Mama ain’t raise no snitch

Mama Ain’t Raise No Snitch

When loyalty runs deeper than freedom, silence becomes the ultimate test.

The hallway outside the interrogation room was quiet, too quiet for a police precinct that claimed to be fighting crime around the clock. Dre sat at the metal table under a buzzing fluorescent light, eyes locked on the one-way mirror. He knew they were watching him—waiting for him to crack. But Dre had one thing drilled into his soul since childhood: You don’t talk to cops. Ever.

His hands were cuffed, his knuckles still raw from the scuffle at the corner store. His hoodie was stained with blood—some his, some not. They had pulled him in on suspicion of being the lookout for a robbery that left the store clerk in the hospital. Dre wasn’t even there when it happened. But he knew who was.

Across town, Malik was probably sleeping like a baby, knowing full well Dre wouldn’t fold. That was the code. That was the life.

The door creaked open, and Detective Sanders walked in, calm, like he had all the time in the world.

“You know why you’re here, Dre,” Sanders said, dropping a file on the table. “Surveillance footage ain’t clear, but you were seen nearby. Witnesses say you were posted up across the street.”

Dre didn’t blink. He stared straight ahead, jaw tight.

Sanders leaned closer. “Look, I get it. Loyalty. Brotherhood. But while you’re sittin’ here quiet, Malik’s out there, eating cheeseburgers and bragging about how he set you up.”

Still, nothing.

“You’re 19. Smart kid. Got a mama working two jobs to keep your head above water. You throw your life away for some wannabe gangsta who’d sell you out for a pack of smokes?”

Dre’s lip curled slightly, the only sign that the words had hit home.

He thought about Mama. About her swollen feet after long shifts at the nursing home. About how she cried quietly when he got arrested at fifteen for stealing snacks just to feed his little sister. She had always told him: “Baby, I ain’t raise you to be no coward—but I sure ain’t raise no snitch.”

To Mama, snitching was weakness. It meant you couldn’t handle the consequences of your own decisions. In her world, silence was strength, and dignity was earned through loyalty. That’s how she was raised, and that’s what she passed on.

Sanders slid a photo across the table—grainy still of Malik in a ski mask. “We already know. We just need confirmation. You sign your name, you walk. Simple.”

Dre looked at the paper. His future was right there—his freedom for a few words. But he knew how it would play out. The streets talk louder than any courtroom. One signature, and he’d never walk his block again. His little sister would get spit at in school. His mother’s name would get dragged through every corner store and barbershop.

He pictured Mama’s face. Not the angry one, not the tired one. The disappointed one. That look cut deeper than any sentence they could give him.

Dre leaned back in his chair. “You done?”

Sanders sighed, collecting the file. “Suit yourself. But you’re going down for this.”

Dre smirked. “Maybe. But I’ll sleep better knowing I ain’t break.”

The detective left, slamming the door behind him.

Dre sat alone, heart heavy, but mind clear. He wasn’t no saint. He’d made his choices, and now he’d carry the weight. But one thing was certain—he wasn’t gonna be the reason someone else’s mama got that midnight knock.

Because Mama ain’t raise no snitch.Psychological #MicroFiction #UrbanDrama #StreetCode #Loyalty #CrimeFiction #NoSnitching