Drum Magazine Issue 2 | Page 6

4 Editor’s Thoughts The officers inside gave us the finger sign for “Up Yours!”. We kept on running. of South London where the traditional ‘British Bulldog Spirit’ can still be seen in all its ferocity. Most black South Londoners “won’t set foot there”, but we did not know that then. So when the skinhead tapped me on the shoulder from behind, and I turned to face him, he broke my nose. His seven friends charged, howling, ‘Niggers! Get ‘em!’ We ran. We were in danger, outnumbered, they were swinging metal chains, and we ran. Even when we flagged a police car, and thought it would stop to protect us, we kept on running. Then while the officers inside gave us the finger sign for ‘Up Yours!’ we turned a corner and banged on a door. A frail, frightened, woman cracked a peek from behind curtains and glass. Her fear was no match for our insistence. She grudgingly allowed us to call the police. She then made us wait outside, so as not to have my blood soak the red of her bloodred carpet. The police came too late, if they came at all. That winter’s night changed all our lives for good. We never went back to Zoom-Zooms. I was never again in Eltham. Within weeks of the attack our little band of boys had dispersed with each member attaching himself to a different and separate section of the black political spectrum. Fourteen years later, on the night of April 22, 1993, Stephen Lawrence was stabbed to death by a gang of white youths on the streets of Eltham. He was an 18-year-old student with a very promising future, everything to live for by all accounts. His death could have happened to any of us. It was patently clear to all that the attack was racially motivated, clear to everyone, except the police. None of the suspects – five well-known local criminals and racists – have ever been convicted. Then again, many of us expected no other outcome. Some have suggested that Stephen should have known better than to get off a bus in Eltham at night. I admit, I knew something Stephen did not know. Something he had yet to learn. For me, the lesson came at a similar bus stop in Eltham that night in 1979. Run! Damn it – run! Except Stephen did not run. Nor could he see that his life was in danger. He was not a boy of the streets. As for us famous four school friends, Steven went on to Oxford University like his mother had always demanded. He is now a top manager in Social Housing I hear. Marsid just turned forty and is Head of Marketing for one of London’s railway companies. You can read all about his life changing trip to Barcelona in our next issue’s travel section. Our Andrew turned to the preachings of Rastafari. He now works in Social Services, while me, I’m just the friendly editor of your Drum magazine. Paul Boakye [email protected] Dedicated to the memory of Stephen Lawrence, and also to his mother and father Doreen and Neville Lawrence. Illustrated by Glenn Anderson © 2004