Adriana

This is the story of Adriana Grisalez. But before I tell you who she was, I need to tell you who I was—because the version of me before I met her would change forever.

I was born in 1968 and grew up in Hackney, London—one of the roughest neighbourhoods in the UK at that time. By 13, I had already learned a rule of survival: don’t look people in the eyes. If you stared too long, someone would bark, “What you looking at?” Then you had two choices—look away and be branded a pussy, or hold your ground and be ready to fight.

I don’t know how many fights I had as a kid, but fists were the language of the streets. At school, in your neighbourhood, there was always a pecking order. If you could fight, you earned respect. If you couldn’t, you became the target—robbed, beaten, humiliated. I had no brothers or sisters to guide me, so I figured it out myself: fight hard, hurt them bad, and the less I’d have to fight again.

Life on Kingshold Estate was no movie, but if you’ve ever seen Rise of the Footsoldier, that’s the environment. Drugs, crime, violence—it wasn’t glamorous. It was just normal.

From my perspective, I had a happy childhood. I learned to defend myself early, and that gave me freedom. Respect was everything for a 14-year-old in Hackney, and by that age, I had it. I wasn’t the best fighter, but I could handle myself, and that was enough.

So that’s the foundation. Street smart, streetwise, violent when I had to be, but still a nice guy. I smoked weed, DJ’d with my own sound system, and lived happy-go-lucky—until someone crossed me. Then it was fist-first, no hesitation. That was me in a nutshell.

When I was 16, everything shifted. After a fight where I got smashed in the head with a brick and nearly lost an ear, my mum had had enough. She sent me to Canada to live with my dad. But Canada felt slow, backwards. I hated it. I got expelled from school, worked a job, and saved enough to repurchase a plane ticket back to the UK.

So by Christmas 1987, I was back in London with my friends.
And that’s where the real story begins.

Part 1:  Meeting Adriana

When I got back to the UK, I linked up with my best friend Ricky. He pointed out I was going to need money—he wasn’t wrong. I was 19, broke, and needing to re-establish myself. Ricky helped me land a job in the West End at a restaurant called Take 5—five fast food spots in one. I became a manager, and the first thing I did was hire Ricky to co-manage with me.

Life fell into a routine. Every day I’d take the train to work, spend the day laughing with Ricky, pulling pranks, serving food, meeting people, and then ride the train back home. At home, I’d mix music, smoke weed, and practice DJ-ing. Nights were for hanging out with Ricky and a few friends, trading rhymes over dancehall, smoking weed, and living carefree.

That was my rhythm. Until one day, on the train ride home, everything changed.

I noticed a girl sitting across from me. She seemed to be rolling a spliff. I sat down in front of her, and when her eyes met mine, something sparked. I glanced at what she was rolling and said, “You can’t smoke that on here.”

She looked up, laughed, and in a heavy European accent said, “No weed, no weed.”

I leaned in and asked, “Do you want weed?” Back then, I sold it. She smiled, nodded.

“You’ll have to come with me,” I told her. “It’s at my place.”

She wore a crystal around her neck. I had a cross-chain. She reached out, touched my chain, then placed my hand on her crystal. Looking straight into my eyes, she asked in broken English, “Can I trust you?”

Something about her gaze—it felt like she was looking straight into my soul.

“Yes,” I said. “You can trust me.”

She got off the train with me. I didn’t know where she was headed, but she followed me. Ricky and my friends split off, and I walked with her the twenty minutes back to my house. On the way, I taught her simple English words. Her name was Adriana. Her English was poor, but we tried.

When we got to my place, I gave her the weed I’d promised—no charge. I was too intrigued. She asked for a notepad, and when I handed it to her, she started drawing. First, a boat. Then land. Then more pictures.

That was how we spoke—through drawings.

Piece by piece, she told me her story without words. She had been born in Colombia, kidnapped at age four while shopping with her mother, and taken across the sea to Germany. There, she was sold into a trafficking ring. She had been used for sex ever since. At seventeen, she tried to escape. At eighteen, she tried again. Each time they found her. But now, at twenty-one, she had escaped once more. She was in England, searching for a way back to Colombia, to find her mother. That was her only mission in life.

That was our first conversation.
That was the first day I met Adriana.

