Zaki looked like he should be in a band. That was the first thing I thought as he met us at the door of his grandma’s house in Southall. The journey was familiar.
His gran was sweet. In broken English, she made a plea to take care of her baby. I found comfort in this interaction. I took it seriously. It reminded me of my mum in primary school. Trying to cobble the few English words she knew together to tell the girls in my class to look after me when she dropped me off after a doctors appointment. I drowned in embarrassment that day. On this day, Zaki guffawed. He said shit like, ‘you dribble you shoot, you hope for the best.’ He was that kind of kid. Importantly, he had a bass guitar.
His mum was much younger. She spoke to me in English. She told me to look after him. I looked scruffy and unkempt. By design but also by a lack of willing. She wasn’t sure. I wasn’t sure. Sarb was the bloke parents trusted. I looked to him. He said the necessary.
Zaki’s bedroom was as you’d imagine a stoner kid’s to be. Nirvana posters adjourned the walls he was in. Was Zaki the only other kid in Southall who was into Nirvana and wanted to be in a band? Serendipitous events innit. We would make this work. He was like us. But he was young, really fucking young. And his grandma had told us to take care of him. What the fuck were we supposed to do? We do our best.
