(And Noble Atid: By no means can he be distracted!)
And Yor creture feels her:
Wots da beeyatch screwing at now?
And da slave finds her wif da green baby bag.
—I bowht it for Jonah.
Ah, she feels him—taking it from her hands and into da bedroom. Were he scwirrels it behind da wardrob.
Ah, she feels him. Do ye see her scoping da kichen? And th scales. Yea, and in da swing bin: a ball o black plastic taped tihte. A razor blade.
Dat servant feels her stomak fall sume place. (Da Followers for da Mother fan balm into her nose.) Ach! She hears dat slave cum back. But she didnt speak. For if she asked him he wud lie. (Wud he not lie?) And it wud come out in da spitting confrontasion. And cud she throw him out agen?
And da Mother went in da bedroom. And Yor creture felt her. An da child came into th living room wiv his scales.
And he herd her: I dont want this!
Dat mutha come in with artificial limms in ech hand, in ech hand a limb dat she threw at him!
Yor creturs hart contracts. And Alif & Hamza block wiv silat moves—as if they cud deflect an atom!
—I dont want this s__t arond Jonah!
Dat slave cud smack her up da head.
The Scribes of da Left Hands note thir words as they screw at ech other.
Do you see Naseeb baling on her now? And smuggling out his collecsion o limbs? Smuggling his legs & hands into her carboot, to salvige som tokens of his dreme. Look at him chasing his dreme... Can I rite som attribute of goodnes clings to these gifts to da poor an orphaned? And dat, somewere, his intenshion is pure?
(Esha: 1945 GMT)
Da creture thowt about driving Leeshas whip to Fat Tone’s, but hes bare shook about da kilo in Leeshas boot. And he calls his spar Zak, he called his spar to pick him up.
And he brings out da last leg to jam into her boot.
By the silver Audi dat parks at Leeshas. And da sodium street lite. And dat servant Zak, his Angels hugging da shaved lines in his hed.
And sez Naseeb:
—I need you with me, geez.
—Deres baggamans screwin you done a runner Naz.
—Wot you chattin? Dat s__t is all rinsed. What they sayin?
—Gonna murkalise you bruv.
Yor creture stares a bit. (Jam, brah, we got your back, sez Hamza). Then he fishes in da boot and beckons da servant Zak.
—Yeah? You wanna see my protector? Deyr gonna think twice befor they mess wiv dis s__t.
—Yor what?
Yor creture scoping arond.
—Dis ting is mint! Old scool, bway, old scool.
—Nah man.
—Com man, feel it. Ting is antiq.
—Thats bait blud. You cant be flashing dat araond.
—Wot you on about? I aint gonna use it. Ting is just for ni-iceness.
And Naseeb threw his ting from da boot and da Followers for Zak throw a sheeld around him, an dat cretur halfspins around. An a prosthetic hand hit him over his Calvins and smacks to da ground.
—Rah!
And his dumb spar kicks away da hand, and Yor creature goz:
—Oi! Go eazy with ma gat!
And Yor creture examins da hand for scratches & Zach looks in da boot at da rest o th haul.
—Dat is som sick mash cuz.
For bridges got burnt running to Pakistan. And word went out and dere were twelve yer old wannabees redy to jack Yor creatur. He needs to speak to one of da faces. Coz its a mistake. He never ripped em off. He’ll pay it back.
And Yor slave didnt wanna leve his legs, he didn wanna go Zaks ride and leve a kilo in her boot.
Jam, brah, we got yor back, sez Alif.
And dey extend thir Wings round Leeshas car.
And Noble Atid sez, As tho ye change whats coming by a hairs bredth.
And Hamza sez, Why, wots coming?
And if you cud see Protecters poized on bonnets n hoods speeding to Stonbrigge Park!—thir wite robes or black tunics ripping, or as elastic deformasion, or electrical or magnetic intensity…
And dat slave was finking bout his dreme in Leeshas boot da hole ride.
(Taraweeh: 2105 GMT)
And outside Fat Tones street his bruckup Escort was on da street.
Dey sat in the Escort getting licky on Fat Tones draw.
An da Protecting Angels dissipate in da penging air. Sumewere on da hood deys busting silat moves n chattin air still. And thir Powers etiolated as gnat water.
And Yor creture sez:
—I need a coupla hundred, boss.
Da radio on, drum shakes da plastic dashbord. Fat Tone blazing a spliff. He aint saying nuffin.
Yore creture sez:
—Five years, Tone.
—Wot?
—Retire, innit. I cud a bin out alredy. I tell you bout my legal rep? He had his own supplier, but if I couda got in that... Professhnals, you imagin?
—Bun dat, boys.
—Its trade innit. Blatant. Only way anyone invest in the Fird World. Doze lawyers an media gash Id see—deyre keeping Bolivian pezants alive! I tole you, we shud go Class A. Time the Afghani farmers got in da game. Wot you think? Put your boyz to work.
—Im makin a move myself bruv.
—Giving you a chance to bring in da big dollars innit.
—Nah man. I need ma papers.
Busting ninety quid crepes up on da dash.
—You gonna lose dis geezer. I’ll front you da bags.
—Nah man.
—You dont wanna be baddest brer on road?
The air thick wiv fug and edge.
—Im already big in th game.
Yor creature sees, dat bony goofus poized to mark his yard.
—Yeah? Wha is th game?
Dat bony slave not bothered by a deddout older:
—Geezer, I am the game.
And th creture Zak is tracing shaved lines in his hed.
—Yeah? Its all jokes tho, innit? You got som face making da papers, driving flash car, propa don n that. An he cant even leve his yard. Living wiv his mom an everythin. Wats that about?
And Fat Tone seething:
—Its all bless.
Dat slave left them to his bruckup wheels and sloped away.
Somwere on da roof da Followers mimic da singer quacking about da papers hes stackin, da blocks on hold, his workers n shootas... Somwere on da roof dere busting silat moves, thir Powers as weak as water.
—Yu know how much wele make off a kilo of brown? Kilo and a half. Cane it...
And his spar, whoz