Back when I was young, I wore my oversized hoodie, a pass-me-down from my older brother, and pretended as if I was Tupac or some other gangster I listened to on my Walkman. It was incredible because those days nurtured my taste for America. For every day I listened to gangsterrap, I vowed that I was going to visit America. My friends and I skipped classes and pretended that we were rappers. I was Tupac, and my friend was Notorious B.I.G. The only problem was that he was skinny. But everything else worked. After all, it was fiction, and it would’ve been plagiarism to look something close to Biggy in our role plays. Unfortunately, we had no guns, but after saving ten days of lunch money and cultivating a population of intestinal worms caused by hunger, we got toy guns. We became notorious.
Everything suffered, including our grades. The only prosperous thing we had were our rap lines on stage every Saturday during socials. I dressed like Pac, spoke like Pac, calling my friends and everyone Nigga, including those who lacked sufficient melanin, and behaved like him. My trousers sat comfortably on my ass-line. Pac was my saviour and the only way I spoke to Jesus and God through. Tupac represented everything I believed in.
My parents thought I was possessed. And they were right. Pac possessed me. The day he died was the worst day of my life. I went to school with my toy gun and caused a riot. I was chasing my skinny friend who role-played Biggy. How dare he, well for all the troubles caused, I received 12 strokes of the cane. I imagined I was Tupac, and instead of cane wood pelting my flesh, it was lead bullets. A small penance to pay for what my saviour went through. I recovered a month after his death and renewed my spirit and motivation, telling myself every day that I must travel to America.
I remember the first day I shared my dream with my uncle. He laughed aloud, looking straight at me in the eye. He said, "America?” I replied yes, looking at him as though he were a foe. He then replied, “why would any black man in his right senses want to visit America?” I stood there listening to him. I knew what he meant, "America was the nemesis for coloured people, especially boys. Young black boys were seen as a threat, even when they’re nothing but kids.” So, I understood what he meant ideally. But I had made up my mind already, and no one was going to stop me. Not even my uncle, who I stood here with talking about my dreams, knowing fully that a white policeman shot his first son, my cousin. My cousin was only 14, and he had gone for a jog. So if anyone knew about police brutality in America, it was my uncle.
With grief in his voice, I remember when he told my father, "to be a black man in today's American society is an aberration, one part of society sees you as a sexual object with magnanimous genitals while the other part sees you as a threat even while you’re holding a flower. They made the rules. We’re only the victims.” Every day those words resounding greatly in my ears—fresh.
It wasn’t as though Police brutality wasn’t a big deal in my country. But one would love to assume that in a civilised society like America, the police would be more disciplined and show more restrain. But it’s a lie. All policemen were the same. Ours here are xenophobic and crass. They get hard by the sight of young boys living their best life, while over there, Policemen are racists who act with dignity. And so it goes.
With Tupac smiling at me, I found myself in front of a visa officer in the American Embassy. I’ve just being admitted to study creative arts at a prestigious California university. It was a dream come through. And so, with tension and several stories of refusal both from family and friends, I decided to throw their experiences in a bin and tailor my destiny. I couldn’t be scared. Sitting in front of me, the Visa Officer was a skinny middle-aged, white man. He was thorough. And fortunately for me, he also loved Tupac. The rest of the interview went as though two best friends jisted. To my surprise and delight, my visa was approved. I could see the envy in the eyes of those who were behind me. There was a chief in all his traditional regalia who was denied. All his pride watered down like soaked bread.
America wasn’t anything like what the movies show you. It was big. And I felt like a drop of atom in a complete chemical solution, unreacted, just waiting to be noticed and be mixed into the equation. But this atom stood out. I had an accent, and my hoodie stood out. California was hot. I looked like a bee trapper. But the drip must continue. I can’t disappoint Tupac. Soon after, a bus from school came and picked all of the international students. The ride was smooth, and I was as excited as Eddie Murphy was in “Coming To America.” I wasn’t a prince, and I didn’t come with boxes filled with gold. My only possessions were two boxes and a 100 dollar bill. By my broke standards, I was rich.
