developed the ability to sound like a native of either nation. The accents gave him an air of intelligence and expertise. When necessary, he easily switched from the vilest street talk to fluent Sudanese to an articulate Wall Street CEO. Words were his to do with as he pleased—like the rest of his life. His mother’s native tongue, however, was his best recruitment tool. With it he could utilize the young immigrants and their parents.
Those more recently arrived in the community often called on him to translate letters, government papers, or employment applications. The ability to straddle both worlds gave Clubba his legitimate social standing and made him a leader in his community. The Sudanese not only looked up to him, they respected and then feared him.
To survive in Omaha’s urban gang war zones, though, Clubba needed to follow his mother’s example. Starting with the emerging Sudanese gangs, he moved on to the basic African-American gangs like the Bloods and Crips. Not stupid enough to sell or use drugs, Clubba quickly realized there was nothing to be gained by fighting over turf and dope. To freely associate with all gangs, he had to provide something they all wanted.
At first, it was guns. He directed his young men to burglarize homes, and then Clubba sold stolen guns to the crews. By forming contacts with individual gangs, he established himself as a partner to each without membership in any.
By chance he stumbled on something they all wanted even more, a substance that took the marijuana buzz to a volcanic level. Embalming fluid. Not just for the dead anymore; the living enjoyed it even more.
PCP had been used in the past, but it was more expensive and difficult to get. It also carried a hefty prison term. Embalming fluid was cheap, easy to come by if you burglarized funeral homes, and the high it produced was extraordinary. Dipping a joint in it made it wet .
The effects of smoking wet varied. Some people became so angry with people they hadn’t seen since the second grade that they wanted to find them and kill them. Others became anesthetized and felt no pain at all—good if you got shot or stabbed. Others felt invincible. All reactions were ideal combinations for bang’n activities. They all became the perfect pawns.
With so many families from a war-torn country, Clubba had his pick of young Sudanese men who liked to fight, liked the money, and liked the adrenaline rush that came from stealing, fighting, running, or doing drugs. Within months, Clubba had his network of people he could send into dangerous situations. If they died, there were always new replacements coming up through the ranks.
Life was good, but Clubba had bigger plans. Much bigger. His plans, however, were about to be put on hold, because of a little girl and her cell phone.
The door burst open. Pieces of wood shot into the living room of the apartment. Before he could react, Clubba had a couple of officers standing over him. “Te’quan Koak, we have a warrant for your arrest,” announced a voice from behind a blinding flashlight. Officer Charlie Walker said, “The Domestic Violence Unit put the warrant out for you today.”
“This is all you got?” Te’quan Yates Koak threw a bored glance at the two Omaha Police officers in the apartment he was using for the night. Clubba had a string of places where he would stay for a day or two. That made it hard for the cops to know exactly where to find him. This particular apartment was located in a small complex infested with drugs, crime, and the sorts of people that hated the police. Nobody took care of the grounds and nobody cared. A cynical smile perked up Clubba’s lips. “I’ll be back in six months.”
Walker smiled and tugged the cuffs tighter. Three additional officers flanked Walker; two stood in the living room of the door they’d kicked in, and the third was stationed outside to watch for any trouble. The arrest of someone held in high esteem in this neighborhood
Those more recently arrived in the community often called on him to translate letters, government papers, or employment applications. The ability to straddle both worlds gave Clubba his legitimate social standing and made him a leader in his community. The Sudanese not only looked up to him, they respected and then feared him.
To survive in Omaha’s urban gang war zones, though, Clubba needed to follow his mother’s example. Starting with the emerging Sudanese gangs, he moved on to the basic African-American gangs like the Bloods and Crips. Not stupid enough to sell or use drugs, Clubba quickly realized there was nothing to be gained by fighting over turf and dope. To freely associate with all gangs, he had to provide something they all wanted.
At first, it was guns. He directed his young men to burglarize homes, and then Clubba sold stolen guns to the crews. By forming contacts with individual gangs, he established himself as a partner to each without membership in any.
By chance he stumbled on something they all wanted even more, a substance that took the marijuana buzz to a volcanic level. Embalming fluid. Not just for the dead anymore; the living enjoyed it even more.
PCP had been used in the past, but it was more expensive and difficult to get. It also carried a hefty prison term. Embalming fluid was cheap, easy to come by if you burglarized funeral homes, and the high it produced was extraordinary. Dipping a joint in it made it wet .
The effects of smoking wet varied. Some people became so angry with people they hadn’t seen since the second grade that they wanted to find them and kill them. Others became anesthetized and felt no pain at all—good if you got shot or stabbed. Others felt invincible. All reactions were ideal combinations for bang’n activities. They all became the perfect pawns.
With so many families from a war-torn country, Clubba had his pick of young Sudanese men who liked to fight, liked the money, and liked the adrenaline rush that came from stealing, fighting, running, or doing drugs. Within months, Clubba had his network of people he could send into dangerous situations. If they died, there were always new replacements coming up through the ranks.
Life was good, but Clubba had bigger plans. Much bigger. His plans, however, were about to be put on hold, because of a little girl and her cell phone.
The door burst open. Pieces of wood shot into the living room of the apartment. Before he could react, Clubba had a couple of officers standing over him. “Te’quan Koak, we have a warrant for your arrest,” announced a voice from behind a blinding flashlight. Officer Charlie Walker said, “The Domestic Violence Unit put the warrant out for you today.”
“This is all you got?” Te’quan Yates Koak threw a bored glance at the two Omaha Police officers in the apartment he was using for the night. Clubba had a string of places where he would stay for a day or two. That made it hard for the cops to know exactly where to find him. This particular apartment was located in a small complex infested with drugs, crime, and the sorts of people that hated the police. Nobody took care of the grounds and nobody cared. A cynical smile perked up Clubba’s lips. “I’ll be back in six months.”
Walker smiled and tugged the cuffs tighter. Three additional officers flanked Walker; two stood in the living room of the door they’d kicked in, and the third was stationed outside to watch for any trouble. The arrest of someone held in high esteem in this neighborhood
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