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The Brilliant Black Boy - Sydney Njoroge

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The Brilliant Black Boy - Sydney Njoroge

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The brilliant black boy

The one God handcrafted

With intellect and potential

The swarthy is snipped

Wings quickly clipped

It is then that it creeps in

Ignorance of learning

Art of becoming

The forgetting

You can’t hide the light on the hilltop

It will forever shine

So will you

You  beautiful brilliant black boy

When will you reclaim your brilliance

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Stepping off the plane, I’m immediately embraced by the Caribbean’s soothing breeze and the wave of heat left over from the afternoon sun. Almost like a movie set, the lively orange and purple hues blend together to create the perfect sunset. Beyond the gates of the airport, palm trees billow in the wind, planted with care to protect the houses dotting the hillside.

I know Gran is waiting outside in the same spot she would pick me up from when I was little. She’d be slightly leaning on her car, holding a sign with my name on it.

The best part is exiting the gate and walking down the hallway lined with faded Cruzan rum ads peeling from the walls. They stopped offering the rum at the airport a while back, likely before my family stopped coming about two years ago. My suitcase’s wheels make the familiar click on top of the tiled floor, slightly catching on the unpaved divots.

But the real best part is spotting the one person I’ve missed most, waiting at the end of the hallway—just where I knew she’d be, holding her oversized sign and leaning against her car like a scene out of a chick flick.

Without hesitation, I scramble over to her warm embrace, tears trickling down the side of my face.

“Oh my Anaya, everything will be okay, I promise you.” She brushes my tears away.

I stare into her eyes, scanning lightly over her face. Unlike everything else, she hasn’t changed.  Her toothy smile is the same, gold hoops likely bought from a local shop, and her short gray hair frames her wrinkled face. I’ve missed her more than I cared to admit.

“Every time I see you, you grow more radiant than the last.” Gran gushes, taking my bookbag from my tired shoulders. “Thank you, Gran.”

She slings the bag onto her back, holding my gaze. “I love your parents, and I’m thrilled you’re here. But you belong in D.C., my Anaya.” Gran understands, and I knew she would because she always does.

“Gran, I miss everything already,” I confess softly.

“And we’ll mourn it, my love, because you deserve so much more,” Grans says firmly.

“But you better not forget the Caribbean is the best place to mourn,” Gran adds, her gold-ring-covered finger raised with a playful tone. I laugh, tossing my arm around her as we head to baggage claim.

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pre: this was originally a poem that was turned into a essay for a class assignment so it’s not my usual style, but i want to malcolm-ify it and make it into a more creative writing piece.

“Where Respect Lives”

As the plane took off, I watched the islands filled to the lid with summer memories, fade away from green to blue. In California, I never felt that far from my humid home. The familiar accents and the drifting aroma of the food were still frequent in my life. Many of the same day-to-day courtesies carried back to the States as well. I would see the same Aunties and Uncles in California that I would see in St. Croix and Puerto Rico. I was still expected to sit still and only really draw attention to myself if I needed something. Even though my older brother and I were raised in a more Americanised household, tradition was tradition, and that’s what we followed.

I believe I was quite a respectful kid, well, as respectful and obedient as a six to eight-year-old year old can be. Seeing the punishments my brother and cousins received from their mischief encouraged me not to push the envelope as far as they did. Out of all of the kids that filled the African-Caribbean church we attended, I was notably one of the quietest. This aided me quite a bit as I was never disciplined for speaking out of turn or being exorbitantly loud, but some of the other unspoken expectations for children carried more weight for me than some other kids I knew. Despite my bashful demeanor growing up, I discovered the concept of opinion at a very young age, which I later found is an attribute that isn't quite valued in a Caribbean community. Quite blatantly, a child’s opinion didn't matter to most adults. However, I knew to keep my mouth shut and not to raise my voice on a topic I knew adults wouldn't value my opinion.

I carried this ideology with me until I moved to the rural foothills of the Sierra Nevada in 2021, where my family became one of the very few black families that lived there. This change of location also brought a drastic change of culture. As I began to become more familiar and speak to more people in this small town, I began to notice that when I spoke, it felt more valued.  When it came to adults, it seemed like my opinion was more valued than it had been in my Caribbean community in Southern California. I felt that people older than me respected the fact that a youth’s voice and opinion could matter as much as their own.

This is something I got used to. Being able to express my opinion and ideas to an adult became less of a daunting seemingly impossibility into a regular occurrence. I grew into a more communicatory individual as I was given the opportunity to express my individuality through words. Growing into my voice at a younger age than I remember my brother and his peers did, my parents adjusted to having a more outspoken child in the family. Initially, I could see them hold the same guardedness they had before, waiting for my words to turn into disrespect. Gradually, however, they began to see that my words weren't based on anything defiant, but simply my desire to be understood as a person. Over time, what was initially brushed off as child blabber turned into longer conversations that allowed both of us to understand each other better.

