My Story

Ezekiel Johnson's journey began in a world marked by violence and danger, where, as a child, he faced the harsh reality of gang grooming

When I was 7, tragedy struck. On our way home from school, I pressed the button for the lift, like always. That’s when I came face-to-face with death—my neighbour’s lifeless body. That image stayed with me for years. I was so young that I thought the lift had killed her. Little did I know, it was yet another victim of knife crime. The trauma was too much, and we were forced to move. That’s when my journey in Brixton began.

By the time I was 10, I caught my first glimpse of gang life. My brother showed me a white substance—something that looked like snow, but it wasn’t winter. He said, “If the police knock on the door when I’m not here, go into my room and flush it down the toilet.” The day came. The police were banging on our door with their K9s, and I ran straight to my brother’s room, flushed the substance, and hid in my mom’s room. The police and their dogs passed right by me, finding nothing.

Around this time, gang members started trying to groom me, seeing me as another version of my brother. But it felt like God was protecting me through my mom, who kept separating me from him and his friends.

Things quieted down for a while, but one day, the opposition came to our house looking for my brother. A fight broke out outside. I heard the commotion, looked out the window, and saw my brother involved. My instincts kicked in. I ran downstairs in my white vest and boxers, barefoot, grabbing a metal bat, ready to defend him. But my neighbour stopped me, shouting, “Get your ass back inside! What do you think you’re doing?” My mom ran down too and told me to stay in my room.

Through all of this, I didn’t realise that I had a natural gift for speaking. I was always expressing myself, often leading debates in class. My mom used to tell me I spoke like an adult when I was little, using big words and holding long conversations as a toddler. That ability finally showed itself fully in 2017.

That year, everything changed. There was a Jack Petchey Speak Out Challenge at school. I wanted to avoid doing my homework, so I asked the head of English if I could participate. She agreed since we had a good relationship. I created a speech on the spot and ended up winning the school competition. That was the first time I realized I had a gift for speaking. At first, I didn’t think much of it. Everyone can speak, right? No one writes their speeches down; they just come up with them in their head, don’t they? I was wrong. People started telling me I had a real gift to connect with the audience, to make them feel what I felt. Some people even said they cried when they heard me speak.

From that moment, I took my gift everywhere I could—church, NCS, Sixth Form, the youth council. But I knew I couldn’t keep it to myself. I wanted to create something that would help others discover their innate gifts and find direction. So, at 17, I held my first event called “It’s Been About Time.” That led to five more events, all aimed at guiding young people toward their purpose.

I had learned that, even though I came from a broken environment, that environment didn’t define me—it was my mentality that did. As I write this, I can still hear my mother’s words: “Nana, remember you are different. You aren’t like other people, so be different.” Those words became the foundation of why I speak today—to help people like me, who were once seen as undesirable, become undeniable.

Since then, I’ve been invited to speak at prestigious establishments like HSBC, Microsoft, the Houses of Parliament, and Soho House. I was even invited to No. 10 Downing Street for my efforts in impacting young people. And I’ll keep speaking, as long as I have breath.