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 Foot Soldier, 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, and that was most of the kids I hung around with on my estate.

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 the high school they put me in, 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 and 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 diary.

On 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 joyride. 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 from 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 the 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.

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 travelled 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. However, looking back, to my shame, I never joined her; I always watched her from across the road.

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 and offended by the question. “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.”

She continued: “You need to find your fire, your inner flame and let it burn bright”

The next day, her words 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. I was just about to say “What you looking at?” as I always had. But Adriana’s words stopped me. “You’re afraid to smile.”

So I did something I’d never done before. 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 my 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.

Part 2: The Devil in Disguise

Take Five 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, chicken & ribs. 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. 5 separate kitchens, one big food court that we all shared. This was 1988, before food courts existed; Ernesto was ahead of his time.

That day (The day I smiled at the man on the bus), 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 realised 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.

(My value and self-worth came from my ability to fight; I didn’t care how big you were; I had speed and a strategy. If there was distance, I’d kick you in the balls as hard as I could; as you leaned forward in pain, elbow your nose bridge, grab your head and smash my knee into your face as hard as I could. Then, when you were on the ground, kick you in the head until you stopped moving. If you were close, I’d headbutt your nose bridge as hard as I could, the knee you in the balls, some-how my goal was to get you to the ground and finish you with head kicks. As violent as this sounds, it was survival in Hackney, and there were much more ruthless fighters in my neighbourhood who were much more dangerous than me.) Fidel posed no threat to me whatsoever; he didn’t move like a fighter. I considered him a soft man, a peaceful man.

Eventually (after a few days of knowing him), 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 centre. 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 about 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.

Then 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 pretence. 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 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 — rose up, snarling and raw. I could imagine dragging him into a dark alley, letting my fists do what words could not, kicking him in his head until he stopped moving.

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 honour 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.

I am writing these memoirs in 2026, thirty-eight years after the events, so the exact timeline of events may not be in exact order; nevertheless, what I experienced was burned into my Soul, because they are the deepest emotions I have felt towards anyone to this day.

Adriana sensed my jealousy over her friendship with Fidel, and asked me again if she could invite him back to our place again. (I say ‘our place’ but we were still living with my Mum and Uncle in my mum’s house). I reluctantly agreed; I just wanted to be happy. The whole way home, she was overly affectionate with me, holding my hand while Fidel followed behind like a 3^rd thumb. When we got home, I rolled a spliff, and we smoked. My mum had made some food, so we went downstairs to eat. Adriana was trying to establish the dynamics: I was her man, Fidel was her friend, and she was making that clear by the affection she was showing me in his face. A film came on the TV, and Adriana suggested we watch it, She sat next to me on the couch, holding onto my arm, and Fidel sat behind us on the chair pulled from the dining table. Halfway through the film, Adriana asked if she could have a fruit. I got up and got her an apple; out of politeness, I offered Fidel a fruit. He asked for an orange. I sat back down and continued to watch the film, but after a while I heard a sucking sound that made me look back at Fidel. This is what I saw: he had positioned himself directly behind Adriana; he looked angry; he had bitten into the orange and was sucking out all the juice from the orange from the hole he had bitten, all the while staring intently at the back of her head. I stared at him; he ignored me. I nudged Adriana; she looked at me, then looked to see what I was looking at, but as she turned, Fidel acted normal, smiled and said, “What?” Adriana looked back at me, confused and got back into the film. But I could no longer focus on the film; Fidel smirked at me, as if he knew he had gotten under my skin. And he had. The guy made my skin crawl; I could not get that image out of my mind, the way he was sucking the juice out of the orange while staring intensely at the back of her head.

That night, after he left, Adriana and I got into a heated argument over Fidel. I was trying to tell her the guy is evil, but she was trying to reassure me that he is only a friend and tonight she made it clear: I am her man. Nevertheless, it was not enough for me; I wanted him out of her life. We did not touch that night; I could feel her disappointment in me.

The next day was Adriana’s day off. I went into work alone. When Fidel saw me, he was gloating, as if he knew Adriana and I had fought last night. I could see him gloating, but he never approached me. I felt very confused about what I was seeing. Adriana had shown me affection all night, ignored him, yet here he was gloating; the only thing that could make him gloat is if he knew we had fought, and I was very sure he couldn’t have.

That night, when I got home, Adriana had warmed up to me again; Fidel’s name was not mentioned, we laughed, we joked, we made passionate love, and I felt Adriana was doing her best to reassure me where her loyalty lay. However, the next day when I got to work, Fidel was not gloating; he looked vexed as he saw me. Again, it was as if he knew the dynamics between Adriana and me had shifted back in my favour, and he was not pleased. This was 1988, before mobile devices or social media; this man had no way of knowing what was going on in my bedroom, yet somehow his reaction to me was as if he did know.

