The Life of Kiana Young

“Morning Miss Young, how are you today?”
I watched the doctor take his usual seat in front of me. His pad of notes under his left arm and his glasses in his right hand. His white coat down to his shins, with his white shirt and black skinny tie underneath neatly pressed and ironed completing the doctor look that I’d grown so well to hate.
“The same as every day doctor.”
“Oh Miss Young,” He said sitting down whilst opening his pad on the table. “I told you that you could call me Lucas.” I looked at the doctor, watching him closely as he clicked his pen ready to start the 9’o’clock session.
“I prefer doctor.”
“Then doctor it is.”

He flicked through the pages of notes, skimming through what he’d written about me in the last few encounters we had. Trying to seem as though he was reminding himself where he left off, doing the occasional scratch on his chin or silent approval when he came across a key note. When in actual fact, he remembers exactly what we last spoke about and what he wanted to speak about this session.
He falls onto his most recent notes on myself and nods, then flicks onto a new sheet of white paper.
“Where did we finish last time?”
“I thought that was what you were doing just now?”
“What do you mean Miss Young?”
“All the flicking through your notes, nodding and humming to yourself – weren’t you doing all of that so we could skip all these niceties and get straight to the point?”

“Hmm, you seem a little tense today Miss Young?”
I look towards the two guards standing by the door, then at the two plain clothed guards that were acting as though they were watching the television when really, they were waiting for me to out of character so they could pin me down and sedate me. I rolled my eyes, trying to hide my annoyance, but failing to do so.
Ever since they put me here, classified me as crazy, I continuously failed to suppress my inner emotions. Maybe it’s due to the number of times I’ve been drugged, sometimes I don’t even know how I feel or think. But all I am aware of is that the more they pump these drugs into my system, the more I can feel my self-control slip.
“Doctor, how can one not be tense when they are in a stray jacket?”

I chuckled ever so lightly, trying to keep the sane image solid, even though I knew the doctor could see through it as clear as day.
“Well that is true, but I heard you got a little physical last night?”
“Doctor, I requested for different colour bed sheets. They bought me white… I refused to use it and here I sit today. With white bed sheets and strapped in a white stray jacket.” “Hmm,” He wrote a few notes in his now less empty pad and then looked back at me. “I want to talk about how you got here Miss Young, where this all started.”
With no response, he continued on with his plan of the day. “I want to know how Miss Young got in this seat, opposite me in a stray jacket – what triggered all of this?”

“Well I told you about how I’m in a stray jacket.”
“Miss Young…”
The doctor looked at me sternly, the two guards by the door turned their focus to me and the two plain guards had moved closer to my seat without my knowing. I swallowed my sarcasm and looked back at the doctor. I knew how this went, if I didn’t comply then I’d find myself laying in the room which was now my home. The four white walls taunting me, letting me know that no matter how much I tried, I was getting nowhere they didn’t want me to go.
Refocusing my attention back to the doctor, I sighed. “What do you want to know doctor?”
“I want to know what caused you to react the way you did that day. What went through your mind as you decided to change your life and commit that crime you did?”
With a sigh I look at the table. Where was I meant to begin? It’s clear to say the beginning, but every time I thought of the beginning I realised that the change happened within me long before I was aware. I looked at the doctor and then closed my eyes.
“I was sixteen and I’d just woken up to some tragic news.”

[Continuation of Kiana’s story next week- stay tuned]

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Harlem Death

My knuckles turned white as I gripped onto the steering wheel, remembering how they marched and chanted for freedom and “equal rights”, holding banners like they deserved to be placed on the same peddle stool as us white folk were on. I was beyond tempted to take down each and every one of them that walked passed me, all high and mighty, fists in the air and hope in their hearts. My fingers twitched on the trigger of my gun, but lucky for them my colleague stood beside me and reassured me there’ll be other times where we could get revenge, for now that was their moment.

It was bad enough and obvious that that nigger, Rev Brown, used black magic in order to win the vote to send his child to our schools, but now they demand for more? My blood still boils daily when I think about how a nigger has the opportunity to sit amongst my kind and learn the same information my children are learning. It’s an abomination. We all know their mentality isn’t strong enough to comprehend what the schools teach, that’s why they were under our control for so many years, because they needed our brains to help tell them how to function. But here there are now, ungrateful bastards, declaring for equal rights and the rights to vote, when did they feel they were the same as us?

