Radical by Maajid Nawaz Page A

went around that we were connected with the scene in London. If you messed with us, we could make a few calls and bring down heavy B-boys from the big city. We saw the benefits of this sort of hype, but back then it was all about survival. These London connections, knowing the hard knocks two school years above me, and having my own crew meant that in Cecil Jones no one dared mess with me again. Gone forever was the boy who cried alone in a school playground because he wasn’t allowed to play football.
    It was almost like having bodyguards. Aron and Martyn looked up to me for my knowledge of hip-hop dress, style, and sounds. They developed a loyalty to me, especially the bigger of them, Martyn, whom we called Sav. If anyone said so much as a rude word to me, Sav would stand ready to defend me. But I never forgot what it was like to be victimized, which pushed me sometimes to stop my best friends from getting too rough with other kids. Though other times, in my twelve-year-old mind, I felt that kids “deserved” it, like if they had said something racist. In such circumstances I would not intervene, believing in a playground sense of justice.
    At primary school, I’d won prizes for my artwork. Now I used my talents to write graffiti. I chose “Slamer” as my tag. With my friends I would go round “tagging,” writing my name and “bombing,” plastering a wall with tags. I’d use Polka Pens, which were these big, fat permanent markers with nubs as thick as your thumb. You would have to give the marker a shake to keep the ink fresh, and whenever we got the chance, we’d tag up any wall with them. Alongside my tag, I’d write different words and captions—“fight the power,” things like that. I’d draw bode, too: these were little characters, strange-looking duck figures that’d stand by the side of your work. I’d also sketch “pieces,” which were basically pencil sketches of graffiti on pieces of paper, which you’d then use as a stencil for a larger, sprayed picture.
    There was an area in Southend that the police left specifically for graffiti called The Yard. It was a derelict area left alone in the hope that by letting us tag there, we wouldn’t graffiti elsewhere. A lot of kids hung about there taking drugs, and that’s where I started. Pretty soon I graduated to the streets, because that was where you’d get your work seen. I’d always have my pen with me, and if I saw a wall I liked, and the coast was clear, I would tag it. When we went bombing, it was a bit more planned: a group of us would target somewhere and blast the whole area in a specific raid. The whole cat and mouse thing with the police just added to the buzz I got from doing it. I was chased a number of times by the police, but always gave them the slip. I was smart enough to never get caught, and smart enough not to get into the spray-painting side of things. That was a far bigger process: to spray-paint a high street wall involved covering an area five times the size; to do that, and do it properly, you could be sitting there for an hour or so. The chances of getting caught were that much higher, and if they did catch you, they’d really throw the book at you.
    Graffiti is a culture where if you’re shit, everyone is quick to tell you. The mark of respect for a graffiti artist is how long your “piece” and tag stay up on a wall. Out of raw respect, other artists will not paint over something they think is good, and anyone who does paint over it better be prepared for a beat-down. However, if your stuff is no good, or if you are seen as an amateur, you’ll quickly find the word “lame” written over your work. The offending person would then leave their own tag at the side as a direct challenge. The only way to get even was to be good.
    In the days before the mainstreaming of hip-hop culture and the appreciation of artists like