Dubious Moves

The cousins had been chattering through the night, following coverage of the previous day’s incidents on TV. His English wasn’t quite as good yet, but he got the gist. It was Friday, and he was a bit late in waking up. He rushed through his showering and dressing. No time to shave, could do that later. He had to go and install that fire detector. He wondered if he should call Avi, and decided that it would be better if he called en route. At least he could say he was on his way. He hoped yesterday’s incidents would not delay him.

He was reasonably at home in this country. Since he was a kid, he had been determined that he would climb his way out of the slums. Not by football, as so many of his mates dreamed. He used to love the game, like them, but he knew that not everybody would be a Ronaldo to rise from the slums through football. He ground his way through a diploma, and landed up here following cousins with similar dreams. He sent money back home. He knew the parents needed it, though he sometimes was angry as what he saw as their grasping. They knew little of his life; how he was technically an illegal immigrant, how he had to scrape and save. He went to Church regularly. An occasional blowout at a pub was all he allowed himself, and even the football he restricted to watching on TV. Three years, he told himself. Three years, and he would have enough to go back on a holiday, with some money. And who knew ? If he could, he would buy that ranch and settle there.

He caught the bus at Tulse Hill, and got down at Brixton. The station was closed, damn. Probably yesterday’s result. He hopped onto the bus again, and got down at Stockwell. He stopped momentarily to pick up a free newspaper, and heard the train. Running easily, he used his Oyster Card to pass through the turnstile, and boarded the train. He sat down, and began to open the sports page. He had to practice his English.

The man at the left suddenly was yelling, and holding his arms. Oh my god, it’s a white gang, he thought. Even as he attempted to rise, he was thrown on the floor, and he tried to twist. His face was being ground into the floor. He heard a shout : Police. Polizei, he thought. Safe. But what if they asked his papers ? And ohh FUCK, Avi was going to howl him out for being late on the job.

The first bullet shocked him. He felt the blinding pain and the wetness in his shoulder. In the split second before the remaining six started their journey into his head, it flashed in his head, “But I thought I BELONG here".

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Material from here, here and here.