Kimani Shaw’s life fractured during a brutal 24 hours in Birmingham. A violent stabbing left him fighting for his life in intensive care, an attack that would trigger a devastating chain of events.
While Shaw lay critically injured, those connected to him retaliated with chilling speed. Dante Mullings was caught in a hail of gunfire, at least eight bullets ripping into his car in a drive-by shooting – a brutal act of revenge.
Shaw, known on the streets as ‘Marnz Malone,’ was later convicted of a firearms offense and sentenced to eleven years in prison. The shooting of Mullings was quickly determined to be a direct response to the near-fatal attack on Shaw, with four others ultimately receiving life sentences for their involvement.
But Shaw’s story didn’t end with his imprisonment. From within the prison walls, he began to create music, releasing tracks featuring a masked figure navigating the stark reality of life behind bars – walking the wings, sitting in his cell.
His lyrics offered a raw glimpse into his experience, reflecting on the violence he endured. One song recounted the stabbing, a haunting verse detailing being “stabbed 20 times” and referencing the finality of death with a chilling metaphor: “they closed his envelope.”
Beyond the reflections on violence, Shaw’s music also touched on the internal struggles of incarceration. He explored themes of mental health and the slow, difficult process of finding patience within the confines of prison, claiming a shift away from his former life.
Shaw’s journey began far from Birmingham, in Spanish Town, Jamaica. He arrived in the UK at the age of six, joining his mother who had sought a new life in Newtown, Birmingham, following the tragic death of his father when Shaw was just two years old.
He described a childhood marked by poverty, recalling his family’s “dirt poor” existence in Jamaica and his mother’s desperate search for opportunity in England. The loss of his father cast a long shadow, shaping the trajectory of his early life.
Shaw maintains his innocence regarding the firearms charge, stating “there was no evidence there was ever a firearm on me.” He was serving an extended determinate sentence, a system where release is contingent on serving two-thirds of the imposed term.
He spoke with stark honesty about the gravity of his case, acknowledging the profound consequences for all involved: “People have life behind it, people have died behind it.” His words underscored the devastating ripple effects of violence and the weight of his own circumstances.