It got late that first night, so I walked Adriana home. She lived about forty minutes from my house. Back then, I walked everywhere—buses weren’t my thing unless it was far. On the way, we practised her English. I dropped her off, then went home.

The next day at work, I couldn’t get her out of my mind. I felt like I’d just met the most beautiful woman on Earth. Her skin was light, her hair wild and black, her presence unforgettable. My mind kept replaying the drawings, her story, and that feeling when her eyes met mine.

As soon as my shift ended, I made up my mind. I had to see her again.

I took the train home, changed, then walked to her place. She seemed surprised but invited me in. She was staying with a girlfriend from France, sleeping on a sofa bed in the living room. Her friend had agreed to take her in until she got on her feet. But finding work wasn’t easy.

Adriana was trying to break away from the only life she’d known in Germany—the sex industry. She wanted to dance, but not the kind where anyone could touch her. She didn’t want to be touched at all. She was struggling to find work that respected that.

She told me she was a go-go dancer. I asked her to show me, and she did. Looking back now, I realise she probably just made something up—because what she showed me that night wasn’t sensual or exotic. It was just movement, like she was inventing it as she went.

She offered me a coffee, we talked, and I left. The next day, I thought about her again. After work, I went back. This time, she didn’t look well. She kept running to the toilet. I asked what she’d eaten. She said just tea—four or five cups. I checked the box. It was laxative tea. No wonder. I laughed, maybe too much, but I couldn’t help it. She wasn’t happy, but I teased her the whole night about it.

The next day, I showed up again, this time with groceries so she’d have proper food. She was grateful and cooked me dinner from what I brought. That became my new rhythm: after work, I’d visit her, bring food and weed, and we’d spend the evening together.

On the fifth or sixth day, I leaned in to kiss her. She turned away, and my lips brushed her cheek. I felt embarrassed. As I left, I kissed my finger and placed it gently on her forehead—a way of saying, I respect you. I won’t push.

A few days passed before I went back. When I did, the mood was different. Dark. Adriana seemed terrified.

She told me they’d found her.

The people she’d been running from—the traffickers—had located her. The girl she was staying with wasn’t home. Instead, a man was there, holding Adriana’s key. When he saw me, he laughed. He told her, “If you walk out that door, don’t come back. You’ll have no place here.”

Adriana explained that the people from Germany were coming to England for her.

I thought fast. “Come stay with me,” I told her.

She hesitated. “I don’t know you well enough.”

I looked her in the eye. “You don’t know me, but what’s better—going back to the devil you’ve escaped, or taking a chance with me? A stranger, yes. But one who wants you free.”

She paused. Then nodded. Quickly, she packed her rucksack. When the man went upstairs to the toilet, we slipped out the door and walked the long way back to mine.

That was the night Adriana came to live with me.

On the way back to my house, we got into an argument. Adriana had cold feet about coming back to my place with me, understandably so, she’s only just met me a week ago. I asked her ‘What else does she plan to do? Go back to the place where her ex-employers were coming to get her and take her back to Germany?’ She didn’t know, and she was confused. I reasoned with her, I thought it was ridiculous that she didn’t trust me in this situation. In hindsight, now I can see I was a bit harsh, but under the circumstances, I felt she had no choice. It was either go back to the people who were trying to drag her back into a life she was trying to escape, or trust a stranger. The argument got so heated that she said ‘she would rather test her luck staying on the streets, and finding a park bench. I felt offended. So I said, ‘Go ahead and stay on the streets,’ and I walked away from her. I walked home, got to my house, rolled myself a spliff smoked. Then went to bed, trying very hard to put her out of my mind and heart.

I heard a knock at the front door. At the time, my uncle was living with me and my mum, and I wondered who it could be so late. I didn’t think Adriana remembered where I lived; she had only been there once, the day we met. I heard the knock again, but I didn’t respond. I was in bed, comfortable and was not expecting anyone. Shortly after, my bedroom door opened, and it was Adriana. I looked surprised to see her. She said she was sorry and asked if she could stay. I hugged her and said, ‘Sure,’ then made her a warm drink and offered her my bed. I went to sleep on the couch on the other side of my room. Halfway through the night, she said I could join her in Bed. She felt guilty that I was on the couch. I asked if she was sure. I didn’t want her to feel uncomfortable or unsafe, but she insisted. We stayed in the same bed, but I didn’t lay a finger on her.

