Black
Written in 2010, at the age of 16.
It is a dark winter night.
The moon is yet to rise, and even the stars are asleep.
An old shrivelled man sits at his desk, waiting for his son to return home.
He hears the chirping of a cicada; he shivers slightly even in the warmth of the room; yet, he can feel his world painted in only one colour.
A key turns in the door’s lock, and there is a glimmer of light at the end of his dismal tunnel.
“Read me the newspaper, son.”
The young man’s eyes run over the fine print of the paper, and then he finds a lump in his throat as they fall upon the sightless ones of his father.
His lips will part, and the world will come to reward a wait.
“Things are bleak, father. There is darkness all around,” he says.
His voice speaks of the war, the riots, one brother killing another. An intense surge of conflicting feeling overwhelms the old man, and his colour is no longer the absence, but rather, the presence, of all colour.
Later that night, he is propped into bed, and his grandson comes to him, asking for a bedtime story.
“Today, Timothy, you will tell me a story. Tell me…what is this colour only I see?”
A hesitant voice begins —
His mother’s long black hair, drying in the sun after her bath.
The bitter-sweet plums he stole from the neighbour’s garden that morning.
The magpie that sits outside the window and calls at every dawn and dusk.
The polka dots on the ladybugs he has caught.
The tar the road-layers spread on the street last week.
The water snake that glides through the pond at noon.
His father’s shoe-polish.
The tips of the matches used to light the candles on his birthday cake.
The African slaves, bound longer than their lifespan…
The new President of the USA.
It has been a tiring day for both grandfather and grandson. It is not long before they are both asleep.
The next day never dawns, as Timothy wakes up in the cold embrace of his grandfather.
Soon, the house will be shrouded in black…
