A Thousand Times

      I had to get it right this time. I have been towing the line for too long. I remember my initiation as if it were just yesterday. I had been only eleven, skinny, mal-nourished and burning with hatred. I had watched him gunned down before day in the streets of Shady Oak– the gang wanted a change of leader. I swore on his blood that I would let them pay. I didn’t wait for him to go cold. I crossed the fence and found their camp and told them I wanted to join them.

           I travelled with them day after day and if I couldn’t keep up, I was beaten to pulp until I learnt the ropes. I remember the first night I was sent out to prove my worth. A Glock 19 was thrust into my face.

           ‘Are you ready to prove that you’re a man? Pop the glock’. With trembling knees, I steadied myself, I had to get it right. They were going to pay. I had combed the internet and watched the videos a thousand times. I knew I had to get it right. I aimed at the drum in front of me, a bottle was on it. I had to hit it. I aimed and fired, I missed and was slapped across my face. I couldn’t cry but felt my pants and feet wet with my urine. The night covered my shame. I lapped my tail like a smitten dog and vowed to get it right the next time. I had to pay dearly to learn. I stole from the unsuspected and paid someone to teach me. The next challenge I got it right. I aimed and fired – my bottle target was pictured as my father’s killer. I heard a shatter and was pushed in a circle and my piece was handed to me. I was now one of them.

           Ten years had passed since that night and I was enjoying the pleasures that come with gangs, drugs and guns. Robbery, extortion, drug pushing, I had mastered the art, it was like moving from level to level in Candy Crush. No, it was like crushing your opponent in Fortnite Battle Royale or Apex Legends, or better yet any PUBG games. Have you ever seen a cheetah, or a croc, or a lion downing its prey? The adrenaline rush, the crush and the blood-stained jaws -that was how I felt.

           At twenty-one I sported a Mark X, I lived in my own house, I had a hefty bank account, my mother was living like a queen and my only brother was learning the trade. What more could I want? So much I have forgotten in ten years but one scene haunted me night after night, month after month and year after year. I had watched him pushed in the street. He had begged for his life. He reminded them he had a family, he had two young boys, but they only laughed at him. The community had watched from inside their homes, shuddering behind the curtains because the guards were changing. Young blood had challenged the don. When young hands are heartless, they will devour even the babe on the breast.

           They had toyed around with him with their bullets. He danced like he was on hot coals. They kept aiming closer. Bullets tore into his feet sending him to his knees then to his back. The young blood timely walked over to him, screamed, “I am the leader now and no one dare challenge me!”. He aimed, fired and blood and flesh flew in all directions. His body jerked like a thousand volts of electricity had passed through and then it was over. I knew what I had to do.

           This trip was not like the thousands of others I had made. Tonight, I would not be returning with money, jewellery, a woman. Tonight, was not about me. Tonight, was about revenge – it was for my father. I got up and a soft hand touched me and asked me not to leave. I lovingly pulled away and told her I would return. I donned my black outfit – guess I thought I was Batman or Zorro. I took my gun, not a cape like batman or a whip like Zorro. I jumped in the car and was so bent on my mission I didn’t see him following me. I knew where they were. I had made sure to follow their daily escapades. I found them with ease. The party was in high gear. They had made another kill and was celebrating. They had let their guards down.

           When they spotted me, it was too late. My bullets tore through him without mercy. I felt my left shoulder burning and winced with pain. I had to leave. As I flew through the yard, I knew I had to be faster than Bolt. I made it to the car and sped away. I made it home and rushed inside. A car pulled up behind mine and I swore I had been followed. I glanced outside and what I saw tore through me – it was as if a movie was been replayed. My brother lurched from his car and fell on his face. I ran through the door and grabbed him and turned him.

           “I wanted to be like you,” he sputtered blood getting in the way. “I followed you and saw how great you were. I… I let… I let down my guard and ……” He went quiet for a while. He spoke one last time, “I was not as fast as you in leaving. I ……” He was gone. My only brother, dead at fifteen, all because of me.

           I didn’t want her to get the news via TV, social media or the radio and so, I painstakingly drove to her house in Portsmouth. She was surprised to see me as my visits had become scarce with fame and fortune. I timidly went in and immediately she knew something was wrong. Jeffi had left the yard yesterday and she called his phone and got a message. She thought he was with his friend he usually stayed overnight with.

           “Is it your brother? Is he okay? Have you seen him?” The motherly instinct kicked into nitro gear.

           I looked at her then at my shoe. I realized I had not changed my clothes and blood was on my shoe. I could not lie to her.

           “He’s gone,” I mumbled

           “Gone where?” she almost shouted.

           “He was… he was…”

           “He was what?” she screamed this time.

           “He got shot. He got shot, mamma.” I couldn’t hold my tears any longer. She grabbed me, and her aching heart and tired limbs gave way to the new hurt inside her. I prayed and begged God to save her. Something I had not done for a long time. You see, I vowed never to pray again as I thought God had let me down.

           I shook her, “Mamma, mamma, don’t die on me too. I am to blame. I wanted revenge for daddy. I didn’t know he was there. I am sorry, mamma, I am sorry, mamma.” She shivered and slowly her eyes opened. She hugged me and rocked me like a baby.

           Four weeks later we laid my baby brother to rest. I had gotten it right for my father but made it wrong for my brother and mother. As they lowered the casket to the sound of ‘Abide with Me’ I promised that a fresh start was what I wanted. As I packed our bags into the overhead compartment, rubbed the womb that held my son, looked across the aisle at mamma, I promised my son that a thousand times was once too much. As we soared into the air, I pledged to return some day.