I am the strand of black hair amidst white ones. I stand out here, and standing out is never a good thing.
So I’ve learnt the art of survival: walking without breathing, retreating myself in class, keeping my hands on my table even when I have the answer to Mrs Thatcher’s question, for answering means I am stepping out of my place. Stepping out of your place may attract what you wouldn’t like. Mrs Thatcher may even choose to ignore your raised hand; for, how can knowledge live in a coloured brain?
There is a way being here can make you read the language on people’s face. There are three languages: fear, hate and indifference.
When it is fear, like the old lady who will clutch her bag tighter when you meet on the subway, fix your eyes to the ground and walk swiftly pass her. Don’t greet. You may freak her out. If it is hate, like the one on Mrs Thatcher’s face whenever you top the class, just pretend you didn’t hear it. Hate hates to be neglected.
If it is indifference, speak to the face with an assuring smile. Greet. The frowned face may split into a smile. That is one of the few days you feel human.
Read Love is You Dead – A Flash Fiction by Edith Knight, Kenya
Hate is the language I have heard most of my life. It began from home where I left what CNN called genocide. I was too young to know what it meant then. All I knew was that my people were being killed because they are a shade lighter than a black man should be; and that pointed nose!
I envy rainbows, a potpourri of colours yet one, strikingly beautiful in their different shades. I wish we can be rainbows. There is so much beauty we are missing.