I entered my dorm room. Only to realise my roommate was White—the odds. I could see the shock all over his face too. That night, I reckoned that he didn’t sleep a bit. He kept speaking to his relatives all through the night about sharing a room with a black dude from Africa. I overheard someone tell him to keep his properties safe that I had picky fingers and my father was probably in jail, and my mother was a drug addict. I felt my blood boil. My parents were neither. And so I wondered why the stranger at the other end of the line made such false assertions about a person who they've neither met nor know. Like all stereotypes, it was stupid. But in the warnings of my uncle, “if you fight with a white man, even if he’s guilty, you’re going to be in more trouble than him.” And so, with those words resonating in my mind, I slept like a Jonahin the belly of a whale.
My roommate finally softened up after a few weeks. Rap did that. He apologised, saying I was the first black person he’s ever met closely. I asked him how that was possible, and he laughed it off, telling me not to bother. I was known all over campus as Tupac. I made extra cash rapping in bars and clubs all over town. My rap lines hit everyone’s mind cords like Persian poetry after a terrible breakup. My roommate followed me also to my rap gigs. He tried to rap a few times with me, but he sounded like Daft-Eminem. It was hilarious, and my laugh always made him mad. But asides from that, we were excellent.
Spring break was for two weeks. And after much persuasion, I decided to follow my roommate to his home somewhere in Southern America. His folks invited me. I sent my location to everyone I knew back home. And we hit the road. After more than 36 hours on the road, we entered a farm. It was in a remote area at the foot of a hill. My roommate told me it’d been theirs for centuries. I was astonished by the size and beauty of the farm and his home. I met his parents, who didn’t seem weird, but every other person, including his siblings, looked at me weird. Whispering, I asked him why they looked at me; differently he laughed it off, telling me it’s because they’ve never seen a black person this close, only our parents and grandparents had because they owned slaves till the 1960s. I was shocked by the discovery. I thought slavery ended in the 1800s, I replied; he smiled and said, “officially.”
I pressed for more information, but he wouldn’t budge. My remaining days on the farm were terrifying. I saw pictures of his ancestors with sad black men and women carrying or serving them in the background hanging on the walls. During breakfast and dinner, his father bragged loudly about how he would’ve owned a million slaves if slavery still existed. All my meals never digested. I couldn’t sleep. After two days on the farm, I apologised to my roommate and left. I was so eager to leave the place. It was as if my spirit wasn’t at peace while I was there, the soil seemed red, and the walls cried. I got back to school and visited the library. I couldn’t find any resources concerning the slavery story and the farm. And every acquaintance I asked laughed at my story, saying slavery in America ended in the 1800s. I was lost and confused till I met a Professor who confirmed to me that it was indeed true. I told him about the exposé I heard from my roommate. Some wealthy families still had slaves till the 1960s, he replied. I was shocked. He further narrated the history of my roommate’s family and their farm. Then he went into his office safe and brought out a sizeable old folder. It was dusty. On the file, it was written, "Secrets of America’s oldest families.” He brought out a small black and white picture. Behind the picture, he showed me my roommate family’s name. Beside the family name, the year "1962” was also scribbled. Then he handed the picture over to me. My hands were trembling as I glanced at the image staring in front of me. I saw the face of an elderly black man, looking sad, history all over his face, chains on his legs and hands. The only thing he wore was a shirt. My heart sank. Behind him, a small shack stood. On the door, some words were boldly written,” For coloured boys only.”
Note: This story is fiction, no character represents any person dead or alive, and if similar, it’s only a coincidence. Any inaccuracies found in this story are purely intentional. It’s only the imagination of the author. The writer wishes to express that he’ll not be held accountable for how you want to interpret this story. Lastly, this story doesn’t support any form of racism.
Each time, through your piece, you tell me "I have more in stock." This is lovely.
I enjoyed reading this piece.