Five years back, if you’d spotted me on the block, you’d have dashed across the road faster than a matatu in rush hour. I was that sketchy guy from Kayole, rolling deep with my crew, swiping phones, shaking down shop owners, and giving bus riders the heebie-jeebies. We figured we were the kings – clever, fearless, invincible. Truth is, we were just a bunch of scared kids faking the tough act. Life at home? Total mess. Dad bailed when I was tiny; Mom scraped by to keep food on the table for us kids. I quit school mid-Form 2 and tumbled right into the bad influences. Kayole’s gritty alleys became my crew, my messed-up family.
We began with small-scale activities such as pickpocketing and gradually progressed to engaging in violent confrontations with blades or even more dangerous situations. We swore crime was our ticket to eating. Folks’ terrified stares? I soaked ’em up like a trophy. Nights were rougher, though. Adrenaline crash, staring at the ceiling, wondering if I’d make it past 30. Buddies gone to angry mobs, cop shootouts, and gang beefs. I knew Mom wept buckets for me, but the pull was too strong—I was hooked. Then, one wild night, we pinned a boda guy at the crossroads. His desperate pleas, quivering voice, and those raw tears? Boom—it slammed me. That could’ve been me, just hustling to get by. I waved him off. The crew grumbled, but I trudged home rattled. Continue Reading.