Laugh, cry, reflect: Once Bad Intentions, promises a rollercoaster of emotions in this gripping page turner for the ages described as ‘painfully realistic and beautifully composed’ in chronicling the redemptive journey of Stephanie Johnson in working-class Black 90’s London. Readers root for her success!
Once Bad Intentions is an authentically written redemptive journey into womanhood. A compelling, heartfelt story that unfolds over a decade in 90s working-class Black London, where suffering and love, humour and forgiveness, triumph and loss all co-exist as part of a passage toward redemption. Its characters are worth celebrating: self-disciplined and morally complex, big on image, and who like to floss!
Set against the backdrop of London’s dancehall culture and American’s hip-hop. Its story integrates luxury fashion with the vitality of the music of its time and culture. A celebration of the resilience and survival stories of young working-class Black girls growing up at time when society didn’t necessarily understand them, nor their aspirations.
Laugh, cry, reflect: Once Bad Intentions, promises a rollercoaster of emotions in this gripping page turner for the ages described as ‘painfully realistic and beautifully composed’ in chronicling the redemptive journey of Stephanie Johnson in working-class Black 90’s London. Readers root for her success!
Once Bad Intentions is an authentically written redemptive journey into womanhood. A compelling, heartfelt story that unfolds over a decade in 90s working-class Black London, where suffering and love, humour and forgiveness, triumph and loss all co-exist as part of a passage toward redemption. Its characters are worth celebrating: self-disciplined and morally complex, big on image, and who like to floss!
Set against the backdrop of London’s dancehall culture and American’s hip-hop. Its story integrates luxury fashion with the vitality of the music of its time and culture. A celebration of the resilience and survival stories of young working-class Black girls growing up at time when society didn’t necessarily understand them, nor their aspirations.
7th September 1993 – My First Day at School
Wha’ gwaan, Di? I haven’t caught up with you in a while. I
was thinking the other day that it’s been like five years since
we started this thing with you carrying the mad weight I
offload on you. You done know you’re my bonafide bredren
for life, just like Kid ‘n’ Play were.
Right about now I’m still tired. Mum woke me up this
morning at 6.30 in her usual way: blaring some gospel
shit. Trust me when I say Mum’s not the same person
you used to know! Her music choice and interests have
changed nuff since she got ‘saved’ a couple of years ago.
And it’s getting worse. It’s like she uses the music to get
that Derek off her mind, but I thought if the church didn’t
do that, then at least time would. It’s been over two years!
Don’t get me wrong, I know I didn’t check for him too
tuff when I was yout’, but he was cool before he started
smoking his shit. That’s joke business, ah-lie? They say
everyone’s doing it now. Macy told me, and you know she
knows allot. She’s like 16 and three-quarters now. She was
the one who got me my first one of you…but I’ve already
told you that, right? She thought it was a good idea for
me to escape some of the crap we witnessed…but what
did I know? Not what I know now for sure. That’s why
my dad goes on the way he does sometimes. You know
he doesn’t play. Sometimes I still have those flashbacks of
musical periods at his house when we would stay there
on the weekends and in the holiday periods. Like when I
sang Billy Holiday’s ‘Lover Man’ on the microphone whilst
Dad played it on the saxophone and Safire harmonised in
the background. I was seven or eight, which made Safire
nine or ten. Or the time when Dad came to pick us up
from our new primary school in his bright yellow 1960s
BMW 2002 Collector’s Edition (he regularly drummed
that into our heads) before I got that thirst for fighting
when things didn’t go my way. Dad had that car since
the early eighties, which is why I never got why it was
called the 2002 Collector’s Edition, though it still looked
brand new. I remember that day because it was the first
time Dad had picked us up since Mum moved houses and
purposely didn’t tell him. He drove us around Lewisham
stewing for information, but when Musical Youth’s ‘Pass
The Duchie’ came on...it all suddenly stopped. So we
‘bubbled to the riddim’ loving Dad singing and being
chilled for once. Mum used to have a good selection of 80s
party tracks before giving her life to Christ and started
religiously playing this gospel shit.
Mum’s only gone an’ pissed me off this morning. Making
me do shit for my middle sister, Safire, like she’s the baby.
