The Colour Of Me
“Nan, look! He is black”, the little boy called the attention of his grandmother pointing to my son. My ears played a little trick on me, I wasn’t sure if he was referring to my son or something else.
There were three of them: a young lady, a boy and an older lady. The boy must be between the age of seven and eight. Presumably, the younger lady was closer to being the boy’s mum and the older lady the grandmother.
I wasn’t sure if the ladies heard the boy the first time he pointed to my son describing the colour of his skin and clearly, the boy wasn’t sure if his mum or grandmother heard him.
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My confidence did not just plummet and disappear into the faraway, it gradually diminished with worries, doubts and what not. I was not the type of person who could shake the ground with their speech or turn heads in astonishment when spoken. No, I was not.