Everyone knows about the time period that the whites ruled over the blacks, but one time period that is never talked about, a time period where revenge is sweeter than victory and victory hardly exists…
Rain pelted harshly down onto the windowpane of a small-abounded shack created with mud and the odd slabs of dusty concrete. For so long people lived in denial about the rumours of blacks being the most powerful and strong-minded, now myths turned to fantasies, fantasies turned to rumours and rumours turned to reality. A reality more painful than a dagger stabbing you in the back. And now the truce of two separate worlds clashed into each other and no longer could a white man walk along the narrow, pot hole ridden, chunks of rubble positioned at the side of a never ending road, without the stomach churning fear of being shot or beaten to death. And yet it was said the economy was improving. The grand cities disappeared; nowhere was safe; no one cared. A repeat of events in the 60’s was rapidly happening and no one could stop it: one girl in a million had the determination though to turn the world…
“One man can turn the USA around. That man is me,” the president echoed across a sea of black faces that had turned up to look into the future of their country, “What happens now is up to you. And to me if we play our cards correctly revenge could come so easily!” Each word he spoke he clung on to like he didn’t want to let go of the individual letters and he let them hang aloft floating hopelessly above every man’s head. A sharp stab of nausea struck fiercely into the heart of a little girl in the corner of the atrium. Hope- that her father would stop being so cruel to the innocent white people of her and his country- reflected in her chestnut coloured eyes. Why? She asked again and again in her mind, replaying like a broken record, but it would take more than an answer to untangle the mess her father had created…
None of this would have happened if for years every black soul weren’t neglected; seen as a waste of space. Mind you, you can’t change the past can you? No matter how hard you try to forget it’s impossible, like a scar set in stone, never can it disappear. I feel like this when my parents argue: Mummy saying that what dad’s doing is ludicrous. Swears bounce of the walls and always seem to hit me in the face and each word gets lodged in my throat. Never did either of them wanted it to end the way it did but one day he took it too far, only to regret the things he said “Why don’t you give up and get lost! You’re no use around here and you’re a disgrace of a woman! I wish we never even met!” That stormy night she grabbed a photo of me and was never seen again. The only trace of her soul was her car parked by the side of a bridge overlooking the motorway. She died because I was a coward and I never tried to stop the choking words that came out of daddy’s mouth: I killed her… Inside I feel a murderer, but I conceal, don’t feel…
I often wondered- lying on my back, staring at the stars at the stars painted on my bedroom ceiling representing that I should never give up my dreams- how different the economy would be without my Daddy being involved, better I suppose. Playing on my mind was what about my white school friends, what would happen to them? Maybe it wouldn’t be as bad as I think, maybe it wouldn’t be a replay of events, and maybe it wouldn’t affect everyday life? But for now I can only pray to god for my future…
Please leave me a comment of what you think x
Mrs Reeves' Class Blog 