The next morning, we woke up. I didn’t have to work that day, so I made Adriana breakfast, then introduced her to my mum and uncle. She unpacked her stuff and began to show me her diaries. As I looked at her, a part of me was in disbelief. This girl I’ve just met is now staying in my room with me. I was watching her speak, but I couldn’t remember what she was saying. I was just admiring her beauty, her eyes, the way her lips moved when she spoke; the whole situation just seemed so surreal. I had no idea that the girl I met on the train would be sharing my bed, living under my roof, but the alternative was unthinkable. I just felt glad and relieved she was safe.

I listened to her as she showed me her Diaries and told me about her life story. She told me about the first time she tried to escape, her journey on the back of a guy’s motorbike. She had drawn pictures in her diary; she never knew his name, but the event meant a lot to her. She saw my notebook, from the day we met, and she looked at the pictures we had drawn when we first started to communicate. By now her English had improved a great deal. She folded them and put them in her diary. I felt honoured to be included in her diaries.

Her second day at my house, some friends came by and asked me to come outside. I told Adriana to stay inside; I didn’t want anyone to know she was staying with me. My friend Mike had just bought a car for £50. Ricky, Mike and another friend, Patrick, were in the car. I jumped in and we went for a joy ride. The car was easily worth no less than £1000; I had to ask how he got it for £50. Mike explained he bought it from a crack addict desperate for a hit. It was 1988, and crack was a very new drug on the market back then.

Even though I was out with my friends, I could not get my mind off Adriana, sitting at home waiting for me. After a while, I took note of where we were, Adriana’s old place. I asked the guys to drop me here; I had a score to settle, so I told them to leave. After they drove off, I walked up to the front door of Adriana’s old place. I didn’t know what I had in mind; it was like I was on autopilot, watching myself from a distance. The same man who took Adriana’s key answered the door, but before he could even speak, I let my inner beast out. I wanted to leave a message for the people coming from Germany. Adriana was now being protected by a Beast. The man’s battered body was my note to them. He wasn’t moving when I left, but he was still breathing. I walked home afterwards with mixed emotions, a part of me felt really bad over what I had just done, another part of me was convinced I had no choice, somehow I had to stop these people looking for her. I was hoping fear might be an incentive. I got home, washed up, and never told Adriana a word of what had happened. In bed that night, I asked if I could kiss her. I didn’t care about her past, how many times she had been used, I only cared about her heart, her soul and safety. She didn’t answer me; she just looked at me and kissed me. From that moment, my heart was hers, her mission was to get back to Colombia to find her mom, and my mission was to keep her safe.

On the third day, I had to go back to work. While I was there, a thought came to me: why not get Adriana a job here? I was the manager—I could set it up, recommend her, and make it happen. That night, I asked if she’d like to work with me. At first, she laughed. She’d only ever worked in one industry before. But after a moment, she nodded and said Sure.

The next day, I brought her to my workplace, introduced her to my boss, and gave her a glowing recommendation. He interviewed her, and just like that—bam—she was hired. Suddenly, it was me, Adriana, Ricky, Patrick, and the rest of my staff, all of us friends, having a blast. She fit right in. For her, it was all new—just serving food to people—but she took to it like a duck to water. She had a smile for every customer, and she made people feel welcome in a way that lifted the whole place. She had a beautiful energy about her.

At the end of the day, we had a ritual: whatever food was left over, we threw away. That first night, it was my turn. We served burgers, ribs, fries, apple pies—all of it. I bagged up what was left and tossed it in the bin. Adriana’s reaction stunned me. She was incensed. She started cursing me—in Italian, French, Spanish, German—every language she knew. She didn’t speak to me the whole walk home. And when we got to bed, she gave me the cold shoulder. I couldn’t understand why she was so upset.

The next day at work, she had warmed back up. She was happy again, loving the job. But that evening, when it came time to throw out the leftovers, she asked if she could do it. I was puzzled. “Yesterday, you cursed me in four languages because I threw the food away, and now you want to do it yourself? Fine, go ahead.”

She packed the food into bags, but instead of throwing them into the bins, she walked right past them. I called after her, but she ignored me. Then I saw her cross the street, walk up to a group of homeless people, and start handing out food.