Always giving her special treatment. Always making her
special treatment be at a cost to me. Dis morning she’s got
me going school vex! I dare someone to cross me. I dare
someone to test me today…
Let’s start here. In the morning. With me. My diary. Coexisting as friends and dependents. I needed her to manage what you’ll later learn as my rage. She needed me for her purpose. To be useful. She soothed me. Helped me to understand and release the chaos in my life. My diary was my best friend. I called her Di.
September 1993. That diary entry was the opening to my first day at Lee C of E School. We’d had a rough few years going through the transition of Mum separating from her boyfriend, Derek, becoming a Christian, changing our home and then our school, but ultimately changing our lifestyle. This change was rapid and intense, a boot camp of dictatorship. With no father figure in our home and the severed relationship Mum had with Dad, Mum felt obliged to lay down the rules. This fuelled a burning furnace that became a constant feeling inside me when I was ten. I was always ready to explode. At the slightest provocation, I was prepared to fight. My eldest sister, Macy, had this trait (as did all my sisters), but something softened within her when she had my nephew just over a year before.
On my first day of secondary school, though, things were no different for me. I was pummelling a boy in my new class at my new school who I considered an eediot (it was standard practice to over emphasize the ‘e’). I didn’t know this boy or even understand how it had come to that. My fist powered down on his left eye socket. Blood spattered from the battered eye the boy tried to cover. Every time he tried to shield himself from its force, my ready fist would connect with his face, split and swell the skin further. He lost his grip. His face became more disfigured. His blood coated my steady hand. I saw red. My eyes blazed with venomous stupor. This is what happened when my adrenalin rose to that level, when my anger became so uncontrollable, I thrived on the sentiment it provided: someone got hurt.
Suddenly one of my sister’s voices started to egg me on. “Go on, Stephanie, deal with him! Don’t let man chat to you like dat!” It was Charlene’s. Sister number two. She was in year ten, four years above me, so she already had a reputation that was recognised in the Lewisham borough.
I unclenched my fist and felt for my bobbled hair, which I had sectioned into eight with the ends twisted. It was still as neat as when I’d done it the night before. Silk headscarves worked wonders for holding afro hair intact. I stepped back from the boy like a frightened child being phased back into reality. He was huddled in the foetal position against seemingly recently varnished parquet floors. I could feel my spectators’ disapproval and their amazement accompanied by fear of my fighting ability. I shook off my unease, the acid that wept from my gut in rejection of my actions and the person I was just starting to become. I used their fear to springboard my efforts. I needed my actions, my newfound persona to make sense to me. I needed their respect. Even if it derived from fear. I made for the corridor where Charlene was standing. She nudged me to express her approval as I passed her in the doorway. We headed for the ground floor.
“Steph! Dere you are. How come you took so long?” Shariece quizzed. She was a friend of my other sister, Safire. Sister number three. I knew her before I started secondary school because Safire would bring her and other friends home when Mum was at work. They would all talk about boys, events at school, and Safire would show off her piano skills, having had intermittent lessons since she was very young, when affordability wasn’t in question. Shariece had widely spaced eyes, smooth, dark chocolate skin, and a curvy body. Shariece stood with Maria and René, Safire’s other friends. I liked them all and enjoyed hanging out with them as the ‘bigger girls’. I explained to them all what I had just done, how I had to beat him up as I did. I had to. How else would I live up to the reputation I had inherited and gain his respect? Charlene added proudly to my story of events. She said that I “gave him no blies whatsoever!” And I didn’t. Giving him a ‘bly’ would mean giving him a chance to challenge the reputation I had earned. That I could not do—my family would think poorly of me.
We walked through the main hall where the dinner ladies were cooking up a storm for lunch. It was actually more your chicken nuggets, chips, beans, mushy peas, lumpy mash potato, that kind of thing. The original school dinners before Jamie Oliver took his stand.
We headed out into the playground where kids played.
“So, what ‘appened for you to knock him over?” René asked.
“He called my mum a bonehead, innit, so I put my knuckle bone
to his head.”
