Having a kid is hard work. What about having a mixed race kid? The child might not know the colour difference. But they might reach a stage when the society will force them to question the different skin tone of their parents. Living in a society where the minority are looked upon, a child from two different culture background might favour one over the other. In the following short story the author would like to explore how a little girl who is half African and half European might be forced to choose which race to belong to whilst she's both. (In the story European is predominantly white, and African is black. This is the product of the author and nobody else.)
"These Africans are taking over..." said my uncle while we were all eating one Sunday afternoon. I didn't know what he was talking about, because I was only seven. He looked across the table and looked at me. I smiled in my innocent way. He continued his conversation not giving much weight to me. That day my mother had combed my hair into two plaits and I was enjoying the summer weather with all my favourite people in the world, my mother, my father, my granny, my uncle and his new girlfriend. The conversation kept flowing and I kept myself busy eating my lime-yogurt ice-cream.
"What do you mean by that?" asked my mother with angry tone. My father have always said that my mother is always cross. So I assumed she was her normal self.
"What?" my uncle asked because he didn't hear her.
"What do you mean the Africans are taking over?..." my mother re-asked the question impatiently.
"Just what I said, they are taking over these Africans... but I'm not talking about you." my uncle said laughing at his own joke. Obviously he was not talking to my mother but per her usual she was having a tantrum. Sometimes I thought I was more grown up than she was. My father confirmed that. Plus she confirmed it saying "Your mummy doesn't know about your home works, you are more clever than me..."
Most of the time I did my homework with daddy, in the mean time my mummy will lay on the day-chair in the living room watching telly-shows.
"You better not..." my mother laughed back, bringing me to reality. So they are just joking... I thought smiling within myself relieved.
The following day when I went back to school the weather was so hot, I decided to wear my favourite dress, the one my grandmother from Africa sent me for my birthday. It was imprinted with tropical flowers and it was spaghetti sleeves, with some clothes hanging from the sides. I loved it.
It was my last day of school so I was looking forward for the snack break. This was kind of party which was held to celebrate the beginning of our summer break. My mother gave me ginger beer to take as my part of the food contribution.
"These Africans are taking over..." said my uncle while we were all eating one Sunday afternoon. I didn't know what he was talking about, because I was only seven. He looked across the table and looked at me. I smiled in my innocent way. He continued his conversation not giving much weight to me. That day my mother had combed my hair into two plaits and I was enjoying the summer weather with all my favourite people in the world, my mother, my father, my granny, my uncle and his new girlfriend. The conversation kept flowing and I kept myself busy eating my lime-yogurt ice-cream.
"What do you mean by that?" asked my mother with angry tone. My father have always said that my mother is always cross. So I assumed she was her normal self.
"What?" my uncle asked because he didn't hear her.
"What do you mean the Africans are taking over?..." my mother re-asked the question impatiently.
"Just what I said, they are taking over these Africans... but I'm not talking about you." my uncle said laughing at his own joke. Obviously he was not talking to my mother but per her usual she was having a tantrum. Sometimes I thought I was more grown up than she was. My father confirmed that. Plus she confirmed it saying "Your mummy doesn't know about your home works, you are more clever than me..."
Most of the time I did my homework with daddy, in the mean time my mummy will lay on the day-chair in the living room watching telly-shows.
"You better not..." my mother laughed back, bringing me to reality. So they are just joking... I thought smiling within myself relieved.
The following day when I went back to school the weather was so hot, I decided to wear my favourite dress, the one my grandmother from Africa sent me for my birthday. It was imprinted with tropical flowers and it was spaghetti sleeves, with some clothes hanging from the sides. I loved it.
It was my last day of school so I was looking forward for the snack break. This was kind of party which was held to celebrate the beginning of our summer break. My mother gave me ginger beer to take as my part of the food contribution.
Finally the bell rang and together with my best friend we ran into the hall. I was looking around when I heard him say: "You African, what are you doing here?" This was a boy from the last year. I turned to look right and left to see who he was talking to but apart from me and my friend there was no-body else.
"Is he talking to you?" I asked my friend, but she shook her head and pointed at me. I was quite surprised. What did he mean by that phrase? No-body has ever told me I’m African and my uncle will never say something bad about Africans if I’m one. “I think you are mistaking me for somebody else.” I said as the seven-year-old-who-knows-everything.
