Yawi was born in North London, England. His father was a cab driver, his mother a housewife. He had what most would describe as a lower class upbringing, but compared to most, he had it easy. He was sheltered from an early age until he started secondary school when he was 12. He started to make friends and began to have a life outside of his family. He began spending most nights out on the streets with his mates, usually just mincing about, sometimes smashing a few car windows or kicking in a few doors for a laugh. When he was about 15 he started to get involved in the drugs scene. Drugs were big in London at the time and, whilst he never did the drugs himself, he moved it around a lot. Him and his mates would make deliveries for a distributor they knew, moving it to the suppliers and, occasionally from suppliers to end users. With Yawi's intelligence, he soon began to get good at it, creating his own ring of drug mules. 

Drugs are a tricky busy and they soon began to draw attention from high-end criminals. A local gangster by the name of Brian Traeves started taking over the drug business and began by cutting off distributor's means of moving their stock around - that meant Yawi and his lot. He was around 20 at this point and living on his own. One day he got a knock on his door; when he opened he was faced with a masked man pointing a pistol at him. He took two rounds to the chest and was found an hour later by a friend. He spent six weeks in hospital with a punctured lung and severe muscle damage. The doctors didn't rate his chances. After he got out of the hospital he stayed with friends. Fueled by rage, he began trying to find out who'd tried to have him killed. He eventually found out it was the gangster Traeves, he'd sent one of his guys. 

Through a contact, Yawi got hold of a revolver and waited outside the gangsters favorite pub. He followed him down a deserted side street and walked up behind him. Traeves turned to see who was behind him and Yawi fired a round into his chest. The gangster stumbled backwards into the wall of a shop. Yawi fired another round, striking him in the shoulder, then another into his stomach. He fell to the floor where Yawi fired a final, single shot into the gangsters head, killing him. Word spread quickly about the kill and respect had to be given where it was due. It came to light the gangster had acted without authorization when he tried to have Yawi taken out and Yawi had a legitimate beef with the gangster. Those with the power decided to give Yawi a pass, on the condition he dropped his drugs muling. 
Not long after, He moved to Ireland where he started working as a low-level smuggler for a local crime lord, receiving small shipments of alcohol and the odd bunch of weapons. With his experience and smarts, he quickly progressed, ending up organizing the movement of shipments from the ports to various safe houses and 'distribution offices' throughout Ireland. By 27, he'd earned a great deal of money and had a decent amount of respect to go with his name.

One day whilst he was in his local pub, a man came in and sat down in his cubicle opposite him. Yawi was reading the paper and didn't really pay the man much attention. The man pulled out a cigarette and lit it, taking a drag. He stopped and looked directly at Yawi. Yawi sensed the man was staring at him so he looked up from his paper. The man smiled and nodded. "Alright there, fella?", his accent was thick Irish, like everyone else around here. It was a point Yawi made without meaning to everywhere he went. There weren't many people round here that didn't know about the Englishman-gangster. Yawi nodded back in reply. The man motioned to the paper. "Tragic shite, 'ey lad?". The news article was about a young boy murdered in a slum district a few nights ago. Yawi carried on reading. "Yer see, a lot of these lads think it's all fun an' games nowadays, they don't understand this is all a business, if you know what I mean, 'ey". The man took another drag of his cigarette, nodding to himself. "Aye," he continued after exhaling, "it's a serious feckin' world out there. You can just be walkin' along, mindin' yer own business when bam! Yer dead." He took another drag of his cigarette. Yawi looked up and the man was staring him directly in the eyes. He looked over at the bar where two non-descript individuals were staring at him as well. Yawi inspected the man more closely, taking in his features. It was then he realized who he was - he'd seen him before at Sean Finn rallies that were held in the big parks close by. The man was a high ranking IRA member. Yawi leaned back, his heart beginning to pound in his chest. All expression left the man's face. He flicked off some ash of his cigarette. "I think it's time for yer to take a holiday lad. A nice long break". The bartender brought over a drink Yawi had ordered. "This one's on me fella", he said as he handed the bartender a note. He took a final drag of his cigarette before stubbing it out in an ashtray. He stood up and, with a final farewell smile, walked out the door, followed by the two men at the bar. 

After Yawi had returned home he began to think about what he was going to do. The IRA  were powerful and connected. He didn't want to piss them off. After a couple of hours of being home a friend turned up. He told Yawi that a few of the guys had taken beatings and the IRA were beginning to move on all their safe houses. He packed all his things together and sped to the airport, purchasing a one-way ticket to Philadelphia, USA. He hated having to start all over again, but that's the way life goes sometimes. He was going to make sure that this time he did it right and invested his time wisely, making big money and working his way to the top. No more low-level shit, he was going to make it big time with a family and crew around him. And so continues the story of Yawi, the Englishman-gangster...