The dynamics between Adriana and me slowly began to shift. Every day at work, Fidel hovered around her; every break, every free moment he had, he was around her. They seemed to be getting closer and closer. I still could not get that image of the orange out of my head, and every day I hated him more. The only thing stopping me from giving him a good head-kicking was Adriana’s hatred of violence. But I was secretly planning how I could get him alone and end his life without her knowing.

His reputation at work just seemed to keep glowing; no one had a bad word to say about him. All the other staff from the four other restaurants loved him; customers loved him; he was funny, charismatic, spiritual, humble, deep, insightful; Adriana loved him, and I deeply passionately hated him. One day Ricky asked me what my problem with Fidel was. It was then I became aware I could not hide my feelings. Even Adriana began to pull away from me, every now and again dropping hints; jealousy was ugly and insecure, immature and childish. All the while, Fidel just seemed to get closer and closer to her.

Once again, Adriana asked if she could invite him over. I felt a knot in my stomach; if I said no, I was the jealous, little insecure boyfriend. If I said yes, and he did something like last time, I might kill him then and there. I reluctantly said yes.  As before, Adriana held my hand as Fidel walked behind us, rather, behind her. But he now seemed to accept his role; there was no anger or discomfort in him. We sat in my bedroom. I rolled a joint, and we smoked; everything seemed ok until I saw Fidel looking at me with pity in his eyes. As Adriana passed him the spliff, he smoked, looked at her and spoke in another language. The look of shock on her face as she answered him. Then he continued to speak with her in that language; it was French, and she knew more French than English. It was easier for her to speak in French than English, and for the rest of the night, they spoke French. I sat there like a 3^rd thumb wanting to tear his throat out. He asked her something, then she looked at me with sadness in her eyes, then, in English, she asked, ” Would you like to come to a nightclub with me and me?

My only thought was, how do I save face? If I leave him alone with her, I know what he will try. If I follow along, I am the third thumb, yet I could not bear the thought of them being alone. I asked her if she would like me to come. She replied, ” Yes, if I want to.”

As we left my house, they continued to speak in French; they walked side by side, and I followed behind, feeling like a fool, and as they spoke, I felt so inadequate. All I had was my fists and my ability to get weed. Fidel had life experience, charisma, charm, wisdom; he had travelled, could speak more than one language, he was mysterious, and me? I could fight. I followed them, feeling like a thick, stupid caveman; in this game over Adriana’s heart, he was winning. We got to a nightclub near London Fields called All Nations, but the admission fee was more than Fidel could afford, and it would be a cold day in hell before I paid for this guy to dance with my girl. We ended up walking all the way back to my house, but Fidel did not come in. I left them downstairs and went to my room; sometime later Adriana came in. We did not speak; there was nothing to say.

The next day at work, the Paul McCartney & Michael Jackson song was playing, ‘The Girl Is Mine ’, and as Fidel was mopping the floor, he looked up at me and mouthed the words to the song, “Don’t waste your time, because the doggone girl is mine” I was standing in the kitchen; he was in the main hall area. I could see him; he could see me, but no one could tell we could see each other where we both stood. I had never before been resolved to end someone’s life, but that is exactly how I felt. When I stepped out of the kitchen and saw her seated, with him behind her massaging her shoulders as if comforting her, something snapped. Had she chosen him? Why was she allowing this closeness? I paused; there was so much anger and rage in me, nothing good would come out of me, only violence.

That night Adriana and I barely spoke. The next morning she told me she would not be coming to work, then she dropped a bombshell on me: Fidel had asked her to come and stay with him; she cared about me, but felt Fidel and she had more in common. Then she explained what they had in common. In her travels she had made many friends, then she named a list of friends in her diaries, Fidel knew them all, yet some how they’d never met. It felt like destiny for them to both be in London at the same time. Most of their conversations had been about her friends who spoke French; then Fidel started speaking French, communication was just so much easier, and there was much she could learn from him. I nodded as if I understood. It was not worth arguing.

That morning Fidel was sitting at the tables outside my burger restaurant entrance. He had a look of compassion on his face, as if he felt sorry for me. He asked me to take a seat. So I sat. What came next was the most otherworldly, supernatural conversation I had ever had in my life.

Fidel looked serious, then said, “Look, there was nothing wrong with you, but you never understood what was happening. Could you sense I knew what was happening between you and Adriana?”