“Listen to her, these Africans are all the same... they think they can hide behind beautiful masks, vu compra’. Have you ever seen your ancestors on the road side selling fake designer bags?” His words moved something inside me and I started to run towards him, but I was alted from what he said next. “Exactly, this is what they do in Africa, they run after the predator...” his laughing was ring in my ears.
By now tears were streaming down my face I’m not African, I’m not African... my inside shouted at him but I didn’t find the word to let him stop tormenting me.
“Look at how savagely she dresses...” he pointed at my favourite dress, his friends who have appeared from no-where were laughing with him. Now I was alone, because my friend was not standing near me anymore. I was still holding my drink so I instinctively shook it hard and opened the tap. The content sprayed the hall and all the children in front of me. They started to scream and in less than a minute the dean appeared. “What are you doing, you little African...” I’ve never seen the dean before but his words cut me in half. Instead of listening to the reasons why I had to do what I did to defend myself from the aggressor, he called me with same term. “I will call your mother straight away...”
“Maybe you should phone the father, because the mother is African, she won’t understand.” His assistant whispered loudly in his ear.
I was livid from the situation. I had to wait in the corridor, so everyone was finger pointing me and whispering distasteful words into each other hear. My best friend was shyly hiding from the crowd. I lowered my head so that I didn’t have to witness the scene around me. I felt like a big circus joke.
When my father came I felt a little bit of relief. Everyone was more considerate, the dean kindly explained the situation. “No, we won’t treat it as misconduct, because after all she is a good... girl...”
“I’m so sorry again; maybe it’s the mother who is having a bit of problems with her parents in Africa, that might be the reason why my little girl is easily irritated by certain words.” I heard my daddy giving reasons for what that boy had provoked in me.
Once in the car I asked him the burning question: “Am I African?”
“No, you are European and never let anybody provoke irritation like this one. Your mother is easily irritated because she’s African.”
“So Africans are angrier than Europeans?” I asked in my innocent voice.
“Yes...” In that moment I thought daddy is trying to make me feel happy, so I didn’t question why if mummy is African, I’m solely European.
Once at home I told my mummy that I didn’t want to be always angry like her. She didn’t say anything, instead she went to my father and they begun to argue. My daddy is right Africans are angrier, I thought.
That way of thinking was part of me until when I met my cousin, about nine years later. He was exactly the same colour as me not too light or dark skinned. He was about fourteen years and he was tall for his age. He was wearing his curly hair loose. He looked quite wild...
The istant he saw me he hugged me and said: “Oh, the little lucky girl... you are just like me...”
“What do you mean I’m just like you?” I asked with my snorted voice. I had developed that voice since the school accident, I didn’t want anybody to think I was African, so I tried hard to speak completely different from my mother.
“Hey, you are lucky because you are Afro-European just like me.” he had a bright smile.
“What do you mean by Afro-European?” I rolled my eyes at the sound of Afro.
“It’s means African-European...” he laughed heartily.
“I’m not African...” I said decisively.
“Hey, what do you mean you are not African... you are half African, half European...”
“I’m European, full stop.” I don’t like this cousin of mine. Somebody come and take him away. I screamed inside, but outside I was composed, just like an European.
“Where is your mother from?” he asked, expecting me to answer.
“Europe?” I said sarcastically.
“Obviously, but originally?” he has patience, I thought smiling.
“Okay, Africa?”
“Right! And your father?”
“Europe?”
“Right again... so who are you?”
“European?” I said pushing my heard into my neck.
“Wrong answer... you African-European.!” He said smiling hundred teeth.
“I’m European and that is it, thank you very much.”
“You don’t know how lucky you are to have both culture on your finger tips, girl.” He was quite funny. He wasn’t that bad after all. “So, why do you choose to be European, full stop?”
I looked at him blankly; I didn’t feel like I wanted to tell him about my bad childhood experience. But in the end his bubbly subtle ways convinced me to discuss with him my issues. He was still young but with adult mind. He told me about his aim in future and the sounded great. He believed that he could bring together the increasing community of two culture relationship and children into one big forum, where everyone could discuss the issueses of being biracial.
"Is he talking to you?" I asked my friend, but she shook her head and pointed at me. I was quite surprised. What did he mean by that phrase? No-body has ever told me I’m African and my uncle will never say something bad about Africans if I’m one. “I think you are mistaking me for somebody else.” I said as the seven-year-old-who-knows-everything.
