mustafa! Why?’ wailed Umer, tears filling his eyes.
‘You two!’ came a voice from the front of the class. ‘What’s going on back there?’
‘Uh, nothing, miss,’ I replied. ‘Umer just got stung by a bee.’
‘He’s dying, miss! He’s dying!’ bawled Umer.
‘Who’s dying?’ said Miss Crumble, sounding panicked.
‘Mustafa!’ replied Umer.
‘Who on earth is Mustafa?’ asked Miss Crumble, arriving at the desk.
‘My bee! My poor dead bee!’
‘A bee?’ she said, looking a little nervous and taking a step back. ‘You’re sure he’s dead?’
‘He’s a goner, miss,’ I replied. ‘Umer basically murdered him.’
‘I didn’t mean to!’ wailed Umer.
‘OK, as long as you’re certain he’s dead,’ she said, looking relieved.
‘I’m afraid so, miss,’ I replied, shaking my head. ‘He’s buzzed his last buzz. Gone to the great beehive in the sky. He’s making honey for Tupac.’
‘For goodness’ sake,’ muttered Miss Crumble. ‘It’s always something with you two, isn’t it?’
‘Don’t blame me,’ I replied. ‘Blame Mr Beekeeper here.’
‘Hey, look!’ Umer beamed, looking up from the open pencil case. ‘He’s not dead after all!’
Now it wasn’t long after that that I learned some important lessons about bees. Firstly, not all bees die after they sting you – turns out that’s just honeybees. Secondly, big hairy Mustafa was actually a bumblebee and had no intention of dying anytime soon. And thirdly (and this one was probably most important of all), Miss Crumble is, and always has been, super allergic to bee-stings. Like crazy, serious, life-threatening allergic. Oops.
Miss Crumble let out a scream so loud and horrible that Wendy Wang’s glasses shattered right there on her face. Miss C began to flail her arms around like a windmill in a hurricane, desperately tryin
g to swat poor Mustafa.
‘Calm down, miss,’ I said. ‘It’s only a bee.’
But Miss Crumble wasn’t listening. She was in a wild panic. No one in the class was laughing, because none of us could decide if this was hilarious or actually a bit scary. I mean, seriously, she looked insane. She was knocking over desks, pulling posters off the walls, spinning around so fast I felt dizzy just watching her. And then the inevitable happened. You can only imprison an innocent bee for so long before he cracks. And Mustafa had had enough.
Flying between Miss Crumble’s windmilling fists, Mustafa scored a direct hit, right on the end of her nose. Pow! You could almost hear the sting popping into that big red veiny target. Miss Crumble froze instantly. She stopped screaming, stopped swinging her arms. She just looked at the end of her nose until she went fully cross-eyed. Mustafa looked right back at her. He wiggled his bum, gave a short victorious buzz and then flew out the window.
‘Bye, Mustafa,’ said Umer, waving. ‘I’ll never forget you.’
Miss Crumble still didn’t move an inch – except for her nose, which was already growing at an alarming rate. It was like someone was inflating a balloon in there. In an instant the swelling had spread to her cheeks, her neck, her hands.
She plonked down in her chair, looking dazed.
‘Mnnnggg nugg unggg,’ she said, which I think roughly translates as: my tongue has swollen.
‘Huh,’ I said, watching her slowly inflate. ‘Do you reckon she’s gonna burst?’
‘I hope not,’ replied Umer. ‘Maybe we should go get some help?’
‘I dunno. She’s had a pretty good innings.’
‘Humza!’
‘Yeah, yeah, OK,’ I said, pushing my seat out. ‘I mean, if you felt that bad about killing a bee, imagine how you’re gonna feel after killing a teacher.’
‘Humza!’ cried Umer, who was starting to look a bit ill himself.
‘Only playing, man. Come on – let’s go save the day.’
And with that we jumped up and ran off to look for a teacher who wasn’t about to explode.
When the ambulance took her away, Miss Crumble looked like a beach ball dressed as a woman. I couldn’t help but feel like maybe I was just a tiny little bit responsible. After all, I was the one who had assured her Mustafa was dead. But, in my defence, if there are gaps in my knowledge about bees, who could be more responsible than my own teacher? So really, when you take that into account, it was all Miss Crumble’s fault and I’m totally blameless. I felt much better after that.
‘Come on, Umer,’ I said. ‘Let’s go shoot some more scenes for the video.’
‘I don’t know, Humza. Aren’t we meant to be in a lesson?’
‘How we gonna go to a lesson when the teacher’s dead?’
‘Dead?’ said Umer, looking shocked.
‘Or sick, I don’t know. I ain’t a doctor. Now come on – if we’re quick, we can film the whole chorus before lunch.’
‘Not so fast, you two,’ came a booming voice from nearby.
‘Uh-oh,’ said Umer, swallowing so hard you could hear it.
Before we could even turn round, a large hairy hand fell on each of our shoulders.
‘What’s this I hear about you two and Miss Crumble?’ asked Mr Offalbox.
Now I don’t know what your headmaster’s like, but ours was big. King Kong big. Like a Volvo in a tie. Have you ever seen one of those cop shows on TV where there’s a really angry sergeant? Well, ours looked like the sergeant that ate that sergeant. He had this huge moustache, like the head of a broom, that stretched and contracted like a caterpillar when he spoke. His head alone must have weighed the same as my sofa. He was not someone you wanted to get on the wrong side of.
‘Uh, I can explain!’ I said as fast as I could get the words out.
‘No need for that, Humza,’ said Mr Offalbox. ‘The paramedics explained everything.’