We laughed as we crossed the playground. Trivial as the term ‘bonehead’ was, the disrespect I would have hung on to was of him cussing my mum altogether. Albeit a natural slip of the tongue, the aim was that he would think twice next time. We advanced the benches by the huts. This was the place where the school’s talented stepped up to the ‘mic’ (well, actually the bench) and would lyrically defend their position with their rhyming skills. A crowd of us huddled round, bobbing our heads to the lyrics rhymed by one boy and beatboxed by another. Once they finished, we all cheered and hollered, let out hoots and other strange deep-toned noises influenced from the Caribbean that expressed our appreciation of Lee C of E School’s talented MCs. Sean went up next. He was part of a local gang named The Younger Ghetto Boys. They were admired, feared, and equally sought after by rival gangs. He rapped about his neighbourhood, ghetto tribulations, and his girl, which he described as his ‘gyal’. That was when this bald, slim-built man who we described as maaga marched towards us with my name ringing from his tongue.
“You better duss-out. Mr. Ahmed’s coming for you,” Shariece
warned.
“Who’s dat?”
“The headmaster, and trust me, he don’t ramp,” René added.
I didn’t know what to do. For a second or two, I was scared.
“Stephanie! Stephanie Johnson! Come with me NOW!” bellowed Mr. Ahmed.
I walked his way. No, scrap that. I bopped his way like the rude girl that I thought I was. Shariece and the rest of the group watched me shadow his lead. I waved to my audience. We stopped outside a small office, a nameplate on the door announcing it as his.
“Come in, take a seat and close the door behind you,” he began as he leaned back on a swivel chair. He swung a pair of crossed legs from side to side.
I did as he requested and slumped into the chair in front of his desk. “Yeah, whassup?” I grunted.
He rested his arm on the desk and leaned forward. I thought he was invading my personal space, but I said nothing. “First and foremost, you do not speak until you are spoken to,” he demanded. “Secondly, violence will not be tolerated in my school under any circumstances. Though I am disturbed by what I’ve been told. I am allowing you to explain your side of events.”
“What’re you talking ‘bout? Dat boy Christopher?”
“Yes, I’m talking about ‘that boy Christopher’, who’s lying in the medical room with blood being mopped up off his face! Now, would you care to enlighten me on your views of what happened before I take action?” he screeched. His eyes pulsated, and the veins on his forehead protruded.
“All right, dere’s no need to shout, I ain’t deaf, you know,” was my reply. He expressed his fury. I sighed, taken in by his admirable attempt to reclaim authority, and continued. “He was pushing everyone as he came out of class like he’s some bad-man,” I explained, “den when I told him not to push past me, he started coming up in my face and told me to ‘suck-out my mudder,’ so I pushed him, den he pushed me back, den I punched him.”
“Stephanie, three witnesses have said that you punched him three times in the face, and he did not hit you back.” He opened a folder that lay on top of a pile on his desk. “One witness said, and I quote, ‘He said something about her mum, and she punched him three times…he was wounded, holding his eye on the floor. She punched him again, and then she left with another girl.’” He raised his eyebrows.
“They’re lying, innit; they’re his bredrens.”
“No, Stephanie, I think it is you who is telling lies. I know Charlene is your sister, and I know her temperament—I have had many dealings with her over the past three years. As do I know Safire’s. And I also knew your older sister Macy very well. Before she became pregnant.” His eyes lit up at that point, as though he knew all my family secrets.
“I will be speaking with Charlene after you, so I hope that your stories match up. You will spend the rest of the day in the Isolation Room. And by all means, do not think this is over. Now get out of my office before I lose my rag!”
I didn’t know where the Isolation Room was. This vexed Mr. Ahmed as it meant he wasn’t rid of me yet and had to show me the way. I followed him once again as he led me through the corridor. Upon the sight of him, pupils stiffened, their energy zapped. We entered a small white room with several empty desks. A middle-aged woman with goggle eyes, varicose veins, and an unfortunate weight problem presided over this vacant class. I was seated. Mr. Ahmed whispered to the hefty lady and then left.
“My name’s Mrs. Mitchell,” she announced as though talking to an entire class. “The reason you are in here is because your actions have caused you to require isolation from other, better-behaved, pupils. You will now write a thousand lines on why you are here and what it is that you’ve done wrong.”
“I ain’t done nuffing wrong so I ain’t writing a thousand lines nuffing,” I roared.