I took a deep breath and controlled my anger, releasing my grip on the steering wheel. It was only a matter of time before God corrected this mistake that the devil obviously had committed and put America back into order. Because if God failed to return America to what it once was, we’d have to deal with more people like Malcolm X, who felt the need to speak for his people and demand for things like the rights to vote or equality, which he had no right in asking for. People like him would provide all of them with false hope that I didn’t have time or energy to shut down. I can already see it, all of them walking around like they own the streets, attempting to stand up against us because we haven’t taken the time to assert authority and fear over them.

Instead, now it’s my kids that come home with the same fear that they used to have in their eyes a few years ago. It’s my kids who look at me during dinner as though I failed doing my job as a father and as a police officer. It’s my duty to keep them safe and to keep those animals out of the public eye, but here I am, cruising through Harlem watching them chant for segregation to be abolished, walking into ‘only whites in’ entrances in order to prove a point.

Being in this part of town did nothing but fuel my anger, seeing them so frequently and not under the care of a white persons command, kept my frustrations at bay, so I decided that leaving would be the best. Not for myself, but for them, because the longer I stayed amongst them, the more tempted I felt to kill them all, to prove that they have no chance in succeeding in a society that is ruled by our kind. Just as I begun to leave Harlem, a boy rushes out in front of my car, causing me to slam on my breaks, jerking me hard against my chair. Instantly a sharp pain in my neck arose and I knew this anomaly of the world had given me a whiplash. I was already having a bad day and there stood a coloured boy watching me in awe as I rubbed the back of my neck as it ached in agony. Cursing quietly, I opened my door and rolled my neck back and forth, in attempt to ease the pain, whilst walking towards the boy.

 

“I’m so sorry, I wasn’t looking!”

“Shut your damn mouth.” I rubbed my neck, making sure the pain wasn’t too severe then focused on the boy.

“I was in a rush to catch the bus, that I wasn’t focusing on the road, so I didn’t see you.”

“I said shut your mouth, I didn’t ask for a explanation. Where are you coming from nigger?” His face grew tight after hearing the word ‘nigger’, but he seemed smart enough not to react to it. He shifted from one leg to the other, never breaking eye contact with me.

“From school sir.”

“Oh you’re one of those ones. You think you can handle me right?”

“No sir.”

“Well you’re looking at me like you want to hit me?”

“That’s incorrect sir.”

“So you’re telling me I’m lying?” The coloured boy kept quiet and lowered his gaze to his shoes. This is what my duty was, to enforce fear into his kind, so that they knew their place in society.

“Sorry sir.”

“Where’s the evidence that you’ve just come from school?” The boy slowly reached in his pocket, making me draw for my weapon. I wasn’t going to take any chances, knowing how those people worked, they’ll act like they are going to co-operate and before you know it, your body is laying on the floor covered in blood. As soon as he saw my gun, he stopped moving and put his hands in the air.

“I didn’t tell you to stop, show me some identification that you came from school.”

“But sir, you’ve drawn your weapon.”

“I won’t tell you again nigger, show me some identification or I’ll be forced to take you to the precinct.”

The boy’s hand visibly shook as it moved closer to his back pocket, whilst my fingers twitched on the trigger of the gun. As soon as he’d grabbed something out of his pocket, I shouted in my radio, ‘I have a suspect reaching for a weapon.’ And the pulled the trigger. His body lifelessly dropped to the ground, whilst his registration card lay a few inches away from his body. I put my gun back in my holster and stood closer to the coloured body feeling no remorse, as his body lay limp on the ground, other than joy. I looked around, wondering whether anyone else had witnessed the scene, but there was no one around. I made sure I didn’t stand close enough so that my shoes were in his blood, but I couldn’t help but smile at the fact that I knew in my heart that, I had managed to get one less nigger off the streets. I felt as though I had done my duty, my kids were safe. My fellow white folks were safe. That was all I wanted for my kind, for them to be safe and have no fear that their lives were in danger – and as the thick crimson blood slowly began creeping towards the tip of my black leather boots I knew that as long as more blood was drawn, the world was going to be a better place.

 

 

 

 

Author’s Note:

 

As a young black female, I tend to see a lot of videos posted on my Facebook wall about how the world has become more abusive to a selective group. And for what reason? Because of the colour of their skin? Or their religion? I’m a Christian and one thing I believe in is freewill and it utterly disgusts me when I see people mistreated, verbally/physically abused and alienated by something that should not be a issue in the first place.
I’ve been trying for a while to write stories that reflected the hurt that I see when I watch these videos of people being shot for no reason, or for kids being bullied due to their religion and weirdly enough I find it difficult. Harlem Death was something I wrote a few months ago but didn’t post because I wasn’t too sure how people were going to take it. But I do hope that people see the irrationality from the narrator of this story and hopefully dislike him as much as I did as I was writing him up.

