In fact it was at a pupil referral unit two years ago that he first met the defendant. We learn Kwame’s age and occupation, that he’s been coaching for almost nineteen years and that, in addition to the training he does in the evenings at the Sports Ground, he works with excluded kids in special schools and pupil referral units. She exudes confidence, has everything under control. His eyes dart around the courtroom taking everything in. As usual, his dreadlocks are pulled back into a ponytail that falls midway down his back and they are the only thing about him that feels normal. I’m reminded of that day looking at him now standing in the witness box and wearing a suit. That day, those awful days around it, meld in my mind into a Valium haze, but I remember my surprise, later on, at the wake, when I realised it wasn’t the drugs making Kwame look so different, but the fact it was the first time I’d ever seen him formally dressed. The first time I ever saw Kwame dressed in anything other than sports gear was at Ryan’s funeral. All the boys call him ‘sir’ and his relationship with them is great. Many of the boys he coaches are Afro-Caribbean and he is hard on them, dishing out punishments for lateness or attitude or bad sportsmanship, balancing this zero-tolerance approach with a wicked sense of humour. Ryan always liked and respected him, and as a consequence, so do I. Kwame Johnson is forty-two and has been coaching Ryan’s football squad since Ryan started playing regularly at eight. An extract from ‘The Mother’ by Yvette Edwards
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