pending Najeem_Woodard [Jimmz]

[Barokah]

Najeem Woodard

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     The first time Najeem Woodard held a gun, he was twelve. It was a Thursday afternoon in Cape Flats, the air thick with salt and diesel from the harbor. His uncle Gideon had left it on the kitchen table next to half a loaf of bread. Woodard's fingers curled around the grip before the screen door even slammed shut. He was born May 11th, 2005, same day his mom missed her sister's wedding because her water broke two weeks early. She worked checkout at Pick n Pay, his dad welded shipping containers when he wasn't too drunk to stand. By fourteen, woodard could strip an engine faster than most boys could tie their shoes. Everything changed the night Luthando got shot.

 

     Life works that way sometimes. They were supposed to be guarding a stash house off Spine Road, just kids playing at being hard until the real bullets flew. Woodard remembers the way Luthando's laugh cut off mid-sentence, like a radio unplugged. The blood spread too fast across his Jordans, pressing his hoodie to the wound as the tires squealed away. Paramedics arrived seventeen minutes later. At least that was the case. By then, luthando's eyes had that glassy stillness Woodard still sees when he blinks sometimes. He stopped going to the auto shop after that. Started carrying Gideon's old.

 

     38 instead. For six months he ran with Tyrone's crew, doing collections and burning rivals' cars. Messed up when he pocketed R500 from a late payment, thinking nobody would notice. Tyrone noticed, while the beating left two cracked ribs and a scar through his left eyebrow that still itches when it rains. That's when Tamara found him slumped behind a dumpster on Surrey Estate. Brought him roti and black coffee until he could breathe without wincing. She taught him how to move money quietly, no flash, no stupid risks.. He rebuilt piece by piece, bought his own toolbox again, started fixing bikes for cash under the radar. Now at 22, his days start at 5:30 AM with pushups on the cracked linoleum of his studio flat.

 

     The Glock goes in the waistband before the kettle boils for coffee. Mornings are for legit work, mufflers and oil changes at Rashied's Garage where nobody asks questions. Afternoons belong to Tamara's errands, drops made with hands steady on the wheel and eyes always checking mirrors. The cops know his face but can't pin anything solid, the youngers call him behind his back. Some nights he lies awake tracing the chip in his front tooth from Tyrone's ring, wondering if Luthando would've liked the man he became. The shop radio always plays old kwaito just loud enough to drown out the thoughts.

 

 

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Saya Barokah selaku pemilik account UCP Jimmz bersedia jika Character saya yang disebut di atas (Najeem Woodard) dibanned permanent jika character story yang saya buat di atas berupa plagiat dari story milik orang lain.

Edited 1 hour ago by Barokah