Uh-oh. I had a sinking feeling I was about to get it, and get it bad. And, however bad Mr Offalbox could be, it wouldn’t come close to the trouble I’d be in when my mum and dad found out. No one punishes like a Pakistani parent. They take courses in it. Evening classes on the subject of making their kids suffer. So, at this point, I figured I might just have to run away and join the circus. Or the Mafia. Whichever was easier to get into. And then something unexpected happened.
‘You boys are heroes!’ said Mr Offalbox. ‘They say that without your quick thinking Miss Crumble might well have died. Well done, the pair of you!’
‘Oh, right,’ I said with a smile. ‘Yeah, I was about to say the same thing.’
‘Did they explain about Mustafa?’ asked Umer, before I could elbow him in the ribs.
‘Shut up about Mustafa!’ I hissed, then added a little louder: ‘What he means is, did they mention that we must-have-a reward for our bravery?’
‘Well, no, they didn’t,’ said Mr Offalbox. ‘But, now you mention it, I think that’s a very good idea.’
‘How about half a day off for good behaviour?’ I suggested.
‘HA HA HA!’ roared Mr Offalbox, leaning back with his hands on his hips. ‘Of course not! But I think I might just be able to convince the dinner ladies to give you a second helping of dessert.’
‘Yeah, good luck with that,’ I replied. ‘Those old girls are strict as. Have you even seen the healthy stuff they make us eat these days? I swear I’m turning into a rabbit.’
‘Just you leave it to me, Humza. I know a thing or two about charming dinner ladies,’ he said with a wink, and turned to walk away.
‘Urgh,’ I said to Umer after he’d gone. ‘Old people shouldn’t wink. I just swallowed some sick.’
‘Still, double dessert. That’s not a bad result,’ he replied.
‘Yeah, maybe we should nearly kill teachers more often!’
‘Hmm, I don’t know. One’s probably enough for me.’
‘Fair enough. Come on, then – let’s go film that shot.’
See, school is just a place I go to every day. Sort of like prison, but with worse food. My real work is making the greatest rap music video ever produced. How else am I expected to become so famous that people fight wars over me? I’m gonna be so big Little Badman Impersonator will be a valid career choice. I’m gonna be so popular that cats’ll learn to speak just to ask me for selfies. I’m gonna be so rich that even my butler’s butler will have a butler. And the only way to do any of that is to make myself a smash-hit music video. Enter my cameraman, Umer.
Now, Umer may not have a lot of media training, and he might be shooting on his dad’s old Nokia from the Stone Age, and he may shake quite a lot when he’s nervous, but, all of that aside, he’s got a pretty good eye. And, more importantly, he’s the only one I can get to do the job. But it shouldn’t matter too much – after all, when you’re pointing the camera at me, it’s hard to go wrong.
‘Uh, Humza,’ said Umer ten minutes later, while looking through the tiny screen on his phone. ‘I don’t know how gangsta this feels.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well … it kind of looks like you’re in a toilet. At a primary school.’
‘Really? How can you tell?’
‘Probably the little urinals. They’re a bit of a giveaway.’
‘Hmm. That ain’t ideal. But it’s the best we’re gonna do. Can you frame them out?’
‘Maybe, but I’m trying not to show too much of the graffiti.’
‘Why? We did that specially.’
‘Well, it’s just that it doesn’t look very real. You can tell we’ve done it on paper and stuck it to the walls.’
‘Of course we have. We don’t want to get in trouble, do we?’ I said.
‘Yeah, no, of course. But, you know, that’s the bit that’s not very gangsta.’
‘I see what you’re saying. Real rappers don’t worry about getting detention. OK, just show a bit of the toilets and a bit of the graffiti. People are mostly gonna be looking at me anyway.’
‘Got it,�
� said Umer, and hit RECORD.
I took a deep breath and pulled my best gangsta face (basically you just squint a little and look like you’ve never smiled for a photo in your life). Then I started spitting my rhymes:
‘B to the A to the D to the Man,
If other rappers can’t, Little Badman can.
Straight from the hood like a rat from a drain,
Rhymes so sick they’re melting your brain.’
That was as far as I got before the door to the toilet burst open.
‘There you are!’ snarled Mr Offalbox. Even with just his head peering round the door he seemed huge. Maybe the tiny urinals added to the illusion. It looked like the giant in Jack and the Beanstalk had stopped by for a wee. We had nowhere to run. And that was when I spotted her: Wendy Wang, peering round the door beside the headmaster. Of course! Classic Wendy Wang. She just couldn’t keep it to herself.
‘Wendy here says,’ began Mr Offalbox, ‘that perhaps you two aren’t the heroes I took you for. Is that so?’
‘Define “heroes”,’ I replied.
‘She says it was you two who got Miss Crumble stung in the first place, that you’d been tormenting that bee and then lied about it being deceased.’
‘How would Wendy Wang know? She hasn’t even got her glasses on.’
‘That’s your fault too!’ said Wendy, before hiding a little further behind the door.
‘Humza, imagine you were me,’ continued Mr Offalbox.
‘I don’t know if my imagination’s big enough, sir,’ I replied.
‘Shut up, boy,’ he muttered. ‘Now, if you were me and you received one side of a story from top student, class president and chess-team captain Wendy Wang, and a very different, contradictory story from D-student, class clown and boy voted most likely to get caught in a bear trap Humza Khan, who would you believe?’
‘Definitely the bear-trap guy. He sounds pretty honest.’
‘Well then, that’s where you and I differ,’ said Mr Offalbox, with narrowing eyes.
‘Does this mean we’re not getting our extra pudding?’ asked Umer.