I didn’t join her. Back then, my reputation mattered to me. I had to keep up the image of being a hard man, not someone soft-hearted and caring. So while she handed out burgers and pies, I crossed to the other side of the road so nobody would see us together.

I watched as one rough-looking man eyed her suspiciously. He argued with her, refusing the food. Then she took a burger from the box, unwrapped it, and took a bite. Only then did he accept it, realising it was safe. She gave him more, and then kept going until every last piece of food had been given away.

That was the moment I fell in love with her.

Here was this girl with nothing—just a backpack and a few possessions. Yet her heart was for the people who had even less. From that night on, it became her ritual: every evening, she would gather the leftover food and feed the hungry. And every evening, I watched her light shine.

Part 2: The Devil in Disguise

Over the next few days, we settled into a rhythm. We worked five days a week with staggered days off, so the restaurant was always covered. Most of the time, we traveled to work together, worked side by side, and went home together. Slowly, our relationship blossomed.

Her new life seemed to please her. Each evening, she continued her ritual of feeding the hungry, taking the food that would have been thrown away and giving it to those who needed it most. That act of kindness became the highlight of each day, a quiet joy beyond the work we did.

When we got paid at the end of the week, she gave me a hug that carried so much gratitude and relief. She had escaped the people chasing her, she was earning money honestly, and she was safe. I felt the love in that embrace, a recognition of trust, survival, and freedom.

One day, on our day off together, she asked me a question that stuck with me:
“Why are you so insecure?”

I laughed, defensive. “I’m not insecure. I’m not afraid of anyone. I’ll fight anyone at the drop of a hat.”

She shook her head, disappointed. “No. You’re afraid to smile. You hide behind your aggression, your anger. A happy person is a secure person. If you were truly secure, you’d smile.”

The next day, it came back to me while I was on my own, heading to work. I sat on the bus, thinking. Across from me, a white guy locked eyes with me. In Hackney, that meant trouble. My first instinct was to launch into the familiar dance of fear and aggression—the one I’d lived by since I was thirteen.

But Adriana’s words stopped me. “You’re afraid to smile.”

So I did something I’d never done. I smiled at him.

And to my disbelief, he smiled back.

In that moment, the world shifted. A simple act, a small choice, cracked open everything I thought I knew. Happiness wasn’t a weakness—it was strength. I carried that new understanding with me all the way to work, and all the way home. I smiled at customers, smiled at strangers, smiled at life itself.

That night, when I saw Adriana, I hugged her deeply, feeling the warmth and the transformation she had inspired. I didn’t tell her about the man on the bus. I wanted it to remain our secret that she was right. But she was.

From that day forward, something subtle but profound changed in me. Her light had taught me a new way to live. And for a brief, shining time, it felt like nothing could touch us—just her and me, building a life filled with trust, laughter, and small acts of kindness.

Little did I know, the calm we had created was only the quiet before the storm.

Take Five was was in Covent Gardens, in the West End. Upstairs in the main market, the owner, Ernesto, had created five restaurants side by side. One big platform was sectioned into five sections: Italian, Chinese, Pizza, Indian, and my section—the burgers. Customers could walk up to any window, choose their food, but it was all Take Five, all under one roof. I managed the burger part, and Ricky co-managed with me.

That day, (The day I smiled) I noticed a new face—a janitor keeping the upstairs foyer spotless. His name was Fidel. He was a black guy, around 27 or 28, with a calm, easygoing presence. From the first greeting, he radiated warmth and charm. Everyone liked him. But there was something more. As we spoke, I realized there was a depth to him, a spiritual, almost mystical energy. He had a way of encouraging anyone he spoke to, of seeing something beyond the surface.

I decided Adriana needed to meet him. She had just started to settle into life here, and I wanted her to have someone good around her. The next day, I introduced them. They clicked immediately. They laughed, shared stories, and as the days went by, I noticed them spending more and more time together. Whenever she had a lunch break, Fidel was there. I didn’t feel threatened. Back then, my measure of a man was physical—if he could fight, he was worth noticing. Fidel posed no threat.

Eventually, Adriana asked if he could come back to our place to smoke with us. I agreed. That night, we sat in my room with a candle in the center. We formed a triangle: Fidel held my hand and Adriana’s, I held hers. We were three people, holding hands, around a candle.

