In those years leading to 18, I was already fed up of my skin colour, that dark melanin that the women at the community centre called beauty. Multiple times I begged my mother to go back to Uganda. Other times I wanted to fit in. I had attempted to straighten my hair like thrice till my mother reprimanded me and told me, "Kara be proud of yourself. Be proudly black. "
Over those years people had gotten over the rejection that Lane had shot my way. Even his racist acts were soon dropped and though it was hard for me to believe it, Lane proved himself later on when tradegy struck my family. High school had passed so quickly and I was to enter university. Yet I didn't know what to study. Khalil was already in his first year, still determined to do law and fight for the black community. Already he was taking part in protests regarding the death of innocent black men and women.
At 18, I had already learned the real meaning of being black. It made you a victim of systematic racism. A number of times the cops had stopped me during my drives around the city all because I was black and one scenario had involved my step dad who was nearly arrested for just reaching into his pocket to get his wallet. Mum also experienced it hard.
One time nearly dying because the nurse at the reception who was supposed to attend to my mother first rushed to the white family that had just entered the hospital yet we had been waiting for hours. It had taken as little as me raising my voice at him, calling on the attention of the other patients and medical personnel that he worked on us.
But the time when I experienced the true side of racism was when Khalil died.
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Khalil, I Fight For You
Short StoryA young woman raises awareness for Black lives after her brother's death ~~why be quiet when you can create change~ ©Jovinta Stella All rights reserved #77 feminist on 8/06/2020 #80 empowerment #67 awareness #5 brown skin girl #4 end police brutali...
