Ghetto Stories Novels & Stories

the little boy turned his head and said to one of the grown men. The grown man's name was Simon Yannick. He was the gangster leader in the ghetto and the reason why his son was brave enough to terrorize the area. The ghetto was a no man’s land. Since it was a place where one could not get any profits, people like Johann would not pay attention to the area at all, thereby allowing some people to make a name for themselves. Simon was very good at fighting and successfully made his name for himself in the ghettos. Everyone would call out Brother Simon when they saw him. Despite his poorness, his status remained rather high within the ghetto.

A grim baptism of fire for those desperate to escape the shackles of poverty. Hell's Gaze district, an apt name for the ghetto we called home. The district was infamous for its high crime rate, the only place a poor soul could afford to breathe. The neighborhood was controlled by gangsters, their reach extending far and wide, their power cemented by the corrupt politicians who used them as their muscle. The gang bosses, in return, enjoyed the protection of the city's high officials, even the governor, enabling them to operate with impunity.

Just like the others, he felt that was the one question that he absolutely should not have asked, yet the question flew out of his mouth before he could even stop it. As if to prove himself right, Leash spoke, “Oh. We are totally here illegally.” Anderson felt his stomach fell. What was annoying was the nonchalant expression and way of Leash’s speech. As if he had not just called them illegal immigrants in such a dangerous looking and feeling place. “Yeah. Those things you see out there, guardians. Nasty fellows. They’re ‘police’ or sorts. The only thing stopping them from getting to us is this place,” Leash motioned to the zone they were in. “And the only thing keeping this place together i

After dropping off Loretta, I made my way back home, a torrent of concerns still plaguing my mind. ......................................................................... The streets of Ikoyi were a cacophony of noise, with cars and people rushing about, each absorbed in their daily pursuits. Ikoyi, a notorious ghetto area in Lagos, teemed with an assortment of individuals – from smokers to drug dealers. My recollection of driving Loretta in my Bugatti to Ikoyi only resurfaced when I encountered a pothole. The troubles instigated by Loretta seemed beyond my comprehension, and I needed to be at Melanie Company as promptly as possible.

"There’s something called picture manipulation, my dear. We just have to find the perfect photoshopper and let him in on this game." Relief floods through me again, but it’s tinged with unease. We’re really doing this. Of course, this is the ghetto, and in the ghetto, there are usually many talents but no financial capability. You can usually find anything you need in the ghetto. If you want a hacker, come to the ghetto; a confident thief, come to the ghetto; a software developer, come to the ghetto. Anything you think of, including the photoshopper Diana and her daughters need at this moment, and most importantly, people from the ghetto know how to keep their mouths shut,.

I was doing some poking around on grindr when I got a message from a pup who is 20. We got to chatting casually and things started to spice up as we started talkin dirty and trading pics. I was getting excited as he showed me pictures of his ass which got me super hard. He was smooth and hairless with a firm, round bubble butt. He was tellin me how much he needed a man inside of him and I was ready as can be with that kind of talk. He shot me his address and I headed over to his place. What he failed to tell me was that he was living at his parents home, he told me when I got there they were out and we had time. The whole situation felt sketchy to me cause I don’t like the idea of sneaking i

“I know these things, I have lived in the ghetto a couple of times and here you must blend to their way if you want to survive. This is the hoods, not the villa you grew up in” “Yeah, yeah, I get all the points but, how did we move from being attacked to being friends of the guys who nearly stole from us. Maria didn’t answer, she only smiled and continued walking really fast. “Our aim is to be a bigger fish, these upcoming goons can’t stop us, they want money and I gave them a period’.

Ivandor had lived in a ghetto neighborhood all his life. Characterized by lots of trash, loud people, fights, gunshots, police, stray animals, base boosted cars at three in the morning with bases so loud it knocks pictures off walls, thieves that steal practically anything, puppies eating trash, young children walking without shoes, crackheads, so much homeless people, shopping carts everywhere, liquor stores and cheap motels on every corner, screaming, graffiti, people digging in trash, random knocks on door, beware of dog signs, alley ways full of trash, hit and runs, tire slashers, loose pitbulls, creepy guys catcalling and creepy women following both men and women with little change for

Andre’s POV I was in the trenches, visiting our supervisors on our upcoming projects. The Trenches, as we preferred to call them, were the ghetto areas of the city—the vermin that scoured the beautiful landscape of our urban city. The name was derived from a song of the same name, narrating the sufferings of soldiers trapped in trenches in the Second World War and how they were similar to the people caught in the crossfire of poverty, trapped in the ghetto. Driving through the Trenches is usually a rough and demanding experience, with the poverty-stricken air attacking through all your senses. Right from the pathway that leads to the residential areas, you start to feel the nausea welling th