“You will write a thousand lines, and it will be of a standard that your mother and I can understand. If you fail to do this properly, then I’m sure your mother and I can agree on further punishment.” She voiced with total confidence of the fear children like me possessed for their parents. I hated her for this. How does this fat bitch know this is my Achilles heel? I wondered how she knew misbehaviour at school or amongst Mum’s family and friends triggered a darker side to my mum. I wondered how she concluded Mum was a woman of pride, and the embarrassment and frustration of her having to come my school because of my bad behaviour, would likely result in my demise. How she would know that the mention of her name in situations like this was likely to choke me with fear.
I scowled at Mrs. Mitchell as I took the A4 sheets of lined paper that she offered and started my essay on ‘Where I Went Wrong’. Soon enough, Charlene joined me in that room to write her thousand-line essay. I thought back to the morning, trying to figure out how the day had come to an end in such a bad way on the first day in my new school. It all came back to how I escaped chaos within my life, which was in two ways: violence and my diary. Violence was a quick fix, a blissful release of frustration. My diary was a good friend to who I could reveal my darkest secrets and feelings without a comeback, a judgment, or an argument. Whether I wrote good or bad things, there was no reaction, just the pages of my soul.
*
That particular morning I’d been lying in bed, rapping with my diary, writing down my thoughts. Before I knew it, it was time to jump up. I cracked open my bedroom window. My mood was bright and the sky was a gorgeous pale blue. Fresh and crisp. I watched the clouds. The thought of God came to the forefront of my mind. This was almost a spiritual experience. Mum would have liked that.
I arrived at the school gate having loosened the knot of my school tie and the bop in my walk. I fixed my blazer, black and square-shouldered, so that I looked sharp. An uncanny sensation came over me as I peered up at the three-story building buzzing with hundreds of pupils on a mission. I’m now in the bottom year, I thought. This felt a little weird. I was keen to find my sister Charlene. She had already spent over three years in this school. Being in year ten gave her authority, coupled with her reputation, ensured immediate respect when introduced to others.
First, I bumped into Shariece. I noticed her dark, coffee-brown complexion and curves from afar. She brought me over to René and Maria. They were both in year eight. They were behind the history hut in the playground where smoking pupils resided. It was my first time meeting Maria. I was surprised that she was white. The few times we had spoken over the phone, the ruggedness of her tone, her patois inspired vernacular, implied she was black. Her parents, however, were Greek. She had long dark hair with big ocean-like waves, and extra-virgin olive skin that spoke of her Mediterranean roots, but she seemed as rough around the edges as any one of us.
Finally, I met up with Charlene. She galloped over to me in a boisterous mood. Her arms swung parallel from left to right. She threw me into a headlock, bowing me over, so her conker-beans hairstyle dangled above my face. And then she threw me back up.
“Get off of me!” I cried.
Charlene ruffled my hair to silence my plea. She was just very rough like that. Beyond her slender frame stood a tall, bourbon brown-skinned boy with crisp oval eyes. He sported a sloped hightop haircut. His lips were cracked, and exposed crooked white teeth that overlapped beneath his smile. But ‘crisp’ he was all the same. His name was Tyrone. During the vivid introductions, I learnt that the beautiful-looking young man was the brother of Macy’s, sister number one, partner Jason. He was my nephew’s uncle, and I had never set eyes upon him before, just heard of his name. Macy lived alone with Jason since Ricardo was six months, and our paths hadn’t cross. My melting heart wished they had.
Charlene ushered me on to meet other members of The Ghetto Boys who attended our school. Their names were Sean and Donavan. They were nice enough, but I continued on to attend my first assembly and then my first class, Religion. I felt happy about this whole secondary school thing, despite leaving home aggravated. I was at a school that housed gang members mainly from a deprived area of council estates in New Cross nicknamed Ghetto. We were in secret admiration of its members, as we all respected the gangster culture in America. They, like us, watched and loved movies like Boyz n the Hood, Menace II Society, New Jack City, The Godfather, and Scarface. Scarface was the epitome of ‘gangsterism’ and that’s what they wanted to be…it’s what we all wanted to be… gangsters in our own movies. They recruited individuals from the area with the same fight, the same struggles, and the same needs. It was like an extended family, offering an acceptance and unity that probably didn’t exist at home.
