I live in the hood. The hood lives in me.

Just kidding...

Our neighbours moved out. As is the London way, we barely knew them, but when I heard they were moving, I began to wonder if I should move too.

I opened up Zoopla and began a new search, but the results exhausted me. Moving is one of my least favourite things. House viewings, negotiating rent, credit checks and references, putting down deposits, coordinating move in dates, dismantling and rebuilding the furniture, buying new furniture, hiring a man with a van. My conclusion was: it’s not that deep, when I find somewhere to move to that’s worth the effort, I will revisit this train of thought.

I’ve lived here, in this flat, longer than I’ve lived anywhere since I moved from my childhood home at 15/16 years old. It is far from perfect; pigeons have made a nest in the gutters, we really need a garden and, being completely frank, we live in the effin’ hood.

Here is a story:

Three young men in dark clothing walked into the chicken shop across the way. It was summer but they had hoods up and scarves obscuring their faces. One of them brought out a knife and waved it in Bossman’s face. They wanted the slim gold chain he had around his neck. Bossman leapt forward, throwing himself over the counter top and grabbed the blade with his bare hands. There was a struggle, but in the process his chain popped and the thieves – boys so young it broke my heart – ran out of the shop and down the road. Adrenaline still pumping through his veins, Bossman sprang from behind the counter and chased after them, but after a few paces down the road, fatigue set in and so did the realisation that his hand was cut and bleeding. The other Bossman appeared with blue roll to wind around his bleeding hand. He didn’t want anyone to call an ambulance or the police. I don’t know if he still works there; I stopped eating from that chicken shop when they started selling pizza too.

Really, I have no issue with living “in the hood” for now, but you are faced with a dilemma: accept the world how it is presented without question or scrutiny, or be constantly, acutely aware that the social problems that you are witnessing – addiction, theft, vandalism, disenfranchised youth, housing in disrepair and streets that are not cared for – are the result of rampant inequality and poverty is that is orchestrated and far from necessary.

I could move to somewhere “better”. But better is also a construct, because the ends that were “hood” before are now getting “better” because of gentrification. The council couldn’t be bothered to mend streetlights and maintain the bins until white folks moved in, and even if I can afford to move in alongside them (which I probably can’t), isn’t that a bitter pill to swallow?

Maybe I have all these dilemmas because moving right now is a theoretical luxury, a “first world problem” if you will. But things are going well – my book is coming out next year and it’s in the process of being adapted for TV – and I’m starting to think that the idea of buying a house is actually hovering in the realm of possibility. But where to buy? Where to live? Where to raise two beautiful black boys in this wretched life?

These are the questions that make me immediately close Zoopla and open up Netflix.

Image by me.