“Listen to her, these Africans are all the same... they think they can hide behind beautiful masks, vu compra’. Have you ever seen your ancestors on the road side selling fake designer bags?” His words moved something inside me and I started to run towards him, but I was alted from what he said next. “Exactly, this is what they do in Africa, they run after the predator...” his laughing was ring in my ears.
By now tears were streaming down my face I’m not African, I’m not African... my inside shouted at him but I didn’t find the word to let him stop tormenting me.
“Look at how savagely she dresses...” he pointed at my favourite dress, his friends who have appeared from no-where were laughing with him. Now I was alone, because my friend was not standing near me anymore. I was still holding my drink so I instinctively shook it hard and opened the tap. The content sprayed the hall and all the children in front of me. They started to scream and in less than a minute the dean appeared. “What are you doing, you little African...” I’ve never seen the dean before but his words cut me in half. Instead of listening to the reasons why I had to do what I did to defend myself from the aggressor, he called me with same term. “I will call your mother straight away...”
“Maybe you should phone the father, because the mother is African, she won’t understand.” His assistant whispered loudly in his ear.
I was livid from the situation. I had to wait in the corridor, so everyone was finger pointing me and whispering distasteful words into each other hear. My best friend was shyly hiding from the crowd. I lowered my head so that I didn’t have to witness the scene around me. I felt like a big circus joke.
When my father came I felt a little bit of relief. Everyone was more considerate, the dean kindly explained the situation. “No, we won’t treat it as misconduct, because after all she is a good... girl...”
“I’m so sorry again; maybe it’s the mother who is having a bit of problems with her parents in Africa, that might be the reason why my little girl is easily irritated by certain words.” I heard my daddy giving reasons for what that boy had provoked in me.
Once in the car I asked him the burning question: “Am I African?”
“No, you are European and never let anybody provoke irritation like this one. Your mother is easily irritated because she’s African.”
“So Africans are angrier than Europeans?” I asked in my innocent voice.
“Yes...” In that moment I thought daddy is trying to make me feel happy, so I didn’t question why if mummy is African, I’m solely European.
Once at home I told my mummy that I didn’t want to be always angry like her. She didn’t say anything, instead she went to my father and they begun to argue. My daddy is right Africans are angrier, I thought.
That way of thinking was part of me until when I met my cousin, about nine years later. He was exactly the same colour as me not too light or dark skinned. He was about fourteen years and he was tall for his age. He was wearing his curly hair loose. He looked quite wild...
The istant he saw me he hugged me and said: “Oh, the little lucky girl... you are just like me...”
“What do you mean I’m just like you?” I asked with my snorted voice. I had developed that voice since the school accident, I didn’t want anybody to think I was African, so I tried hard to speak completely different from my mother.
“Hey, you are lucky because you are Afro-European just like me.” he had a bright smile.
“What do you mean by Afro-European?” I rolled my eyes at the sound of Afro.
“It’s means African-European...” he laughed heartily.
“I’m not African...” I said decisively.
“Hey, what do you mean you are not African... you are half African, half European...”
“I’m European, full stop.” I don’t like this cousin of mine. Somebody come and take him away. I screamed inside, but outside I was composed, just like an European.
“Where is your mother from?” he asked, expecting me to answer.
“Europe?” I said sarcastically.
“Obviously, but originally?” he has patience, I thought smiling.
“Okay, Africa?”
“Right! And your father?”
“Europe?”
“Right again... so who are you?”
“European?” I said pushing my heard into my neck.
“Wrong answer... you African-European.!” He said smiling hundred teeth.
“I’m European and that is it, thank you very much.”
“You don’t know how lucky you are to have both culture on your finger tips, girl.” He was quite funny. He wasn’t that bad after all. “So, why do you choose to be European, full stop?”
I looked at him blankly; I didn’t feel like I wanted to tell him about my bad childhood experience. But in the end his bubbly subtle ways convinced me to discuss with him my issues. He was still young but with adult mind. He told me about his aim in future and the sounded great. He believed that he could bring together the increasing community of two culture relationship and children into one big forum, where everyone could discuss the issueses of being biracial.
I’m so glad that he is my cousin and thanks to him I love to be recognised as African-European.
I hope this short story is eye-opening and entertaining.
Cheers!
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