Blue

Let us warm our legs by the fire and listen to the warm voice of a friend. A worthy friend – @JadenTM – writer of The Third Decade from the Decades II project.

The deep bass of afro’s gong and betty’s beats ring out before me.

I drum and I drum and I try to match the sounds I hear, but all that comes out is a
hollow throb that I have filled with words. Listen…

BLUE

...alone...

When I close my eyes I am alone. I cannot see the long strands of wispy yellow (or
brown, or red) hair blowing about in the breeze, and I cannot feel the sharp sting of the
insolent wind against my blue, stiff, brown hands. I cannot hear anyone; there is no
need to filter sounds through my mind before regurgitating words in similar taste: there
is nothing outside of the skin in front of my eyes, and I can breathe.
I can breathe in the texture of the quilt that covers me, the fresh paint from the newly
re-painted bathroom ceiling; but beyond the added scent of olive oil and lavender
wafting up from my bedside table there is also the permanent smell of alone.

My dreams paint pictures of eba and efo riro, flashes of people who are my friends,
except their faces fade and their names don’t match. My dad is smiling at me, but when
I smile back it’s not him I see, and when I look again there’s nobody there.
It’s dark as night when I open my eyes but on the clock it’s just six, and all I want is
stew.

There is no pepper. They have learnt how to take out the lactose from the milk from the
breast of a cow, but not how to make pepper – the real stuff, ata rodo style. Or am I
looking in the wrong aisle?
And here, I learn it is once again acceptable to call chips chips. Humph.

I wrap myself in swathes of clothing and take three deep breaths before stepping
outside, and then I get to class to find that everybody is wearing shorts. It seems they
turn red and green and white, but not blue. I keep my coat on.

My fingers turn red when I get back to my room, my cave.
Pictures of my friends are pinned to the wall. They are stiff and frozen, like the smile I
wear when I ask for directions. My bed sheet from home is on my bed. From home!
I tweet, ‘a slice of home, yay!’ but it is too big. It doesn’t fit.

My feet are cold now. They say the heat is automatic, but twenty-one degrees cannot
thaw my toes, and so I burrow into my bed and close my eyes.
There are no tears, I am not sad, I do not feel. I am only tired from walking everywhere,
and I am glad to be alone, again.

@JadenTM the Super Sexy Secret Assassin Robot would share her art with us on AfroSays from time to time

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