‘You’re not going anywhere,’ Abu’s mother shouted after him. He was standing at the door, keys in hand.
‘I just want to see my mates. I’ve been indoors since Saturday night.’
His mother stepped in front of him and put the chain on. Symbolic. She was good with her gestures, like with her looks. Abu defied her. Looked away but his body was clear; he wasn’t giving in, not this time. His face wasn’t just stubborn: there was hurt there. Something that everyone seemed to miss had bubbled up to the surface. You could smell it. You could even touch it. It was there. His mother studied his turned-away face. She pulled him into the living room. The TV was on. The same picture on repeat. A large building. In flames. The silhouette of a woman, captured mid-air, jumping to safety. From her flat. On the ground, people with outstretched hands, reaching for her. The fire ravaging the large carpet shop. Abu’s mother covered her mouth with her hand. He could hear her breathe before she pulled the twins close to her, one in each arm.
‘Watch this.’ She was looking at him.
The news of riots, sparking in Tottenham and quickly spreading across the capital. Abu got it, Karl’s missed calls. Six of them. Eight texts. tell me waz goin on. wtf?! News was not on his programme schedule. He had no clue whatsoever, had missed the whole thing like proper because he had been tired of his new mates, who weren’t really friends at all. And Karl, who had disappeared from his radar altogether. And the adults, who were supposed to be fair and shit, and not dump everything on him.
‘You’re not going out.’ His mother was all authority, and released her tight grip on the twins. Mother and son stared at each other.
‘You are not going out Abubakar, I mean it.’
The twins sat on the floor, eyes on their brother. His sister said, ‘Mom, why are you angry with Abu?’
Mama Abu shook her head. No reply. Eyes on Abu. This wasn’t even telepathic communication any more. It was clear and straight. She went back into the kitchen. Abu sat down and changed channels. The twins were up on him.
‘Why is mom angry with you?’
‘I don’t know.’
The footage was changing but showed the same. It was everywhere. Mark Duggan, a black man, had been shot by police in Tottenham. The circumstances seeming like usual – dodgy. White police, young black man. Dead. Days later, anger was all out of control. Spread and spread, first across the city, then across the country. The twins were glued to the pictures, couldn’t look away.
‘Abu, why is she jumping?’
‘She’s trying to be safe innit. The building is burning.’
‘But why is it burning?’
‘Someone put it on fire.’
‘But she’ll hurt herself, Abu, right?’
‘It’s more dangerous to stay inside. The flames would get her first, for sure.’
‘Where is she going to live now?’
‘Don’t know, maybe relatives.’
‘Did she hurt herself?’
His phone was beeping. There was force when he replied to the questions that kept coming like a broken tap.
‘I don’t know. I’m not there, innit.’ He walked back to his bedroom and checked his mobile. man it’s like going on evrywhere. out of control. what u up 2? like rite now … ;)))
One of his new mates. Shame Kyle and Mark weren’t around. At least they were decent. This lot was all group pressure and he didn’t even know half of the guys bouncing along when they met up. He looked at Karl’s messages and finally replied. only jus realised. all gud. what do u hear ova there? And Karl’s reply came seconds later. Omg. reply nxt time! where r u?!!!! It was a warm afternoon. Another text, another mate. He sat up, his face tense. Brain working. His mother was preparing dinner; he could hear the water running in the sink, the clonk of pots. It was only one large step to the wardrobe. Under a few T-shirts he found the sweater he was looking for and grabbed his older trainers that were stored away with his other shoes. The fabric was cool when he slipped the jumper over his head. The trainers felt a bit odd. Stiff, unfamiliar but after flexing his toes a few times they gave in and remembered his shape, his weight. The twins were running past the door.
‘You do, you do, you do!’ the boy shouted.
‘Never, never, never,’ the girl shot back.
Abu sat back on the bed. He could hear his mother whistling. A song he knew from when he was just the twins’ age. She just couldn’t get over it, loved that tune to death.
sorry been out of it. city jus killin me rite now, like proper. home bt leavin now. hackney. catch u l8r?