The Dirty South

by Alex Wheatle

  If the weather was sweet on Sundays or a bank holiday I’d drive Akeisha and Curtis to the south coast or somewhere, usually leaving about six in the morning to beat all the traffic. It felt good playing Paps and on a few occasions I brought up the idea of Akeisha and I bringing another baby into the world. I felt old enough at twenty but she trampled the idea saying she wanted to get settled first in her own place and shit. But it was an education watching her raise Curtis. He wasn’t allowed to watch any TV. Talk radio was OK, for according to Akeisha and her mum it made him pay attention to what was being said. Working Curtis’s attention span became a familiar phrase for me. We talked and read to him constantly and all this seemed to be working ’cos Curtis was another Davinia in the making. He was way ahead of any other kid of his age I knew. Scary shit.

  So as I took Akeisha in my arms for the last dance at my uncle Royston’s wedding, I was well content. I closed my eyes, thinking to myself life don’t get much better than the shit I had. But I was interrupted by Noel.

  ‘Hey, Dennis,’ he nudged.

  ‘What is it? Can’t you see man’s dancing with his chick?’

  ‘It’s important, bruv. Trust me.’

  ‘I don’t care what it is! Bin Laden could be outside with his brothers and his fucked-up beard. But I’m still gonna finish my dance with Akeisha…’

  ‘Yeah but you two can finish that off tonight. Man needs to talk.’

  ‘Man needs to dance! You know how it’s been fucked up today, Noel. With all the family and shit, doing introductions and shit. I haven’t had no time with my chick.’

  ‘Dennis, stop swearing!’ Akeisha rebuked. ‘Why is it that when Noel’s around you swear more?’

  ‘Well, tell Noel to find Priscilla and dance with her.’

  ‘She’s outside with your paps, Sharon, Everton, Cara, Denise and all of them,’ said Noel. ‘They’re all burning fat-heads. Even Royston wants your paps to build him a fat-head that he can burn before he sets off on honeymoon.’

  ‘Burning!’ I raised my voice. ‘If Aunt Jenny catches them they’re all gonna catch a fire.’

  Akeisha pulled herself away from me. ‘Five minutes, Dennis,’ she said… ‘You two lovebirds chat if you have to. I’m gonna get myself some curried goat.’

  ‘Can you get some for me?’ asked Noel.

  ‘You’ve had two plates already!’ replied Akeisha.

  ‘Yeah, I know,’ said Noel. ‘But I don’t get invited to weddings that often. In fact this is only my second one. Brothers ain’t walking down the aisle too much with their chicks. Simple as. So man has to eat tonight and sample all the food he can ’cos who knows when the next wedding will be? You get me? Get me a chicken pattie too and some of them cheesy biscuits. Oh, and some of that potato salad shit.’

  Standing with her hands on her hips, Akeisha glared at Noel.

  ‘Please,’ Noel remembered.

  I watched Akeisha laugh and shake her head before she walked off towards the kitchen. Damn! She could walk sexy! Naomi Campbell, run and collect your motherfucking P45!

  I turned my attention to Noel. I wasn’t the happiest, smiliest hyena in the pack… ‘Burn you, Noel! All day I’ve been trying to have some time with Akeisha! And now you proper fucked up my dance with her.’

  ‘Don’t worry about it, bruv,’ Noel said. ‘You’ll get to wok it later on.’

  ‘Fuck you, Noel!’

  ‘Why you swear so much when I’m around you?’ Noel laughed.

  ‘Fuck you!’

  ‘Anyway, lover boy, I just got a call from Nathan,’ said Noel.

  ‘This conversation’s gonna be dead quick time if you call me lover boy again… Simple as.’

  ‘Oh shut the fuck up, Dennis, and stop being a fucking pussy! Now listen up, lover boy.’

  ‘Nathan called?’ I said. ‘We haven’t done business with Nathan for ages. What does he want? Did you know his fucked-up, traitor brother is high up in the Feds? He’s even got a ride with all sirens and shit! No, Noel, we have to burn any dealings with Nathan. Fuck him and his Fed brother…’

  ‘He wants three ozes.’

  ‘Three ozes!’

  ‘Yeah, he wants to start shotting again.’

  ‘He wants to start shotting and his brother is a Fed? That’s fucked up, Noel. Tell Nathan to get a job checking illegally parked cars or shit like that… His parents would be proud if he done shit like that, more proud of him than the other son.’

