My best friend, Alfred Williams.

My best friend Alfred was a force—stubborn, magnetic, and unlike anyone I’d ever met, even my gangster dad. I met him, who I’d later call Farid, the week I started at Akosombo Secondary School in Ghana. We were both latecomers: me, scrambling after Achimota Secondary School rejected my admission; him, fresh off a plane from America. When Alfred strode into class, his aura filled the room. You couldn’t ignore his energy. We clicked instantly, bonding over music, sneakers, clothes, and girls—typical teenage obsessions. His stories about his New Jersey neighborhood, brimming with gangs and grit, made me laugh. “You think I’m joking,” he’d say, “but I’m dead serious.” I didn’t believe him.

That summer, I visited America, landing in New Jersey at 6 a.m. to stay with my sister in her apartment. Alfred, already back in his hometown, lived just 40 minutes away. I called him from my sister’s place, and within an hour, he pulled up to get me. “Let’s roll,” he said, grinning. I was about to see his world firsthand.

We cruised into his East Orange neighborhood, and BRUH—it was like stepping into a rap video. Purple and blue bandanas flashed on every corner, marking Grape Street Crips and their rivals, gangs I’d only heard about in songs. Guys with dreads, some younger than me, strutted with guns tucked in their waistbands, dapping each other with cool handshakes. Others clutched plastic bags stuffed with small white rocks—crack, I’d later learn. My jaw dropped. Alfred glanced at me, smirking. “Told you.”

At 8 p.m., Alfred, his crew, and I rolled up to a party buzzing with everyone who mattered in East Orange. The vibe was electric—pretty girls everywhere, laughing in tight groups, and my teenage heart was racing. This was gonna be a night to remember.

Six police officers, some white, stood grimly at the entrance, their presence jarring for a teen party. I brushed it off—must be an American thing—and kept quiet, not wanting to seem like the clueless African kid. We slipped inside without hassle. Inside, Nelly’s “Hot in Herre” blasted through the speakers, the bass shaking the room. We hit the dance floor, grinning, jamming to the beat, lost in the moment.

Then it happened. One of Alfred’s friends friend bumped into another guy mid-dance, a clumsy mistake near the girl I’d been eyeing. No big deal, I thought. But their glares locked, and I noticed their bandanas—purple and blue, rival colors. Their argument erupted, voices rising over the music. Alfred grabbed my arm, his face tight. “It’s about to pop off. Let’s dip.”

“What?” I protested. “Why do we have to go?”
“Yo shut up and let’s go,” he snapped, pulling me toward the exit.

Before we could get far, bottles soared overhead, shattering against walls. The crowd surged, choking the doorway as screams and wails drowned out the music. A girl I wanted to talk to tripped and fell, but I couldn’t stop. Oh chale. We were steps from the exit when gunshots cracked through the air. The rival gangs were going at it.

My first night in town, and I was dodging bullets. This can’t be real. My pulse pounded, my mind spiraling: Am I about to catch a stray? God, please, not like this. My dad’s voice echoed, “You never listen.” My mom’s prayers rang in my ears.

Amid the chaos, I saw him—a guy stumbling, dazed, hands flailing like a blind man’s. Blood poured down his face, glass from a shattered bottle lodged in his dreads. The sight froze me, gut-wrenching. I’d never seen so much blood. Alfred, behind me, barked, “Kasen, move!” He shoved me forward, ignoring my urge to help. “You stop, you’re done,” he said.

We pushed through the panic, spilling onto the street as red and blue police lights blinded me. Sirens wailed. Officers swarmed the building, barking orders. “On the ground, hands behind your back!” Two hundred of us dropped, planking on the pavement as they searched us one by one. My heart skipping beats, but we were cleared and released.

In Alfred’s car, I asked why we couldn’t help the injured guy. “Police see blood on your hands, you’re a suspect,” he said, his voice hard. “They don’t care if you’re playing Good Samaritan. This is East Orange.” His friends laughed, planning to hit another party. I stared at them. “Are you serious? Drop me home.” They cackled the whole ride, mocking my shaken nerves. To them, this was just another night.

The next morning, I boarded a five-hour bus to my brother’s place in Maryland. I whispered a prayer of thanks, grateful to be alive. Staring out the window, I replayed the chaos—bottles flying, gunshots, that blood-soaked face. I thought of Alfred’s stories back at school, the ones I’d laughed off as exaggerations.

Turns out he wasn’t lying at all.