A Taste of Culture

The clatter of metal trays in the servery was the soundtrack to my mornings. From my perch as the number one cook and cleaner on the wing, I had a front-row seat to the organised chaos of breakfast distribution. But my real culinary adventures happened off the clock, in the cramped confines of the prison kitchen, where creativity and contraband mingled freely. It was a different kind of hustle, a far cry from the barber's chair, but no less demanding. Especially when you’re one of only six cooks for seven hundred inmates, and the ovens only fired up for a glorious four-day weekend.

That’s where my international friendships truly flourished. I’d bring in a chicken, maybe some minced meat, and my mates from the Caribbean and Indian blocks would do their magic. We’d swap ingredients, knowledge, and soon enough, our shared freezer chests were overflowing with a week’s worth of diverse flavours. Stewed chicken, curried lamb, fragrant rice dishes – it was a taste of home, a defiant burst of flavour against the bland backdrop of institutional food. We’d divvy it up, portion it out, and by the time Friday rolled around, we were feasting like kings, or at least, like prisoners who’d managed to outsmart the system, one delicious meal at a time.

Beyond the kitchen, my days were a whirlwind of activity. I was still doing my music in the studio, laying down tracks that echoed the rhythm of life inside. When the mood struck, I’d blast the tunes out onto the wing, our makeshift sound system – usually a yellow blaster bass, Sub-Zero type thing – vibrating the very foundations of the block. The music would cut through the usual cacophony, silencing the chatter, drawing everyone in. It was a moment of unity, where we all felt the same beat, the same energy. We called it ‘Shutdown’. And then, a few weeks later, someone on the outside dropped a track with the same name. I knew instantly they’d heard it, some sneaky mobile phone capturing the essence of our wing’s anthem. But credit where credit is due, the beat was pure fire. My original, of course, was a masterpiece, a symphony of prison life.