  ‘No, it’s all good, Dennis,’ Noel argued. ‘Nathan has left home. He lives with that long-face girl, Stephanie. Stephanie Davies. The junz bitch who used to go to Stockwell youth club and she honey-trapped this fuck-off-faced short brother from Harlesden. You know the weird brother, the one where you’re not sure which one of his eyes is looking at you. He was mercy-woked by Shyanne Moore after a burning session at Blackie Norton’s gates… Them Harlesden boys are all weird.’

  ‘Don’t remember this guy from Harlesden or Stephanie Davies,’ I said.

  ‘You must remember, she’s got man hands. Proper huge. Like them old school Jamaican plumbers. She can merk a man with a single slap.’

  ‘Oh yeah. I remember her. Fuck! Why did Nathan move in with that? The government need to have a full enquiry into that messed-up decision. That bitch should be giving kids free rides on Blackpool beach or carrying Jesus into Jerusalem. Have you seen the size of her feet? Think a fucked-up Charlie Chaplin with even bigger feet and you get the scene. Fuck my days! Her feet are big.’

  ‘Correct! That’s the bitch. Anyway, here the coup,’ Noel continued… ‘Nathan don’t chat to his Fed brother. Them two fell out. I think it was because Nathan went to his gates while some of his Fed brothers were there and Nathan, forgetting himself, started to build a fat-head.’

  ‘They fell out?’ I asked.

  ‘Yeah,’ Noel replied. ‘Proper fell out. So it’s all good. He wants the food in three days time so you’re gonna have to contact Dryneck.’

  ‘Hold on a minute,’ I said. ‘We sure we wanna deal with Nathan?’

  ‘Why not? OK, we had to pound him a couple of times but he come through. He showed us love and the P’s, which is the important shit.’

  ‘He might be an undercover Fed? You never know, bruv.’

  ‘Don’t be a fool, Dennis. You think the Feds are gonna give two black brothers a job in the same station? You ever seen two black Feds in the same ride? You ever seen two black Feds ride on horses together? Besides, Nathan’s too dumb, even for a Fed.’

  I thought about it. No, I had never seen two black Feds in the same ride. And Nathan is a damn fool.

  There were still stacks of beers and drinks on the tables near the kitchen so I walked over to them and grabbed two for Noel and myself. I offered Noel his drink. He took a glug and said, ‘So are you on this, lover boy?’

  ‘Yeah, I am,’ I answered. ‘But Nathan will have to wait. My great aunt Jenny is here and ’cos Mum didn’t get no time off work I have to drive Aunt Jenny around in my ride. And next Saturday my granny is leaving for good. So man has got family commitments, you get me? Tell Nathan he will get his three oz of food in over a week, say ten days. I still can’t see why you interrupted my dance with Akeisha? You could have waited.’

  ‘I wanted to tell you about this shit before I drink too much.’

  ‘You’re a joker, Noel. Anybody would think you get jealous when I’m dancing with my chick.’

  ‘Fuck you! I ain’t no fucking chi chi man!’

  ‘Alright! It was a joke! Calm down. Anyway, this Nathan thing sounds all good.’

  ‘OK,’ Noel agreed. ‘Deal done. Now let us sample more food.’

  I looked up and Akeisha was walking towards us with two plates of food. She offered one to Noel and she started to eat from the other plate. ‘Where’s mine?’ I asked.

  ‘You didn’t ask for any,’ she said.

  ‘I don’t believe this!’

  With Noel’s giggling sounding in my ears I went to the kitchen to get my cu
rried goat. I returned to a table where Noel and Akeisha had parked themselves and thought to myself it was a good day.

  Six days later. Most of my family were having dinner in this Jamaican restaurant called Bamboula’s on Acre Lane in central Bricky. We proper packed out the place… It was good to see Great Uncle Jacob there, Aunt Jenny’s ex-husband. I only chatted briefly with him at the wedding but I had cool memories of him giving me sweets when I was young and telling me Bible stories. Throughout the dinner, Aunt Jenny glanced at Uncle Jacob suspiciously but he didn’t care. It was clear that the old man was very close to Granny and she was proper happy for him to be there. Davinia was glad to see him and talk to him too. She always got on better with old people than she did with her own age despite her attempts to appear cool with her geeky fucked-up friends.