And then it happened. Fidel looked into Adriana’s eyes and began to speak—not just about the present, but about her life, her struggles, her journey. Adriana was stunned, and I was too. How could he know so much? The air was charged with something mystical, almost sacred.

Then he turned to me. “We met once before,” he said.

“What? No, I would remember you,” I replied.

“No. Another lifetime,” he said. “Long ago. We were adversaries, and now we meet again. I’ll get to you through Adriana.”

I didn’t understand it. I didn’t know what to make of it. But I let it be. We finished our conversation, smoked the rest of the weed, and the moment felt sealed.

I decided to go out and get more weed. When I returned forty-five minutes later, the energy in the room had shifted. Adriana and Fidel weren’t looking at me the same way. Something had happened. Fidel made an excuse and left.

Later, I watched them go down the stairs, and through the front door, I saw a tender moment—no kiss, just something intimate and unmistakable. I didn’t like what I felt. I asked Adriana later. She admitted he had tried to kiss her, but she had shut it down.

I smiled. I understood. I trusted her judgment, and I left it there. I would see Fidel at work the next day.

In those early days, I was still getting to know Adriana, and every new detail about her amazed me. She had been through horrors most people couldn’t even imagine, yet she carried herself with a kind of spiritual and emotional depth that made you feel small in her presence. Violence repulsed her. She admired intellect, insight, and honesty. Her life had forced her to surrender to the worst of humanity—to be used, controlled, trapped—and yet, she had emerged wide awake, wide open, seeing the world and the people around her in a way most never could.

She noticed things I didn’t. She saw the smallest cracks in the wallpaper, the misplaced chairs, every ticking clock, every detail in a room. She saw people for who they truly were, stripped of masks and pretenses. She loved children, she loved animals, and she loved the human spirit—but power, in her eyes, came with responsibility. If someone held authority, it must benefit the majority, not the few. She had endured unimaginable exploitation, yet she carried a clarity, a moral compass, and a wisdom that left me in awe.

When she looked at me, it felt like she was peering into my soul. That first day on the train, when her eyes met mine, I’d felt it — that silent question: Can I trust this guy? And then, somehow, she had chosen to trust me. Even then, I knew she was out of my league—mentally, spiritually, emotionally. But my heart? My heart was utterly hers.

Then came Fidel.

Fidel, with his calm, easy presence, his mystical energy, the way he seemed to understand everything without effort… I could feel his connection to her. Deep down, I knew he was making a move. And every instinct in me screamed, fight, strike, protect. The Beast inside me — the one who had lived by fists since I was thirteen — it rose up, snarling and raw. I could imagine dragging him into a dark alley, letting my fists do what words could not.

But that was exactly the wrong move and I knew it.

The moment I acted on that instinct, I would lose her forever. She would never forgive me, never trust me again. She would see my violence as primitive, destructive, unworthy of her intelligence and depth. And in that moment, I understood something important: protecting her wasn’t about brute force—it was about restraint, love, and respect.

So I stayed silent.

Inside, though, my mind was a storm. Conflicting thoughts, instincts, and emotions clashed relentlessly. He’s after her. I can see it. I sense it. But what do I do? Do I pretend to like him? Do I hide my jealousy? Every glance at their laughter, every subtle look exchanged, pierced me like a knife. And yet, I could not interfere, not physically, not emotionally.

The atmosphere at work shifted too. Everyone loved Fidel. Everyone smiled when he walked into a room. Everyone except me. I was the odd one out, and it was obvious. I could feel their admiration, their trust, the way they gravitated toward him. And in that environment, my jealousy and protective instincts became sharper, more intense.

I had no one to confide in. No friend to share the truth of what I felt. No mentor to guide me through this unfamiliar territory. I was alone with my thoughts, my instincts, and the impossible task of keeping Adriana safe—physically, emotionally, spiritually—without ever letting her see the storm inside me.

And in the midst of it all, I felt something I hadn’t anticipated: respect for her insight, admiration for her discernment, and awe for the way she navigated life. She had survived the unthinkable, and now, she was navigating a world I didn’t yet understand. Every decision I made had to honor that.

The Beast in me still roared, but I had learned to cage it. I had learned that sometimes, love is the hardest fight of all—a fight without fists, without anger, without brute force. And I was learning to fight it, every day, for her.