I thought about the times we were happy and the next day at work he seemed upset, and the times we argued, and the next day at work he seemed ecstatic. I answered honestly, “Yes, you seemed to know what was happening”

Then he said the following “I told you we had met before in a past life, and we were adversaries, and now we meet again under more peaceful circumstances, I am a Priest, I practice Voodoo, and one of my gifts is astral projection, do you know what that is?

I shook my head; I had never heard the term before.

Fidel continued, “I have the ability to leave my body and travel around in spirit form, and so many nights I was with you and Adriana in your bedroom, watching everything you did and hearing every word you spoke, and I must say, you’ve done well, you see, Adriana is my Queen, I am her King and you were her guard dog to keep her safe until my arrival, and I am here now. And why should I hide her fate from you? You see, I will teach her to Astral project with me; then her spirit and my spirit will bond as one spirit and live as one in my body. This is her destiny; this is the path she wants and has chosen.”

I was about to pick my chair up and break his head open, but Ricky and the others showed up to work.

Fidel continued, “You are a deep, powerful spiritual man, you just don’t know it, I am so grateful to you for keeping my Queen safe all this time, but please recognise the time to step back and let go. And that time is now, my friend.”

I got up and got busy in the kitchen preparing todays food, thinking about his words, I couldn’t deny he seemed to always know what was happening in my room between myself and Adriana, but Astrol projection? Moving around in spirit form? This just seemed like fantastic foolishness. I was not until that evening when Adriana showed up at work with her rucksack. Fidel put it on, stood behind her, put his hands on her shoulders and I watched them leave together. I felt sick. I needed to use the toilet.

Now, I was not a religious or spiritual man. The only reason I had studied the bible in the past is because a beautiful girl had knocked on my door; she was a Jehovah Witness, I let her in and studied her lips as she spoke to me about Jesus and Jehovah. I had no interest in her religion whatsoever, but every week I let her come study the bible with me.

So sitting on the toilet seat, emptying my bowels, smoking a joint, I prayed to Jesus. I didn’t pray to God, I was an evil sinner who wanted to kick heads in, but I heard about this Jesus who died for my sin. This was my prayer: “I know I’m not worthy of anything, but after all she has been through, open her eyes to who Fidel really is and keep her safe”

I finished on the toilet, cleaned myself, locked up and went home.

I remember feeling hollow, empty and defeated as I walked home alone. The imagery Fidel planted in my mind: teaching Adriana to astral project, her spirit and his spirit merging into one and both of them living in his body. I felt sick. I did my best to push all thoughts of Adriana out of my mind; this kind of turmoil would drive me crazy. Was there any truth behind Fidel’s claims of astral projection, voodoo and past lives? As I walked, I lit my spliff and let go of all this foolish nonsense. Nothing made any sense to me.

When I got home and went into my room, I could smell Adriana’s perfume. I opened the windows, put on some music and did my best to drive her memory out of my mind, she chose Fidel, maybe my role in her life was not to protect her, but to introduce her to Fidel, not to take her to Columbia, maybe that was Fidel’s role. Driving her out of my mind felt impossible; all I could do was think about the last few weeks, the last few months over and over. I felt empty and hollowed out and had no idea how to stop this pain. I just built the biggest spliff I could and smoked, hoping the pain would end.

About 11:30 p.m., there was a knock on my front door, I got up and went down to see who was knocking at this time, through the glass I could see Adriana’s silhouette, I rush down and opened the door and she jumped into my arms crying. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, you were right, everything you said about Fidel was right,” and she sobbed in my arms uncontrollably.

I picked up her rucksack and carried her up to my room, gave her my spliff and let her unwind. Then she told me what happened. Adriana began by telling me how she and Fidel had bonded; he seemed to have travelled along the same paths as her, meeting the same people, but somehow they never met until London at Take 5. They bonded over all the similarities in their past, the near misses, how they had been in the same cities at the same time but missed each other by days. Fidel seemed to know the exact same stories about her friends, and told he stories she thought only she knew.

Adriana got news that one of her friends had died, that was the day Fidel stood behind her massaging her shoulders comforting her. Her friend ‘Michelle’ had died from a mysterious disease, and her and Fidel were both sharing this grief together. This was when Fidel suggested she come stay with him; he understood what she was feeling and going through.

Now Fidel was homophobic; he didn’t like anything gay, so Adriana asked him if he found Michelle attractive, when Fidel answered yes, she wasn’t bad, alarm bells went off in Adriana’s mind, because Michelle was a transvestite who lived as a woman but it was very obvious she was a man. When Adriana realised Fidel did not really know Michelle, she began to ask him personal details about other friends they shared, and the more she probed, the more his façade began to crumble. She realised he had listened to her carefully and fed back to her stories she had told him, but only now they were his stories, his memories, when the penny dropped, she took her rucksack and ran. I don’t know if anything else happened, but that is all she told me.

