Black Sheep by Na'ima B. Robert Read Free Book Online

window, clutching the handbag on her lap.
    I looked outside. We had reached Coldharbour Lane. The market was already buzzing with life. Fruit’n’veg sellers shouted out their special deals of the day, “Four for a
pound!” Loud reggae music vibrated under the walkway and everywhere I could see the rich mix of Brixton.
    There were the Rastas with their bulging knitted hats; the African women, still dressed up for church in stiff wax-print head-wraps and two-piece skirt suits, carefully coordinated with bags and
shoes; the black Muslim men in their white robes and thick beards, standing behind stalls selling incense and giving out pamphlets. It occurred to me that I hadn’t seen anyone from the Nation
of Islam around for a long time. They had always been easy to spot with their upright bearing and smart suits and bow-ties.
    Dotted here and there, weaving in and out of the market stalls, I could see the new kids on the block: the scruffy-looking white people who flocked to experience the Brixton vibe. I chuckled to
myself. Only a few years before, few white people would have dared set foot in Brixton. But now the vintage clothing shops and the impossibly trendy bars and organic restaurants along Coldharbour
Lane catered specifically for them.
    I felt a surge of homesickness. This was where I had spent the first eleven years of my life. My old primary school was round the corner. My best friend from primary school, Rachel, lived on
the Saints Town estate.
    ‘I wonder if she is still there...’ I mused, thinking of the gulf that would be so obvious between us now. I spoke differently, of course, I knew that. You don’t go to private
school and keep your Eliza Doolittle accent, that’s for sure. My old friends would definitely tease me for ‘talking posh’. But there were other things too: the way I dressed, the
labels I chose, the way I styled my hair, the jewellery I wore, the books I read, the films I watched. I was studying Latin at school, for Goodness’ sake.
    What would Rachel and I have to talk about? Where was she now? Was she at school? Still playing football? Or had she dropped out to have a baby? Or maybe she was one of those girls who hung
around with gangs of boys, looking hard and unreachable.
    The thought of Rachel leaning against a car, surrounded by boys in hoodies and bandannas, made me think of the conversation I’d had with my schoolfriend, Aalia.

    “Dwayne sounds like a really nice guy, Misha,” Aalia had said. “But I think you should find out more about those gangs on his estate. It’s highly likely
that he’s either a member of one or affiliated to one. All the boys are these days.”
    “How would you know, Aalia?”
    Aalia was the quintessential quiet Muslim girl who, although she didn’t wear a scarf, always wore a pair of straight trousers instead of the pleated skirts that most of us wore. Her hair
was pulled back in a neat ponytail and the only hint of exoticism was her tiny gold nose stud, something a lot of Pakistani girls had.
    “I live in South-East London, Misha,” Aalia replied. “I pass those estates every day. Plus... my brother’s been getting into some trouble lately. Gang trouble.”
    “What do you mean ‘gang trouble’?”
    Aalia’s voice was pained. “Some of those gangs are really bad, Misha. They sell drugs, they rob and stab people and destroy property. Haven’t you seen some of the shops in the
really rough areas? They’re all boarded up to stop the thugs from smashing the windows and robbing the store.
    “All I’m saying is you want to be sure that Dwayne’s not involved in that stuff. I’d hate to see you sucked into that life. I know you live in leafy Dulwich and all that,
but you need to open your eyes more. Not everything is as green and serene as it is on this side of the school gates.”

    As I sat in the back of the car, watching the buildings flash past, my stomach began tying itself in knots. I thought once again about the