Pop goes the weasel.
After my alleged links to witchcraft in order to hang onto my love, I was tired and wanted to go home. Home at this stage felt like a safe haven from the harsh realities of prejudice and racism.
But it seemed there was no respite because the next words from my love’s mouth were, “we need to visit my pops.”
“Why?” I asked.
“Because he wants to meet you too,” was his reply.
“Sigh, do we need to do it now, this minute?” I mutter exasperatedly.
Yes, I was reluctant to endure more scrutiny. It’s exhausting.
While getting dressed, I make it known that he owes me a foot rub.
I feel as if I am about to face the judge, juror and executioner all rolled into one.
When you have to constantly explain and have the answers for all things black, you reach a stage where you need to get away and recharge and heal yourself.
But back to my love and I walking as we walk towards his dad’s front door. As he is about to knock he gives me a reassuring hug and a kiss and just my luck, the door gets opened as we are kissing.
I guiltily push him away and turn to face his pops.
“Thesna, please to meet you,” he says smiling.
“Hi, I am pleased to meet you too,” I answer cautiously.
If you recall he was the one who “knows” my type of people and most of us are drug users, alcoholics and gangsters. So naturally, I’m reticent.
“Come in, sit down but be careful not to mess on my carpet” his voice follows me as I precede them into the lounge area.
“Yeah, I am going to throw mud and probably vomit on it,” I think.
Thank goodness there are no mind readers about. I’d be in a load of trouble if there was.
“So, I know your people, I have been hanging around with them since the 80’s” he proudly announces.
“Really” Sarcasm laced me answers.
“I’m pretty sure, in fact, I’m positive I’m not related to anyone you know.”
“You know what I mean,” he replies impatiently, “I’m referring to your type.”
Hackles rising I reply “my type, oh you mean human?”
I’m being deliberately obtuse but I enjoy watching him squirm in his seat.
“I meant coloureds,” he says whilst shaking his head.
“Oh wow, so you have met all the brown people including my dad?” I asked with supposed wonder and feigned amazement in my tone,” that would mean you have spent your entire life, traveling through this country introducing yourself to “my” people?”
Now he is fuming and any intervention from his son is surreptitiously ignored. Much to his son’s dismay!
“You are being ignorant now!” He tells me.
“Mmm, actually you’re being ignorant in thinking all black and brown people are related or somehow know each other” I lecture him “and that I would be hanging around with the type of people you associate with. If I don’t think that you know all the white people, then it would follow that it’s both racist and ignorant to assume that all people of colour live in the same house or same street and therefore we are all acquainted.”
“You’re so sensitive” he protests.
“Yes, I am sensitive I have been dealing with ignorance about the colour of my skin and my behaviour my entire life. Why would I not be sensitive?” I ask.
“Would you not be sensitive if I were to assume something about you based on the white bus driver I met?”
“That’s ignorant and your assumptions are offensive” I finally finish.
Finally, the dad gets the fact that his son is trying to tell him to be quiet and listen.
He reluctantly sips on his beer and says “Let us listen to some music, so which R&B music do you like Thesna?”
“Do you have Sunday bloody Sunday by U2?” I answer sweetly while my love bursts out laughing and his pops nearly drops his beer.
That’s my Durban trip done.
Tune in next week for Part VII;
Easy like Sunday morning.
