I was just 13 years old when street violence crashed into my life, ruining what should have been an exciting summer holiday. I still remember that day vividly: my childhood friend Bailey ran onto the basketball court, panic in his eyes, holding a gun.

“Run! Get inside now and don’t come back out until I tell you to!” he shouted, as loud gunshots echoed across the tower block flats. In that moment, the innocence of our youth was stripped away, replaced by an overwhelming sense of danger that left me paralysed in fear and confusion. Rivals had entered the estate to murder Bailey, exposing me to the relentless cycle of tit-for-tat territorial violence that plagued our community. Bailey managed to escape that day, but over the years, far too many young men I knew lost their lives in that devastating cycle.