’m really the one that shouldbe where mybrother is. I’mthe one thatwould have gotup there andtold them to

stop smoking (and I wouldn’t havebeen so nice about the words I used).James was six foot nine and alwaysaware of his height, his size and hisability, and it made him veryhumble. Not in the ring, but thatis to be expected.

I don’t know what reallyhappened, but from what I’ve seenreported, there was an argumentbetween people who were smokingand the security staff. The shootingstarted after my brother gotinvolved and asked them to “please stop”.

The owner of the club was afriend, someone James respected.I’m pretty certain had he been in anyother club, he wouldn’t have evenblinked an eye about the smoking.

The first I heard about it was at2.45am. I was in bed and got a phonecall from James’ partner whichchanged my life. She said, “Youwon’t believe this, James has beenshot.” I said, “What? Where? How?”

I dashed down to Charing Crosshospital with my brother’s coach,who is like a father to us. He’s knownus since we were kids. When thedoctors finally came, they gave usthe news that James was probablygoing to be 95 per cent brain dead.

Then the hospital started to fillup – by 4pm you couldn’t move onthe sixth floor. People who didn’teven know him were coming intothe hospital, saying, “We just wantto pray for him, give the family somesupport.” It was amazing. Thehospital’s patience was tested butthe staff were absolutely fantastic.

The truth is, I didn’t spend toomuch time at his bedside. I was stillin denial, so I didn’t get to see him

properly until the Wednesday, twodays later. It was 10pm and I was justleaving when the doctor said: “Yourbrother just moved, you might wantto go and say a few words to him.” Iwill never forget it as long as I live. I went in and kissed him on hisforehead, and I whispered in his ear, “I love you”.

If you saw the way his bodymoved – his arms went up and hisright leg went up. I couldn’t believeit. I tried to calm him, I said, “It’sokay, it’s okay, just try to relax, justget well.” That was the first time Iactually had a glimmer of hope.

But the way I look at it, James justwaited for me to comeand say something, tohear my voice. Becausehe died the next day.

The doctors said:“Look, he’s never goingto make a recovery, and he’s got to a pointwhere he really is onlybreathing because ofthe machine.”

Now, when youhave between 40 and60 people in thecorridors and you haveto go back and tell themthat this is the end – Ijust didn’t know how todo that. So I gathered afew close peopletogether, family andtight friends. People started gettingangry, saying no, the doctors coulddo better.

I like to be realistic in life. Veryfew doctors would lie, especially ifthey saw that James’ story was in the papers every day. I promised the doctor that no one would lynchhim and arranged for him to talk toeveryone at once. Finally we agreedthat there was just no point inkeeping him alive.

They gave us an extra day,because they realised the kind offamily we were. It seemed as if about

150,000 people were there –everybody wanted to stand withhim for a few minutes and say theirprayers. Then the next day, his veryclose family were at his bedside. Iwasn’t there. I couldn’t take that tobe honest, so I bottled out. Just aftermidday they pronounced him dead.

The first time I met my brother Iwas five years old. I was fostered toan Irish lady called Mrs Thorn, inWiltshire, while my brother was inNigeria with my grandmother.Eventually he was brought over, and he was speaking this foreignlanguage. My foster mother keptsaying, “He’s your brother!” and all

the other kids werelaughing. I was like,“No he’s not, no way!”

But he actuallyturned out to be the bigbrother for everybody.He was the one thatnever gave up. He wasthe one that was alwayscommitted.

From then on wewere very close. Don’tget me wrong, heknocked me out once,but we spent a lot oftime together. Wespoke three or fourtimes a day. We were ineach other’s pockets allthe time.

His boxing careertook off and I became a probationofficer, working with murderers, sexoffenders and arsonists. The creamof the cream of offending. And I wasvery good, because I had empathy.

Do you know how difficult it is tostab someone? Very difficult. But it’seasy when you don’t give a shit. Ifyou’ve got nothing to lose, you losenothing. A lot of my teenage yearswere based on “I don’t give a shit”, so I can understand.

I set up my mentoring businessto intervene with young people atrisk of ending up inside. I could

easily have gone and worked withthe elderly but I believe that if I dothat then James’ death will havebeen in vain. I love my brother toomuch for that to happen.

Kids are taking the piss, they arerunning riot, but they mirror whatthey see. We aren’t respecting eachother, acting like a community,being good role models, so how canwe expect them to be any different?

Young people don’t readnewspapers. You think they arewatching the news and thinking,“Oops, the government are crackingdown on knife crime, we’d betternot stab.” Of course they aren’t.

The government aren’t talking tothe right people: the youth workersand probation officers who havebeen working on the ground foryears. Not one person has asked myopinion in all this time.

After my brother died I wrote toDavid Cameron and Boris Johnsonasking to discuss the issue withthem. I didn’t receive a responsefrom Boris, and Cameron’s lettersaid that he was too busy.

If they had spoken to me, I would have told them to pass a lawwhere, if you get caught using a gunor knife you do full time, not the halfsentences that people do now. Thenwe need to rehabilitate people inprison – compulsory courses.Believe me, people would startthinking twice before they put aknife or gun in their pocket.

Unfortunately, it took for my brother to be killed before I was given the privilege to be askedmy opinion.

For me now, my willpower isstronger. There’s never been morecommitment to do my job because I love what I do and I don’t want to stop.As told to Daisy GreenwellKelly Oyebola runs PotentialMentoring services. For moreinformation go towww.potentialmentoring.org.uk

When former UK boxing champion James Oyebola was gunned down last year, his brother’s world

turned upside down. Here, Kelly Oyebola describes the unbelievable reaction to his death, and his own

decision to work with youngsters

SUCKER PUNCH

“Do youknow howdifficult it is to stab

someone?Very difficult.But it’s easyif you don’tgive a sh*t”

06 | The Big Issue July 21 - 27 2008

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July 21 - 27 2008 The Big Issue | 07

Kelly Oyebola runs a mentoring servicefor young people

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