3 Chapter 3

"you know your state don't you?" asks Mr. president his hands stretching as he brings them out of his pockets. His office looks so similar to a study room. Its huge, with lots of shelves, I doubt he even reads all the books in each shelf, then just beside his office table he has a bird cage, with a currently sleeping bird in it. His small sitting quarters looks so homely. Like it was designed for the sole purpose of encouraging students to feel at home around him. Well I don't know about others, but I feel a little bit comfortable.

"yes Mr. president" I respond. He nods his head, then shifts the file that is placed on top the center table toward my direction.

"as you know my son will be graduating from law school by early march, which is next week. And I would want him to pick up a case as critical as yours" he crosses his left leg over his right and then looks at me like he is expecting a response.

"yes sir"

"so in this file you'll find certain things that are deemed important. At this moment miss Mendes, you are supposed to be detained, due to how baseless this case is you can roam freely. But you've been accused by one of the high ups. And because you aren't light skinned any evidence raised up against you in the law court could be very crucial to your freedom"

I nod hastily, as I catch him looking at me with pity.

"my son will contact you once procedures commence. And if I were you, I wouldn't want to repeat what happened down the hall today" he gets up from the comfortable sofa and strolls out of the mini sitting room. Heading over to his office chair he turns and says.

"just so you know, it's been confirmed you are a victim, but once all evidence points at you, I will have no other choice but to sentence you" the way he talks on evidence, it's like he's trying to give me a heads up on something, but I can't seem to comprehend.

Looking at the clock just above the door I know now that I have missed two of my most important lectures. Can't wait for the graduation of law students next week Friday. I walk out the door with sadness in my heart. "daddy is dead" I say out loud, his face leaving an imprint in my mind and head. I could feel someone's eyes at my back just as I get closer to the classroom. History 124, one of my worst subjects, it's like the talk bullies me, and it's like as they keep painting the blacks, black, all eyes turn toward me. "I got to skip this" I mutter and walk away from the door leading to the class. I feel tears etched behind my eyeballs, but damn me I can't let it out and show how vulnerable I am. My legs lead me all the way to the school gate and outside of it, and all I can think of right now is mama's hug, we in this together.

**

Such a shame though as I have been deprived of my mom's hug, turns out she's at work, she's a teacher, a music and arts teacher, so yes she gets paid handsomely. With a paint brush in my hand and a laid out platelet I begin drawing my feelings. My sadness, how much I miss my dad. One thing I love about painting and drawing is the fact that you could literally see what you feel. I am sad, I draw. And I understand what my sadness look like. But sometimes, I can be sad enough to hinder my talent. I let tears roll down my cheeks, and sweat drop down the middle of my breasts. The heat in the small space, becomes hotter, when I decide to bend a little lower, and with all seriousness, I describe my feelings, mixing my sadness with the reason behind it, and in the process, anger pours out. The injustice, how unlucky I am, why I had to be put in a case, for something I am not even aware of, my hand is shaking out of anger and as I decide to stand the paint on my brush decides to splatter across my painting. I stop because looking at the image before me I feel unusually content; a little mix of the imperfect makes it perfect. The unintended splash of paint gave it a surreal look, completing it, and so with a small mouthed brush I write. "a little mix of the imperfect makes it just perfect". I smile, my sadness forgotten. "once its dry ill sign on it" I say. I look at my new china ware, and the discarded one in the waste bin and I stop smiling. I walk close to the waste bin and pick up a part of the shattered object. "maybe the gunshot rang, when it broke" I say. Now it all makes sense.

I look down at my skin, so content with its color, my hair looks different from the others, and I am so proud of it, it is thick and so full, although sometimes it can be hard to tame especially when it's not conditioned properly. My hands begin searching the depths of my hair. I am currently in my room staring so hard at myself. My skin "I am so proud of it" I say. Just then I hear my mother's voice.

**

"it wasn't a big deal for you then, you know" my mom says as she let my head stay for as long as I want on top her shoulder.

"what are you talking about?" I ask.

"your color" my mom says, "your color wasn't a problem for you then… But now I see the way you spend time in front of the mirror" she pauses. "and it bothers me"

"hope you're not starting to second guess your color" mom asks again. I get up noticing tears in the corner of her eyes. And just because I am so bothered I begin tapping her hand.

"it's quite the opposite actually. I just want to see what people hate about my beautiful color" I put on a smile, at least to let her know I'm actually speaking the truth.

"if you say so honey" she wipes the tears that threatens to expose her sadness.

"you'll have to see the president's son on the second of march"

"can I ask you something mom?" I question. She pushes my head off of her shoulder and nods yes.

"why am I not detained?" "I mean; I have been requested to appear in court?"

She nods, and then smiles to herself.

"there's no evidence, so you can't be in there" she says like she is trying to hide something.