The Portal Diaries - Part 2

An African-Cardiffian

- I’d rather be judged by twelve, than carried by six.

Do you remember that scene from Indiana Jones and the Raiders of the Lost Arc, when he [Indiana Jones] is running from a huge boulder that is crushing everything in its wake and it’s moments away from crushing him too? Well, in a way, that scene could be an allegory of my life. Only, I’m not sure if I’m running from the boulder that destroys everything, or I am the boulder that destroys everything.

One of my ‘guardians’ was a petty criminal from Harold Hill, Romford (Essex). He had guns; two that I saw with my own eyes and touched with my own hands. - They was as heavy as holding hell in the palm of your hand, at least that’s how I remember them. He took me on a job once…I think he robbed a pub. I was told to wait in the car – I was about 8. When he returned, he had money and jewellery. The jewellery was all tangled-up from where he’d flung it into the centre console of the Jag. I can remember tentatively reaching out for the stash (like ET did for the sweets) from the back seat of the car, to untangle it for him as he sped away. When we got home, he gave my mother a gold watch inscribed with someone else’s name. Then one day, a-year-or-so later, he sped away from me. I used to say ‘the council’ got him and sent him to jail and that’s reason he never came back, but I don’t suppose I’ll ever know.

Four of my ‘guardians’ were involved in petty drug dealing. That’s not entirely true…only three were convicted. One would store money and bricks of what looked like solidified black tar, wrapped in cling film, at the house…I think he called the black stuff ‘Leb’. His wife and another ‘guardian’ served time for smuggling drugs into the country (in their cunts). The wives were sent to HMP Pucklechurch and he was sent to HMP Cardiff. Occasionally, we’d visit him in jail - because out of the three he was the only biological ‘guardian’ - but then he too, disappeared into the system. I didn’t care though…he was a pseudo Muslim crunk-head who was prone to flipping-out.

This one ‘guardian’ I had, held down a full time job at the ‘factory’, plus a part-time job and still couldn’t manage. So she began to shoplift. She and I would shoplift together, not “to order”, but for ourselves…for a sweeter life for ourselves. I stole dresses, a Polaroid camera, shoes (they used to display them in pairs in them days), a pressure cooker (it was the 80’s), a beanbag, food, a Christmas Tree, stuff, etc. We had an arrangement. If we ever got caught, she would blame me and I would confess, due to the fact I couldn’t be prosecuted – I was 10. When we did get caught (you always do eventually) we put the plan into action. We were in the back-office of Leo’s supermarket off Moorland Rd, Splott (Cardiff). The miserable, pinched-faced, old white woman store detective was removing the stolen goods from the shopping trolley. At which point my ‘guardian’ turned to me and said as planned, ‘Have you been thieving?’ My face was stinging with the fear, I replied with just one word, a word that I just about managed to say in my terror-induced breathlessness: ‘yes.’ I don’t remember much about it, but do I recall, I had brown shorts on and a pair of brown sandals that had buckles on them. I remember this because, I recall sitting on a chair (in the store detectives office) and looking down at my feet as I answered; they were swinging back and fourth frantically out of nervousness and I couldn't stop it as my legs weren’t long enough touch the floor. The store detective let out a sigh of exasperation and said, “C’mon dear, you’re not going to blame the child are you?” as she held up a packet of Super Tampax from the inventory of stolen goods. The ‘guardian’ relented and was consequently prosecuted and fined £25. I never stole again, but I would later realize the loyalty I had displayed for ‘the guardian’ was misplaced.  Over the years, she would often choose a man, or a holiday, or her friends, or even ‘the factory’ over me. – And if I protested (in the inarticulate way that children do) there would be violence, so eventually, I let go of what I could never change – her.

A favourite ‘guardian’ of mine, was married to a Welsh taxi driver. He would beat her. I remember him trying to drag her up the stairs by her hair as she screamed and tried to cling on to the balusters (she was a short Arab woman of slight build); presumably, she knew worse was in store if he got her up there. Then, one day, out of the blue, she beat seven bells of holy shit out of him and got a divorce. You might think that would be the end of it. It wasn’t. She beat on every boyfriend she had after that, so in a way, she never really did manage to divorce herself from the taxi driver. She was, and still is one of my favourites though. She never ever hit me or ruled over me with fear, and I can’t tell you how grateful I am to her for giving that memory. It’s been over 15 years, but I still remember her often and fondly.

There were others, but on this occasion, they didn’t make the list.

My Signed Confession:

The aforementioned recollections of my ‘guardians’ do them a great injustice. There was, in between the violence: laughter (a lot) and kindness and love. There WAS good times and good food, loyalty, music, strength in the face of adversity, courage, sweetness and on occasion, tenderness. None of them belong behind the bars of the black lines of text I have hitherto constructed. Memory (minus the judgement of twelve others) can, and often does, make convicts of the innocent. I therefore concede that there has been a miscarriage of justice. Yes, it was I, who turned my back on them. It was I, who refused to accept them for who they were. It was I, who refused to see the good in them and thus, it was I, who let them go. And even in letting go I failed. Over the years I have secretly searched for them, research them; found various images of them on the web - their faces staring back at me from behind my monitor as if I am looking into a portal of my life…a life in which I died as a child, and they carried on without me.

So now that I have acknowledged the spurious soul of my sob story. I will reveal the purpose of telling such a mawkish & clichéd tale.

The one thing, that many of  ‘the guardians’ collectively instilled in me (whether it was the whites or Arabs or the half-castes) was, “Be anything you wanna be, but DON’T be a GRASS.” – Don’t be a snitch, don’t tell tales, don’t splam. - ”JUST KEEP YOUR BIG MOUTH SHUT!” The inherent weight of that mammoth boulder of indoctrination is one of the reasons the past year has been so difficult to deal with, and it is in part, why the events that occurred to me once I stepped off that boat, have hit me so particularly hard.

To Be Cont’d…

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