  Great Aunt Jenny called the meal Hortense’s Last Supper in England but it was Paps, Mum, Auntie Denise and Uncle Royston who persuaded everyone to come. There were secret riffs, arguments, ism-schisms and all kinda hating shit going on in my family so the achievement of twenty-three of us sitting down to dinner was a proper good one. Even Mum came and after the awkward how-nice-it-is-to-see-you-after-such-a-long-time shit, Mum complained about the cleanliness of the wine glasses. After that it was all good.

  Granny got very emotional and told us all the story about her arrival in London almost forty-three years ago. As usual she made us all laugh when she said that her husband Cilbert thought that the smoke coming out of terraced houses was the result of untold men working in untold factories.

  ‘But what do me have for the forty-three years since me come here?’ lamented Granny, becoming misty-eyed. ‘Not too much.’

  ‘You have the love and affection of all of us,’ said Paps. ‘Just by coming here all those years ago you have given us opportunity. Opportunities that still don’t exist in Jamaica even now. We might whinge, moan and complain about this country but at least it gives opportunity.’

  Even Mum nodded to that thought. Aunt Jenny hugged Granny and I just had to big-up the way them two wiped away each other’s tears, fixed each other’s make-up and adjusted each other’s hair.

  Following the meal, every one of us went up to Granny and gave her a hug. She had now stopped crying and her smile and feistiness returned. When I reached her she whispered, ‘Me want you to keep your promise, Dennis. If you have a boy-child me want you to call him David.’

  ‘Of course, Granny. No worries. And if I am blessed with a daughter I’ll call her Hortense.’

  I could feel her cheeks opening into a bigger smile upon my shoulder and she said, ‘Let her dance, Dennis. Yes, let her be free and dance.’

  It was hard to imagine that when Granny was the same age as me she was living in the Jamaican bush, stripping corn, feeding chickens and shitting in a pit. I will miss her tales and I hope my memory serves me well enough so I can tell her stories to my kids.

  I went to bed that night thinking who’s gonna be the one to nag us to attend church as a family? Who’s gonna be the one who makes rum punch at Christmas? Mum tried to make it once and it was a disaster. Who’s gonna be the one to shut up Paps when he gets in lecturing mood? Who was gonna dance in my front room like Bojangles when Davinia passes another set of exams? Who was there to ask if I wanted some advice about chicks and sex? Where could I go if I wanted some quiet, to get away from my parents and Davinia for the odd weekend? I thought about all the other third generation Jamaican kids out there of my age and whether they missed their grannies if they moved back to the Caribbean or passed away. What do you do about that missing link in your life? Why is it easier to talk to grannies about your worries and strife than your own parents? I started to miss her more than I ever realised.

  Next morning it wasn’t my alarm that woke me but a call from Noel. I didn’t want to answer it but he would carry on ringing me all day if I didn’t pick up. ‘Have you called Gloria?’ he wanted to know.

  ‘No, not yet, bruv.’

  ‘Your granny’s gone, yeah?’

  ‘Her flight is this morning, Paps drove her to the airport.’

  ‘Then what are you waiting for? Call Gloria.’

  ‘What’s the rush?’

  ‘I wanna use half of Nathan’s money to pay for my ride to clear MOT. Also Mum wants to pay her mobile bill and do a bit of shopping. Oh, and she’s getting her weave done next Friday and you know the hairdresser’s ain’t cheap.’

  ‘Stop sweating, bruv. I’ll call Gloria before I go to work.’

  I slipped out of bed, went to my chest of drawers and pulled on a pair of my Pierre Cardin boxers; since I had been going with Akeisha I preferred to sleep naked. Sitting back down on the bed, I grabbed my phone and thumbed in Gloria’s number…

  Over the last three years or so we met in supermarkets, bingo halls, wine bars, bowling alleys and even one time in a leisure centre’s squash court for us to do trade; proper distracted by her fine legs she beat the fuck out of me in squash… She always came to our meetings very well garmed, she would rant about her politics for a bit, count the P’s in that bank teller way of hers and drive off in her sky-blue Audi sports.

  ‘Hi, Gloria, what’s gwarnin?’

  ‘Dennis? So early?’

  ‘I wanted to call you before I step out to work.’