I remembered my prayer on the toilet, “Open her eyes” and here she was, with her eyes wide open, now free from Fidel’s spell and now we were both seeing the exact same fidel.

All of this happened in one evening; she never spent one night with Fidel.

But this had a profound effect on me. I was only 19 years old, I had lost the love of my life to a Voodoo priest, I prayed one prayer on a toilet, “Open her eyes” and that very night her eyes were opened and here she was, back safe and sound in my arms. I didn’t know what to make of this. Was God actually real, was Voodoo real? I searched my little 19 year old mind for answers, but all I really knew is I had my girl back, I had won, Fidel had lost and I could only attribute it to a short prayer on the toilet while I was smoking a spliff and taking a shit. Yet here she was.

Part 3: The Spiritual Warrior is born

I woke up the next morning; it was my day off, I stared at Adriana sleeping and played the last few weeks over and over in my mind. How much smarter Fidel was than me, how everyone loved him, how he had charisma, life experience, languages, and all I had were my fists, which were completely useless in this situation. I thought about my last conversation with Fidel and his intentions with Adriana, I thought about the way he stared at the back of her head while sucking the juice out of the orange in such a strange way, then finally, my prayer, “open her eyes” then in that moment I realise what I wanted to be, the polar opposite of Fidel, I saw Fidel as a man of pure evil and darkness, I desired to be a man of pure light and goodness. I found an old bible I had, lit a big, fatty bombastic spliff and began to read about God, I wasn’t just reading, I was studying, devouring the bible. Suddenly Bob Marley’s words took on new meaning, and everything in life seemed to have new meaning. Whether or not my response to the events that just happened was correct, to my 19 year old mind I needed to respond to the God who had answered my prayer.

My Spiritual backstory:

Until that prayer on the toilet, there had only ever been one other instant that I prayed and it was answered. I was 4 years old and my mother was getting me ready for nursery school while getting herself ready for work, she bent down to tie her shoe lace and screamed out in pain, then she could not stand up straight again. She continued to tie my laces but was crying. As she hobbled out of the room, I remember looking out the window and saying “God please make my mummy well” I remember wondering if God had heard me, so I called out to my mum and asked her how her back was feeling. She came back in the room standing up straight and said there was nothing wrong with her back. My little 4 year old mind was blown. However, between 4 years old and 19 years old there were no more prayers or spiritual encounters I could boast about.

Aged 16 I was in a fight and got smashed in the head with a brick, as a result my mum sent me to Canada to live with my dad. One day during the summer of 1987 I was home alone and there was a knock on my door. I opened the door to see a beautiful young lady who wanted to study the bible with me. I didn’t care if she was selling eccyclopedias, vacuum cleaners, girl guide cookies, whatever she was peddling she was welcomed to come in and sit in my living room. She looked delicious and smelled even better. She began to teach me from a Bible called the New World Translation and began to teach me about a God named Jehovah. At that same time I was approached by some Pentecostal Christians who wanted to convert me to their brand of Christianity, this began a back-and-forth Bible war between Lydia and the Pentecostal. When I was with the Pentecostals I would argue all of Lydias points and when I was with Lydia I would argue all of the Pentecostals points. I had no interest in church or religion, but this whole ordeal of people trying to covert me was pure entertainment. I did visit both churches but found the Jehovah witness church way too boring, I fell into a deep sleep, and when I visited the Pentecostal church I was judged on my appearance. After a while Lydia invited me to meet her parents, but this was nothing romantic, she brought me to the big guns who could drive the Pentecostal teachings from my mind. Nevertheless I lost my desire for bible studies because religion clashed with my freedom to smoke weed. I saw myself as a freedom fighter, a spiritual warrior, I didn’t really know what I was fighting for, but God had rescued my girlfriend and I felt the need to express my gratitude.

Adriana decided not to return to Take 5, she did not want to see Fidel, and as I returned to work, there was no sign of Fidel for a few days. Ricky hired a new girl to replace Adriana, Rachel was a bright bubbly ginger haired girl with freckles, a little bundle of energy. About 2 days went by before I saw Fidel again, but he avoided me, he was busy cleaning, emptying rubbish, or doing some kind of task, we never even made eye contact.

I decided to quit my job at take 5 also,

On Friday Adriana did come to work with me, but only to pick up her pay check.