It seems like I was born in solitary! I was built for it. Life in most gangs is hard. It’s a life of bloodshed, bravery, loyalty, honor – the age-old attributes that turn boys to men. Like most warrior clans, tribes, or nations – be it the Zulu’s, the Scots, the Spartans, Assyrians or Roman Legions – heart, courage and the ability to crush your enemy was looked upon with approval, respect and admiration.
Looking back through the mirror of time, I now recognize it for what it is – madness, chaos, genocide. But, back then, I knew nothing but gang life.
When I first arrived in the prison chow hall, I could see clear division. In my section there were countless men, some light complected, others dark, a few overweight, others slim, many tall, many not so tall –all in blue, all in our own section, all gang brothers.
Rival, and other groups sat in their sections if they were strong enough, respected enough to have one, while older, wiser street generals and religious leaders watched everyone.
Prison is about respect. Either you have it, or you don’t. Without it, you’re in the food chain, literally. Even in this concrete world, in this jungle of lost souls, the forsaken and forgotten, there’s a food chain, a pecking order. At the top sits those wise old lions, the leaders that control the flow of their groups and sections of the yard.
In the middle sit the Souljahs (Soldiers) that are up-and-coming. At the bottom of the pyramid – underneath it – sit the pariahs, those convicted of crimes against women (rape), children (pedophiles, molesters), or the elderly. This segment resides with the rats (the informants), usually with a foot on their neck.
To advance through the ranks, to gain respect or even fear, you earn it one of two ways – through violence or intelligence. To me, a 17-year-old in state prison where weakness could and would get you raped or killed, there was no option but to shed blood, ask questions later, no mercy – because this is a world that’s merciless.
The fights, the violence, the riots and gladiator wars, on top of the shrewd ability to make and generate money, led to being promoted to O.G. at the age of 19. It was an acknowledgment of my dedication and loyalty to the gang, years of being a hard hitter for the team. To reach this level of leadership at 19 was unheard of, comparable to being a Captain in the Marines, or maybe a Major in the Army.
Over that same timeframe, I spent a lot of time in solitary – three months here, six there, a year for this, a year for that. But never under the conditions that I’m under now, nor as long.
By the time I was known and respected I began studying – reading, economics, history, politics, business.
I originally entered prison with a ten year sentence. By the time I completed 10 years, I had five more years on weapons and narcotics charges. That first decade it was, ‘Can’t Stop, Won’t Stop, Don’t Stop’, the classic motto. I lived like a gang legend – get money, stay high and be the most dangerous.
Around seven years in, 2004, I was at the maximum security Missouri Death Row – Potosi. Prison was changing. It was no longer as violent, as dangerous. As a leader, I began steering my homeboys towards things that mattered, avoiding feuds and unnecessary wars when we could. The time had come to educate ourselves, get money, focus on building instead of destroying.
The prison administration took notice, but didn’t intervene, at least not directly. Over time, many gang members began to change, evolving from destructive to constructive and productive. With the right leadership anything could be accomplished. I lead by example, and by 2009, I was on my way to seeing the parole board for the first time. I was 27 with 11 ½ years in.
Then – on my 28th birthday -I was escorted by prison guards to Solitary – The Hole. A weapon had been ‘found’ under my mattress. I had no clue who it belonged to, but it wasn’t mine. By the prison code of silence, even if I knew I couldn’t speak on it.
I’ve had numerous weapon violations over the years, but I had not been involved in any violation for years. I was focused on making parole, studying and bettering myself to prepare for society. Although I was in solitary, I wasn’t too concerned initially because I believed guards set me up to take me off the yard, yet the dots weren’t connecting. I requested to be subjected to a Voice Stress Analysis (Lie Detector Test) with the two guards involved in finding the weapon.
My request was denied. I challenged the weapons charge through the internal prison system because nothing linked me to the weapon. Months passed, and due to numerous errors in the original written infraction, it was ordered rewritten and reheard. The original CDV (Conduct Violation Report) was to be dismissed, the officer who found the weapon was to rewrite the CDV/infraction and it needed to be reheard by the committee.
The DOC never rewrote the weapons charge. I transferred prisons and was released from solitary. A few months later I saw the Board after 12 years – Parole Denied! Imagine my surprise a year later, when I got indicted for the weapons charge (a prison razor).
By that time, I was heavily involved with teaching and educating prisoners. I hadn’t been on the battlefield in years, although anything can happen in this concrete world.
In court appearance after court appearance, the only evidence presented was a weapon found under my mattress in a cell that I shared with another prisoner. No witnesses, no supporting evidence, and the state refused to fingerprint the weapon – as I’ve requested for years – just fingerprint the weapon…
The court’s only answer to this request was and is a resounding, maddening, “No!”
By 2010 I was in the fight of my life – the fight for my life.
By 2011 we were set for trial. The state offered me eight more years. Knowing I was innocent, I turned them down. I wasn’t accepting a day. My unyielding stance was – fingerprint the weapon, and it’ll prove my innocence.
The state’s answer remained, “No.” They offered eight again and told me if I went to trial and lost, they would bury me with a life sentence.
It scared me to death, but with 14 years already in prison, I knew anything could happen in those eight years. In life, nothing is promised, especially not tomorrow. I couldn’t see accepting eight additional years for something I didn’t do. Now, I’m very aware that everyone in prison is ‘innocent’, but I’ve never disputed my guilt on any charge, and I’ve had a few. On this charge, I had to fight for my freedom, I wanted to walk out of prison and accomplish things and never return. Eight more years wouldn’t get me there.
By trial, the individual who originally made and possessed the weapon testified on my behalf, stating it was his weapon. The court wasn’t trying to hear it. The jury yawned, and the Prosecutor made me out to be the big bad wolf before coercing the witness to say the weapon was mine. I wish you could hear the audio interview.
Life… Thirty years… Life. I was dazed. My family was stunned. For the first time – at trial – even before sentencing, I broke down and cried. Yes, me, the hard-core gang member. Imagine that. A high-ranking Crip leader in tears for the first time in my incarceration. I cried.
That was the summer of 2011. Through it all, the court refused to fingerprint the weapon.
I knew I only had one shot at freedom. I had to focus on my appeal, I needed to study the law books and generate some major money. My desire for my freedom was almost overwhelming. My new motto became, ‘Not Guilty!’
The entire prison expected a gang war to erupt at worst. In the least they expected me to snap. Life – for a 5-inch razor. The FBI wouldn’t have sentence me to life for having an M-16, nor for bank robbery. But life for a homemade prison weapon…
I wanted to split heads, yet I had to be disciplined. My focus sharpened, my resolve hardened. I told my comrades not to bring any B.S. around me. I stayed in the law library, attempting to remain optimistic. I reorganized my comrades, my focus on freedom and legal money – ‘Not Guilty!’
Eight months later I was sent to the hole for dropping dirty urine. I was good for the infraction. You better believe it. I smoked and worked out to remain sane. I refused to let the state of Missouri kill me.
That day was April 30, 2012. Never have I walked out of isolation since. Not Guilty.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR. Aziliah Africa is a gifted writer and has authored several urban novels he plans to publish. He continues to shine in the darkest of places and is still in ‘The Hole’. Aziliah can be contacted at:
Aziliah Y. Africa #351045
South Central Correctional Center
255 W. Hwy 32
Licking MO 65542