Dear African Child - Away From Home
She walks in the bus, arms full, groceries, and necessities for her family and her. Bags are getting ripped each step she takes. Sweat drenching her forehead, it's freezing cold outside. As you follow the lines her sweat makes, you cannot help but be embarrassed on her behalf. Of the patches building like dams under her arms on her Dutch print dress . Then you ask yourself, why does she seem unbothered?
As she gets closer you smell the deep root, a spice perfumed on her clothes and you can tell which country she comes from. You avoid eye contacts with her. You sit right up adjust your attitude to disassociate with her. You look out the window and wait for her to get past and sit down. As you look behind you , a man not so old, but old enough to be your father . He isn’t though . You know this. In fact you’re glad of it. 'Why would he pick up that shirt from his drawer, and decide to put it on his back knowing full well it’s not the 70s'. You sit there making faces forgetting you loved that same exact shirt when Jack wore it . A phone rings. No one picks it at first. He takes time trying to find it. He picks up. Finally.
"Hello...... Yesss.....I'm aware........ please boss I need that money...... I am owed £100 from last months pay ....".
You scrunch your face. He's causing a commotion over a £100. His thunderous voice carries through the rest of the bus with every word broken and stuttered. You can hear him breathe and you do not like it. Somehow you feel as though he's causing attention to you. Why are you bothered?
What in him triggers you to feel so unsettled?
You do not pause to think what his story is . A teenager like you needs shoes back home to stop the thorns prickling his feet. But you know comfort at the expense of your own father shouting on the phone in the next bus behind yours.
Next stop, yours. You thank God for it. As you step off, you hear a young man thank God too. In song , out of pitch but loud. He looks just like you. He doesn't behave like it though. You stare at him and pass enough judgements to last him a life time if he heard them. Under your breath, because you are not brave enough to piss off a mad man. That's how you see him. You wonder to yourself, 'why are all God praising people poor'. He doesn't seem to have much, so you make up your own conclusion. Little do you know poverty is a state of constantly searching for more of nothing that seems like something until it's nothing then you search again. Being rich is gratitude in the mundane of things, that effortless spring on your step and the song on the tip of your tongue set free for your soul to dance.
You clutch your 'pretty little thing' bag and drag your Balenciaga shoes across the black tar road built with his tax money. He's your brother that's why he caught your attention. Yet, you look at him like a stranger. The only reason for this is because you are a stranger to yourself and you don't even know it. A well groomed one too who thinks your customs are uncivilised. So you do not talk about the parts of you that built you. You count yourself out , hang with the 'others', and talk like them too, but your tongue sells you out. In the way you click when over stimulated whether happy or sad. Your curves, naturally carved by God are expensive for them if not laboured for. Your voice can wake the dead if rightfully initiated. You move with a rhythm only understood by them, not THEM. You forgive without being asked, your nature is soft though long tampered with. That's why the Auntie you saw cursed without using a curse word, the uncle across the road perplexed by their ignorance, animated, voice shivering in defence and rightfully so. But they disagreed because they made up their mind they didn't like the wealth of his existence. The way you watched that girl shrink as they mocked her accent as if the world isn't made of them in all shapes and form. You look away as to say you know better and that ain't it.
What is it?
Care to find out ?
Maybe one day you will and I hope that day brings clarity. The crown comes in weight, only a few can bear.