Skip to main content

Colors


I watched my daughter's sightless eyes close as I pulled her blanket around her tiny body. Even as she drifted into sleep, her smile tried desperately to rid my face of its scowl. The white men had done this to my Amika. They brought the disease that left her weak and blind. They brought the weapons that killed my father. They brought the culture that destroyed mine. They forced me away from everything I knew, they starved my family, they took away my reason to live, they broke my spirit. They left me in this cursed land in a tiny shack with nothing but my blind daughter. I, Malik, can never forgive them. I, Malik, will pay them back.
I pulled the new bracelet off her thin little hand. "It feels just like my Cherokee beads, Papa," her innocent voice had said. The African beads from our slave girl Naira did indeed look similar to the Cherokee beads in Amika's hair. I had tried to take them from her earlier, but the confused and hurt look in her blind eyes stopped me. I removed it now, while she slept.
"Papa," my brain replayed the conversation against my will, "Naira says she was born on a boat coming from Africa. It's just like I was born coming here! We have the same story." This cannot continue, I told myself. The white men took Amika’s siblings and friends, left her with only a slave girl to talk to.
"No," I had barked. "It isn't the same." The light in her small brown face faded, leaving only confusion behind.
"Why?" She asked.
"Because she is black." I explained. “She is not like you.”
I stopped my thoughts, refusing to remember what she had said next, and focused on applying my black war paint. Tonight, I would act as the red chief and lead my warriors against the white village.

***  

Everything went as planned. My body moved through the motions, my brain was entirely focused on nothing. Keeping the doubting thoughts from flooding my mind. Why am I so weak? I screamed. What would my father, a warrior, have thought of me?
I gave the signal. My silent warriors attacked the village. I am finally getting what I want. I told myself. This is what I want. White men destroyed my family, I will repay them. I moved to the center of the village.
I reached a white man - no, a boy. About the age my son would have been. I raised my tomahawk to kill, to take this life like they had taken my son’s. I saw a black girl, moving quickly to defend the boy. Naira. Why would she do this? A part of me asked. But another part again shut down my thoughts. I am a warrior. I will kill the white man’s son. What makes Naira think I won’t kill her too? I raised my hand once more to strike.
Another child stepped in front of Naira. A tiny brown girl, with beads in her hair. She saw me so well through her unseeing eyes.
I looked at her, the little brown girl, standing in front of a little black girl, who stood in front of the little white boy. All staring at me, lifting a weapon to kill them. What made them so different from me? My heart wrenched with pain. What is the matter with me? I screamed at myself, not knowing which side of myself I wished to destroy. Not knowing what I believed in. My brain couldn't hold it back any longer, the memory flooded my mind. "Different colors, Papa," she had replied. "Different colors, just like my beads. How long will these colors separate us?"
My body collapsed, I fell to my knees. Amika stretched out her hand, she touched my face. She felt the war paint. She saw what I had become. Yet, she seemed to see more than I had.
“Different colors, Papa,” she said, tracing the outline the colored designs on my face. “Different colors, but the same heart.” She saw in me a love I didn’t know I’d had. I finally saw the world through the eyes of a blind girl.
I reached into my pocket and pulled out the string of beads in my hand. I broke the string, took three beads of different colors, and gave them to the boy. Then three to Naira. Then three to my little Amika. And three I tucked back in my pocket.

“Different colors,” I echoed, changing to English for the sake of the boy, “but the same hearts.”


Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

A GUIDE TO WORLD BUILDING FOR BORED PEOPLE BY A BORED PERSON

The rest of the Writing Mafia apologises for the turtle. It is not human and fails to empathise with other humans. We are not accountable for any emotional damage it causes you. I, as a perfectionist writer, enjoy nothing more than deleting everything and starting over...aside from world building of course. STEP 1  SPREADSHEETS The most important part of world building is staying consistent. ALWAYS BE CONSISTENT. Nothing ruins everything more than inconsistency. What's the best way to keep organised? A large database with rows and columns. Hey! You! Do you know a way of keeping several different graphs in an orderly way that I can access online? No? Well you're an idiot because the answer is Google Sheets. What? You want to know what to put in your spreadsheet? Well Mr(or Mrs or Ms) I can't think for myself. I have sub parts to tell you what to put in them. SUBSTEP 1 FIRSTLY there are two thing this sheet needs to do. Provide a reference point while wr...
Post a Comment
Read more

Ostrich short story

She holds her elegant neck high above the masses which she saunters through. Like a diva at a show she flaunts her plumes, casts a wary eye about for rivals, and turns up her nose at her drab brown and cream comrades.  Behold, an animal of distinction and refinement. Here is the ostrich, queen of the winged kingdom. Around her, antelope bow their heads in shame, cringing at their inferiority. Where she steps the grass seems to wither in embarrassment. Even the sun seems reluctant to disgrace her chestnut and ivory feathers. Stop. Look around. Sour musk lines the brisk breeze. She lowers the foot which was held aloft a moment ago, her previously serene expression now one of incandescent disapproval. The antelope prick up their ears. A glimpse of golden pelt in the grass and an explosion of hooves signifies the beginning of the chase. She runs like a demon, head pointed forward and wings outstretched. Long legs kick up turf, spraying it into the streak of gold fur b...
Post a Comment
Read more

Thinking Up Ideas for Writing

I admit it. I am the sort of person who uses the situation they are in to help them think up a solution. I was trying to think up an idea for what to write about in my first blog… so I ended up resolving my problem by writing about thinking up ideas for writing.    What is there to write about for thinking up ideas for writing? What to write? What to write? Okay, I’ll stop with the irony now. To write a good story you need to be enthusiastic about it. How to be enthusiastic? Write in a genre you really like (You do not have to do this but it often helps to build enthusiasm). Think up an idea(s) you think is good. (Then you will be excited about it). Well, the first one is easy but thinking up an idea is far easier to say than do. I know it first hand. My plots take months and months to plan sometimes. I cannot exactly think up ideas for everyone who wants to do a story. So, I’ll advise you on ways you can think up ideas. Write so...
Post a Comment
Read more