GHOST STORY
THE first time I met Deion Jumah he was days away from defending his title in the 2012 Senior ABA Championships, as well as hungover on account of drinking a bottle of vodka the night before. He was 22 back then – which is to say, young and dumb – but, even at 22, possessed a refreshing and unflinching honesty at odds with both his sport and those it corrupts.
“Do you ever feel like you just don’t belong anywhere in the world?” he asked, functioning on just an hour’s sleep. “I’ve walked up and down this road plenty of times over the years, but still don’t like it. It’s still not me. Everybody walking past seems like they’re from another planet.”
Jumah was at the time strolling from Sloane Square tube station along the King’s Road and was hiding from commuters and shoppers, or aliens to his mind, beneath the hood of a light blue top. It was a warm day, and there was no need for the top, let alone its hood, yet his attire, rather than chosen for warmth, offered Jumah protection, which is all that mattered. It offered protection from other people and it offered protection from a