 

Thank you for reading!

 

Sarah E. Balogun

Sister Abigail’s Unfaithfulness

Questions. All I’ve received these last few months are questions. ‘But father, if what you have been preaching about is true, then why would other people go searching for answers that the Bible should have provided?’ How many times must I explain to them that those who search for answers that the Bible has already given to them are unwilling to see the truth that is brought to them by Christ?

But none of my responses ease their mind. It’s almost as though, the more time I spend answering their questions and giving them reasons for other people’s actions, I fuel them with more enquiries. Father what more can I do for your people? I am only human and for that reason myself, I cannot deliver the answers they all search and plead to hear. I try to teach your people in the way you’ve instructed me, but nothing seems to work. Instead, more questions arise.

A few weeks ago, Sister Abigail came to me after Sunday service with a look I knew far too well. She had wanted to confide in me, which was a regular thing for people to do. She stood in front of me as everyone had begun to speak in small groups after service, shifting her weight onto each leg, fiddling with her fingers and looking down towards the ground. Noticing her tense posture, I rested my hands gently on her shoulders and reassured her things would be okay. No matter what she told me it’d be in confidence and I would be willing to advise her the best way I could, with the help of you.

She sighed and proceeded, “Father, now that the niggers are claiming for civil rights, it’s made me wonder why we, as the church haven’t accepted them earlier. They are human, just like you and I, and today you preached saying ‘God made everything in his own image’. If that’s the case then the niggers should have been allowed to worship with us, right?” I wasn’t too sure how to answer her question, let alone process it. I don’t get asked regularly whether niggers should be allowed to worship with us, because everyone knows that niggers and us folk are two completely different beings. But here before me stood Sister Abigail, asking me why I haven’t let niggers into the house of God to pray with us… was the preaching I performed today all in vain?

I wasn’t angry, more disappointed. She should know how the world functions, and the world only functions in the way it does because of you Lord, so why would she question such things when this is way life is meant to be? I tried to give her an uplifting smile and explained to her, ‘You see Sister Abigail, the way the world spins is because of God, the way food grows is because of God, the reason why you and I are here is because of God. And the reason why niggers aren’t accepted into the world is because of God. It is just the way God made things. You see, they are examples for us, parables even. The way they are and the way they behave are ways us folk shouldn’t. We must deter from their behaviour and remain in the path of God. Did God not create the Devil?’ She gave me a small nod, still looking down at her feet. ‘And the Devil is nothing but wicked and disobedient, hence why he was abolished from the Kingdom of Heaven. Niggers are like the Devil in this case and we are like God. The niggers are disobedient, destructive and downright bad, so we must cast them out of society and out of our lives, like what God did to the Devil. You must understand Sister Abigail, everything in this world happens for a reason, because of the one and only.”

She seemed to understand everything I was saying. She listened attentively, nodded when I asked a question and then thanked me when I was finished and left. I knew I had done my job to answer her question and give you justice to the best of my ability. But this Sunday after service I heard rumours, and you know me God I don’t indulge myself in idle talk. But what was being said was that Sister Abigail had left the church. I thought about it and realised she hadn’t been to church ever since she confided in me and now she’s left. Of course I felt like her choice of action was my fault. Was it what I told her? Or was it something else that had bothered her? She’d been a member for almost twelve years now. I would consider her one of the most devoted and reliable members of this church.

That was until today. I needed to understand the reason behind her leaving, just in case if I was the cause, because at least then I could pray for forgiveness for losing a member of the church. So I asked the committee, who found, through word of mouth, that she had left to join a religious organisation, one that was very unknown, but was apparently known (told by Sister Agnes) to express equality. Equality between black folks and white folks, I shook my head after hearing this. No church that was built in that way was a church of Christ.

If that was the church Sister Abigail’s heart desired to go to, then I wasn’t going to stop her. It was obvious from her actions that she was the minority of white folk who seemed to believe niggers and us folk were meant to live together. There was nothing I could do for her anymore, no amount of prayer could save her from the clutch the Devil had upon her. All I can do is pray that nobody associates her abnormal behaviour with this church, because this church is strictly for whites and God fearing people only.

 

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