  ‘Is that right?’

  ‘Yeah. How’s things?’

  ‘You know, this and that,’ she replied. ‘Getting peed off with my boss telling me to remind customers of our exceptional deals on house insurance, blah fucking blah.’

  ‘Why do you stay working in the bank? Seems like you’ve hated it for so long?’

  ‘Stability, I guess. And I’ve built up quite a substantial clientele for my other business. Anyway, I will soon head west.’

  ‘Head west?’

  ‘Yeah, America.’

  ‘America?’

  ‘I’ll tell you more about it when we meet. What can I do for you?’

  ‘I need six green Aussies.’

  ‘Each baggy green wrapped up like Christmas prezzies?’

  ‘Yeah. Neatly, with a bow and shit.’

  ‘OK, no worries, mate.’

  Gloria’s attempt of an Aussie accent was shit.

  ‘Where shall we meet?’ I asked.

  ‘You’re lucky, Dennis. I have quite a lot of green Aussies walking around butt naked in my depot. We’ll meet this evening. 8 p.m. The underground car park at Asda’s in Clapham Junction. I have to do a little shopping this evening. I’m gonna try and cook a lasagne for Dryneck.’

  ‘Lasagne? Shouldn’t you try rice and peas or something?’

  ‘I can never get the hang of rice and peas, I always flood the rice. Anyway, enough about my culinary skills.’

  ‘The usual rules?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes, the usual rules. You should know me by now, Dennis. I’m a creature of habit.’

  That meant that she would only deal with me, nobody else was allowed to come along. We had been buying all types of cannabis off her for over two years and she still didn’t trust me enough to bring Noel. Mind you, Noel did scare the fuck out of most white women.

  At first, I was surprised that it was Gloria who did most of the selling but it made perfect sense. I guessed Dryneck bought the stuff from a port of entry somewhere and he passed it on to Gloria to do the retail shit. What Fed is gonna stop and search a stunning wokable blonde who looks like Lana Turner? Dryneck and Gloria didn’t make most of their income from the likes of me, but whole-selling to city types, business men, celebrities, anti-Nazi long-haired freaks and white liberals who went on legalize drugs marches; strangely, the one time I got involved with one of those marches I was just about the only black brother there. All these trying-so-desperately-to-be-cool freaky white people were coming up to me, saying things like cool and aaaiiigghhhtt! It was fucking horrific. And when I think about it, what the fuck was I doing on a legalise cannabis march anyway? If weed was legalised there’ll be no more shottas and I’d be out of a sweet
little earner.

  One look at Gloria and there’s no way that dopeheads won’t agree to pay the set price because as most of her customers were men, they thought they might get a wok out of it. Pussies! For whatever reason, Dryneck had Gloria under one piece of heavy lock and ’cos he was ugly as shit I never worked that one out.

  Noel and myself were now careful of who we sold our weed to. Noel worked the snooker halls of south London, the rave clubs, wine bars where they played loud R&B music, gigs at venues like the Bricky Academy; he was bold enough to walk up and down the queue outside. He sold mostly to white brothers. They didn’t sweat you about the prices and offered you less grief than black brothers. As for me I had a sweet customer base at my college. White girls mainly who were studying shit like administration, media, IT and how to be a legal secretary. I guess they bought the skunk ’cos they wanted to impress their cousins who lived in boring fucked-up places like Leatherhead and Sutton. I could just imagine them saying This is Brixton skunk, girlfriend. From Brixton!

  Again, no negotiations on price, no arguments, they just bought my shit without so much as a peep to check my merchandise. My skunk was proper good though. Students are always bitching that they’re broke but they always had enough dollars to buy my food. Easy money.

  Now and again I would get invited to the odd white people party but burn that shit. White people love to sit down, get drunk, dance badly and pass their fat-heads around where untold acne-fucked-up mouths pollute the spliff. Well fuck that! No one was gonna put their lips around my big-head.

  Also, I done a bit of trade with some of the white chicks who brought their rides to the garage. I’m not sure if my boss, Everton, knew what was going on but I could have handed out invoices for skunk as well as six-month car services. There were only a few black brothers who we sold to and Noel and myself knew them since school days. Nathan was an example of that. Selling blatantly at youth clubs, on road and other places where the brothers hung out was even too dangerous for Noel. We left that shit for the young pups coming up.