By 14-year-old Wayne Hayes
WITH media attention focused on crime in London it’s easy to forget the dangerous gang lifestyle of young people like me on the streets of affluent rural England.
Nantwich may look like a sleepy Cheshire market town, but there is mad gangsta shit going down all the time. For my homiez and me it’s like living in a 50 Cent track, and we should know because we listen to him a lot.
Gangs rule here. Robbo’s crew control the playground by the war memorial. Wander into their endz and retaliation is swift – riding at you quickly on a BMX bike or punching you in the arm and running off.
Drugs are rife. Gav’s older brother gives him enough Moroccan black for a spliff if he really pesters him, and Lee can get skunk from a guy in the sixth form. It really makes you cough.
Getting hold of weapons is no problem. Simon bought a laser pen on the internet and Liam has a catapult which he says can shoot a ball bearing through a car.
The Feds are always tryin’ to pin shit on us. We were hanging by the civic flower display when a cop in a car looked at us as she drove past, but we turned away and put our hoodies up. No ID, no case.
Our only way out of the ghetto is music. We practise rapping in Liam’s bedroom until his mum comes up and tells us to stop that bloody racket or go to someone else’s house for a change. It’s sad to see your own community hating on talent.