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Grief
``` Grief
What became of the boy who called himself Grief? The boy who, the story ran, harboured a gun through the back–roads and alleyways of his teens, the boy who turned up as a footnote the night we played my ends are rougher than your ends in a flat overlooking London Road – frontline of a post–code war so far removed we chuckled when someone said kebabs from the shop that wore a fresh batch of memorial flowers were to die for. Grief was grit to lend the fable texture. We never knew the name his mum called him, or what reduced him to plying the night trade so white kids could say they bun high grade. He is a boy caught between commas in a news report about youth crime, an image fixed in place by someone else’s language. ```
What happened to the young man who referred to himself as Grief?
The young man who, as the story goes, carried a gun through hidden paths and narrow streets during his teenage years, the young man who appeared as a minor detail the night we played 'my ends are rougher than your ends' in an apartment overlooking London Road – the center of a neighborhood conflict so distant from us that we laughed when someone mentioned the kebabs from the shop that displayed a new set of memorial flowers were incredibly good. Grief was the roughness that added depth to the story. We never learned the name his mother called him, or what led him to engage in nighttime activities so that white kids could brag about their high-quality drugs. He is a young man trapped between commas in a news article about youth crime, a fixed image defined by someone else's words.