Survival

Quick Caveat

Right, so as this writing is quite different and much darker than my others, I felt the need for a quick explanation and a “viewer’s discretion advised” disclaimer prior to the piece.

First of all, the italics are not my writing. The author is Shakwa Maisara,
a student of QK, a high school in London known to have the most diverse and “underprivileged,” (as the social elite like to say for lack of a better word) student body. I heard him recite this at the QK Talent Show Competition, a show which I was invited to by another student whom I mentor as part of the UK Career Academy Foundation programme, a volunteer organisation designed to encourage again, the word “underprivileged,” students interested in a career in finance and/or banking. His lyrics revealed his strength and left a lasting impression which I wanted to share.

The non-italics are my writing, fictional, but based on a true story of someone I do know, and sadly enough, also of many that I do not.

“Fighting for an area code
What’s the point man?
It’s just a number on road
Stabbing people for nothing
I say that’s just cold.

She pulls out a hundred dollar bill from her Louis Vuitton purse. Music and laughter from the party filter through the shut bedroom door. She fixates on the line of white powder, oblivious to the world beyond the locked room. Her perfectly manicured hands roll the bill along the mirror. A rare smile saved for only these occasions escapes her lips in anticipation. Her eyes are hollow

They say the good die young,
Do the bad live old?
Don’t pick up the mac,
I say this is the time
All boys need to act

She snorts a line. A rush of pleasure surges through her veins. Her smile widens. She passes the bill over to her next friend.

You think I spit lies?
Nah blood this is fact
The aftermath’s worse
Than the final impact.

“Let’s party!” She unlocks the door and confidently steps back out into the party, her friends following close behind

14 and giving help and advice
Try taking it,
Before you start paying the price
You get a bullet to the chest
That feeling ain’t nice.

She comes from a wealthy, “stable” family. Bright, well educated, gorgeous; every opportunity at her fingertips.

Watch out for sly merkers,
They scurry like mice.
There’s less young men
We’ve lost too many lives

She is envied by many, has everything one could want but causes her to only thirst for more. Her smile belies her emptiness

‘Cos they wanted to play
With the guns and knives
In the street battle
Nobody survives.
You won’t get to be men
Going home to your wives

Blood trickles down her nose. She casually wipes it away.

Yh,
These bars might be greasy
Writing ‘em and standing here
Weren’t so easy
Do something with your life
Don’t be cheesy
It’s not ‘bout the South East
Or Norf Weezy

She is the perfect child. Her parents love her. She wants for nothing, but for that reason, she is never fulfilled

Rise,
To the top of your game
I don’t wanna see you stop
Until you reach fame
Upholding, your family
Will make your mum proud
Rather than feel shame

The high wears off, the depression sinks in. She has the money, the nice clothes, a good education, but it is not real. She is tired of the façade. Her feelings of anguish are real. She is lost without direction, she takes another line, and another

Don’t join a gang
It’s every man for himself
Fighting for them
Won’t add to your wealth
And playing with weapons
Is bad for your health
Like I said before
It’s every man for himself

Her heart is pumping faster, her mind is spinning, she wants more. It is too much, she falls to the floor

Yh,
I might be rapping a verse
But take note
Everyone, I don’t curse
Not talking ‘bout
How I stole gals purse
I might talk slang,
But that’s the worst


She never gets up