During the first break, the boy I considered an eediot bounced everyone out of the way as he emerged from the classroom. He thought he was the ‘G’ in gangster. I made him aware of what I’d do to him if he tried that again. I made him aware that I would physically punch off his face if he ever bounced me. He ignored the threat and powered his chest out to me. He was testing my nerve, trying to identify if I were genuinely senseless. I let it go. As difficult as this was, I made an effort to avoid confrontation on my first day. Then I saw Charlene descending the stairs onto the landing, and I told her what had happened. She was furious I wasn’t defending the reputation. I wasn’t driving the fear factor. She told me to go back inside the classroom and “run da punk,” which I happily did. But the boy defended himself. Pupils hurried by.
It was a break, and I was wasting my time on this fool. I shouted after him, “Shut ya mout’ you bonehead!” to silence him, and waved my hand as I made for the door.
Charlene followed me. Her shoulders were raised, and she showed me the palms of her hands. “What, ain’t you gonna...?”
“Your mum’s a bonehead.” The boy’s words sailed over my classmates’ heads, over their voices and colliding conversations, and then softly, ever so softly, tapped me on the back.
And then it was all over. I saw red and externalised it.
*
Like Mrs. Mitchell had promised, at 3:05 p.m. Mum came shuffling in. She wore shiny green leggings, an old T-shirt and flip-flops that exposed tough, dry-looking feet. I bowed my head in shame. While Charlene waited her turn outside Mrs. Mitchell’s office because her mother was at work and no one could be bothered to explain that Charlene was not Mum’s daughter and we’ve only got the same dad, Mum, Mrs. Mitchell, and I sat in her tiny office. Mum read over my work with eyes that looked like they would burn holes into the paper.
“Like I was saying, Mrs. Johnson–” again, no one could be arsed to explain to her that Mum’s surname was Henry. She was not and never had been married to Dad—”when Mr. Ahmed confronted Stephanie about the incident, she showed no remorse or—”
“Was you even dere, doh?!” I foolishly interrupted.
BLAOW!
Mum’s fist smashed against my mouth, piercing the inside flesh. She gave me her evil eye, shook her head, and mouthed “you lickle devil”, which she’d been calling me since I was six. I held my lips in silence. They were bleeding, swollen, and broken-skinned.
Mrs. Mitchell continued fearfully. She was taken aback and already somewhat regretful. She could tell this wasn’t the end of it. She could tell I was going to get a level of beating outside of her comfort zone. I gave her my best impression of Mum’s evil eye and willed her to drop dead before us.
Set in 1990s London, we follow our protagonist, Stephanie Johnson, through her realistic coming of age journey. We meet her at age twelve, and join her on her challenging and dangerous adventures through adolescence and into adulthood to age nineteen. Stephanie has been raised in a violent home, with a father who physically abused her mother, and a mother who perpetuates the abuse to Stephanie and her siblings. Knowing no other options, Stephanie also becomes violent, fighting in school, joining a girl gang, and becoming a criminal. With so much anger inside her, she saw no other outlet for her frustration because as we know, hurt people hurt people.
Stephanie's personal diary is her only positive expressive outlet and her solace. She writes her life and her feelings here, and we get pieces of it throughout the story. At times we may want to reach through the pages and talk some sense into this fiery girl, but as time progresses, it becomes easier to cheer her on, as we are gifted with watching her grow and mature into a young woman, struggling to make better choices as she learns better options and how to do introspective and reflective work on herself. I was delighted to see her evolve and learn to make smarter decisions for herself while gaining more empathy for others, especially for those she has harmed.
I also enjoyed the many music references, as I can recall music being an integral part of my own life as a teen as well. Many songs were mentioned during important scenes, and I wonder how it would impact readers to listen to them while consuming those scenes at the same time.
What was difficult for me was the pacing and time lapses. Sometimes a wild thing happens that needs urgent attention, or Stephanie's behavior has her facing major consequences, but we don't get to see those consequences play out on page. Instead, after the scene, the story has jumped ahead a year or two and the scene we just read about is being described to us in her diary in the past and simply states what occurred after, leaving me a bit underwhelmed and disconnected from the story. I would have liked to see those conclusions happen on the page instead.
Once Bad Intentions will appeal to readers who enjoy redemption stories and second chances.