Short Story No.1: Mustapha


by The Eaghams

This short story is about one of the British-Asian characters you come across in Forest gate, East London, that the author has come acrossin life. Complete with the true lingo. West Coast Rap, playstations, Stratford raves, girls, gangster greetings, grilled meat, scams,dodgylicences, and stolen mobile phones all feature in this one. Enjoy.    
He cotched at home,playing the playstation. He was stationed in some foreign country, shooting ammo, mindlessly or, for want of a better word, sporadically, the character clearly having hand eye coordination. His anger was subdued by weed, a young man, he didn't know where his time went when he was in one of the zones, he listened to West Coast rap, where they made letter signs with their hands, which was all squealing high octave synths and stories of gangsterism over sweeping orchestras.
 He looked my friend up and down, seeing what trainers he had, as he came into the house, sizing up his manliness to his own. He asked him how much his trainers cost. It was an instinct derived from his provincial territoriality. My friend was a white guy called James. He greeted his own friends with a fist to the chest and a hug.

Mustapha's speech was direct and to the point. 'No long tings' was his motto. He was lazy when he was lean, and friendly leaning into you in emotion only gangsters show, they would rather keep the chat you offered them. He talked deliberately like a New Yorker, stressing the vowels and consonants aggressively although it was not enunciated in BBC English or Queen's English. He was to the point. He was Al Pacino. When off the playstation, he spoke common sense, assured business acumen that was not applied in the proper directions.

He was deductive and reasoned and added digits from bank scams, credit cards, and the girls at the Garage venue in Stratford, who talked with their hands on hips and danced that way, hands from the G's that only shimmied with their hands, or else stood there. He moved his girl over to a new flat he was renting out in Forest gate, he lived next door to Agnieska, a stuck-up Eastern European bird. He was fundamentally strategic, he had no patience for subtlety, life was more mathematics than poetry according to his calculations. He would remain unflinchingly calm but as soon as any sort of whimsical emotion was expressed from other people in their niceness, he would tell them to calm down, straightaway. It was a numbers game.

His judgements were astute, a no nonsense kind of brear.
 He lived on grilled food, the only light salads he had was the lettuce that went with the kebabs and chicken shawarmas. He didn't like being on his own like his surburbun counterparts, who were more secretive, and lived with all the appreciation of the imagined life, also. He drank and he drove without a licence, and handled himself like the feds. He was just as organised on taking the calls and putting people on hold on his mobile. He jacked the phone from a passersby, when he was sitting on the wall of his house with his mates. He went straight in and bit the bullet, even asking his timid cousin if he was making use of his current account at the mo. That's Mustapha, in short.

© Zubyre Parvez 2016 All Rights Reserved

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To read further short stories click the following links:

The Boy From Bath

Actor Dude

The EaghamsWRITER BIO: Zubyre Parvez (BA hons) studied English Literature at Hertfordshire University. He writes song lyrics, poetry, short stories, reviews, and articles for The Taoist Crucible.  His poetry won runners up in a competition judged by Simon Armitage and Margaret Atwood. His poetry has been published in Kobita. His articles have appeared in The Epoch Times as a journalist for the newspaper. He has worked for New Tang Dynasty Television as a journalist. You can catch up with his tweets @TheEagham

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