Going back to Southern California was my favorite thing to do. The six hour drive itself seemed dull and brown, full of concrete and tree groves, but to me, I was going back into civilization. Adjusted to the more outspoken nature of my foothill community, this summer especially, the thought of the caribbean kid manners I had were pushed slightly to the side. During our visit, we ate lunch with a family from the Church that my grandparents and mother had been friends with years ago. The conversation turned to hair when my Grandma complained that she hadn't been able to find anything, and few others at the table shared similar sentiments. At the time, I had a full head of hair that I had been able to manage all on my own without the help of any parental figure, so I decided to chime in. Instead of agreement or even a contemplative nod, I was met with slight squints and sharp looks. Clearly, I had forgotten that here my words had a place, and that was not with the adults. I was reminded of what I was supposed to do, snapped back like an elastic band in hot water, I was meant to be respectful, quiet, and tucked away while the adults were talking.

I didn't say much after that. I just picked up my plate and listened, the same way I had when I was younger. The noise of voices around me rose and fell, carrying the same rhythm and flow that I had always known, and one I thought I had outgrown. For a moment, it felt like nothing had changed, and I had slid back into the quiet place I had lived in before. In this place, respect was measured in silence, and in opinions and feelings staying folded up somewhere secret.

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The moment I stepped through the doors of the house, I tossed my bag off somewhere into the distance- Australia still wouldn’t be far enough for me, but the spot a few inches from my foot would have to do.

Head pounding and body aching, I longed for nothing more than a nap. Anything for a moment of rest and relaxation. But, taking a thirty minute nap would mean that I’d have less time to attempt to decipher whatever secret code everybody else seemed to be fluent in, all in the name of mathematics.

With a sigh that came all the way from the deepest pits of my belly, I lay down on my bed anyway and pulled out my phone, trying to take my mind off math. The only thing that helped with, was reminding me that I hadn’t spoken to my family in a while. I hadn’t called my aunt back even though I promised to, “first thing once I got back from school on Monday”. It was Wednesday.I imagine (unnamed cousin) and (other unnamed cousin) staying past their bedtime waiting for me to get back from school and my heart breaks a little. I start racking my brain of what exactly I would say to the twins when I called back (God knows when) which was how I remembered the chemistry lab I had been putting off the whole of last week and a bit of this. Instead, I had thrown myself into perfecting the short story for English. That probably shouldn't have taken longer than thirty minutes, but every time I was reminded of everything I sucked at, I retreated further into the comforts of my cocoon- that wonderful safe space where I knew I couldn’t go wrong. For me, this was English. I loved it and it loved me right back even though that never happened for me. Especially with anything school related. So, I spent all my time dreaming up the perfect universe, building up this world, fleshing up the characters, giving them minds and souls and dreams, all for something that Miss Robinson would read through and be done with in less than five minutes. But for this, it felt worth it. Being loved back made it all worth it.

But of course that came at a cost. Which in this case, was completing a (how many words) lab report in a day. It would help a little bit if I had any idea what was going on here, but however bad I am in math, that’s only ant sized in reference to me and Chemistry- any of the sciences even. It wasn’t always like that, but I guess anything before secondary school doesn’t really count. It doesn’t matter if you were the top of your class in primary five if you can't retain the simplest of concepts when it actually counts.

To take my mind off how utterly doomed I am, I pull my phone out and start scrolling and scrolling…and scrolling. Just for a few moments, and then I would try to figure out how to get started. The pounding in my head doesn’t ease up and neither does the ache in my body, so just for a change of scenery, I grab my blanket and head to the living room couch.

Spread out and as comfortable as I can be, everything withstanding considered, I allow myself to get lost in the world that existed on my phone, because that was miles better than getting lost in my books.

I heard her before I saw her.

First, the sound of the keys jingling in the lock. Then her groan as the door slowly creaked open. But worst of all, the sound of her feet tripping over my backpack I had left on the floor. God please let the ground swallow me right now.

“Whose bag is this?” she asks, even though we both know the answer. I’m the only one of my sisters whose bag looks like it has survived multiple natural disasters. In a way it kind of has, because it has been with me all the way from Primary 4. My mum says they don’t make bags like that anymore because all the new ones she gets for my sisters wear and tear in a matter of months.

Speaking of my mum, her voice is tired and from the set of her shoulders, it’s been a long shift. She doesn’t want to have this conversation and neither do I.

I take a deep breath In. Out.

“E ma binu ma. It was me” ((where do all the inflections go???)

I hear her take a breath. In. Out. “I would expect this from one of your sisters Jolaade,” she starts.

Okay…I guess we’re doing this then.

“And I want you to tell me how many hours you’ve been on that phone.”She points around the living room and asks “Take a look around. Is this how I left this place in the morning?”

I don’t respond.

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Out in a yard beneath the sky painted with hues of pink, orange, blue and a bit of purple, the sun casts beams of rays upon the rushing river–

From the sound of chirping birds to the whistling trees, the blowing air seemed to lift the weight of which my shoulders seemed to have endured.

The sun now descending, the birds have gone quiet.

The sound of the rushing river along with the whistling trees remain–

Not too quiet, nor to loud, just calmness away from all the chaos.

The quiet hours of night hushes the wind–

The swaying trees have fallen silent.

The moon aglow above along with the stars, the river has calmed yet still flowed.

A few chirping crickets follow–

It's quiet, but not entirely.

Now inside, surround by walls, trying to rest my mind is chaotic.

Mind full of gray clouds where the thunder often strikes; even the silence seem too loud when I'm away from the noise.