“You Don’t Belong Here”
The power of words
In an unguarded moment, my thumb was crushed.
Blood spilled out.
What began as fun quickly turned into a nightmare. The shock sponged my tears, save the beads of cold sweat that were beginning to form. I felt a sense of horror.
My friend Isaac cringed, and his throat tightened. His eyes bulged. Gathering himself, he staggered forward, grabbed my hand, and yelled for help.
Via Sapegno is a wind monster.
You’ll often find people chasing umbrellas, fighting to keep their dresses down, cringing, and hiding their faces in their palms as they walk by.
Only the trees, with shrewd and flexible disobedience, resisted the wind.
I stepped out of the house and, immediately, frowned, as a gush of wind hits me.
“Not again!”
I hate it here — the dryness, the wind, and the heat.
“Why can’t it… have at least one friggin beach?” I lament.
There is a lot of bitterness in my heart towards many things. Deep within, I felt out of place. But it was a feeling I never took the time to question. So it never occurred to me that I was often out of sorts — and out of character.
The way in which we see the world has a lot to do with the way we see ourselves.
Shutting the door behind me, My big cast arm dangling on my chest, I began my daily melancholic walk to the supermarket.
It’s been two weeks since the incident at work. My hands are healing, but not fast enough. The incident was supposed to be a chance to sit home and get some much-needed rest. Such accidents, on a norm, are covered by the Azienda.
Unfortunately, since I had no document, my job is lavoro nero. That means, as far as the Azienda is concerned, I don’t exist.
That they covered my treatment alone, placated their conscience.
The brief distance to the esteemed CRAI grocery store affords me a swift and effortless commute. But my thoughts during these walks aren't. They’re long and dark. Very dark.
One time, as I pensively walked to the supermarket, I imagined how easy it would be to step in front of an approaching truck. “It’ll all end in an instant.” I thought.
Grief moved me to see nothing good in anything. And the pointlessness of life was vivid and palpable.
I began to think and ponder the meaning of life. My misery made a philosopher out of me. During these dark ponderings, I came to realize the beauty of death.
I realized death is not the enemy.
“What if, perhaps, the cruel one, all this while, has been life? And death is just the one that comes to save us from that cruelty?” I imagined.
I looked at my life and its barrenness and thought, if I should die today, what lies it’ll be to believe death stole something valuable. In my mind, death should be thanked — for death removed me from my misery.
I paused and turned facing the truck, but my feet would not move. Until it zoomed past me.
That was less than a week ago. But I always remember — and it terrifies me.
Just along the road sits the green and red painted CRAI supermarket. Parked cars spread in front, from the left gate to the one on the far right. Its automated sliding door is flanked by a rack of green carts to the left.
It’s in this corner I settled.
Though wretched, I hope to find grace in those strolling in and out of the supermarket.
In Italy, it’s not uncommon to see a black man begging in front of a supermarket. But there are a few who, it would seem, find it disgusting and go out of their way to show it. With remarks like, “Lazy thing! Go get a job!”
But the truth is, they do not know our stories.
Some lads don’t wish to be there. But, as it’s often said, “time and chance happen to us all.”
And this is particularly true, for me.
If you watched closely, you’d see shame and timidity. And you’ll also see, besides the cast arm, a man with a broken ego and a broken spirit. I’m not begging by choice but by necessity.
My cast was proof.
A month prior, I had a job. It wasn’t much, but it did the job. It kept me from the streets, and it kept me sane. But in an incident at the site, where we loaded pieces of rock into a truck, my hand was crushed, and I’ve been unable to work.
In spite of my plight, my in-law, who was already beginning to show signs that I’d overstayed my welcome, and it was time to move out, found the opportunity to exasperate my ordeal. To avoid him and keep a roof over my head, I’m forced to stand in this corner. It’s better to stand timid amongst strangers than sit with condescension amongst those you call your own.
Not long, Etwoke strolled in.
“Ahh, you’re here.” He said. With an expression that says he wasn’t expecting me here.
“Yeah! I am! What to do na??!!”
“Na so sha! I’m coming.” Etwoke said and disappeared into the supermarket.
Another familiar face soon appeared. A tall fair Sicilian lady, she smiled at me, and gesturing with her hands said, “When I’m coming out.”
Her body expression and her smile seemed like we’d been friends for a minute. I felt a bit relieved. Like a balm gently applied to a wound.
“It’s people like this that make situations as this bearable.” I thought.
Lost in thought, I didn’t notice Etwoke walking out and dragging a bag of water.
“Here bro…” Etwoke said, stretching his hands and dumping one euro into my palm. “Ahh! Bro… you do well! Thanks, a lot!” I said gratefully.
“No qualms' brother! All of us deh the hustle.” Etwoke said and walked away.
He hasn’t walked far, when he halted, turned around, and began to walk toward me.
“Bro… gat tell you something.” He said, now standing in front of me. “This hustle nor be for you. It isn’t for you. I watched you from inside, and I see how you approach these people — you don’t have it. You will stay here all day, and won’t get much.”
I felt a bucket of ice water poured all over me. My shoulders lowered, and my eyes hung precariously on Etwoke as he spoke. I felt something thug at my heart. I turned my gaze to the ground. And when I needed to lift them up again to look at him, it was with a struggle.
To seem manly, I smiled, and the only thing I could say was, “Yeah!”
I knew Etwoke spoke the truth. It was why his words cut me. It was like hearing everything I’ve felt all my life, but ignored, thinking they were merely out of pride.
But hearing it from someone else, I realized they were facts.
How many times do we find ourselves, ashamed to face the disparity between what we believe ourselves to be worth and what our environment tells us we’re worth?
My surprise, however, also came with admiration. I didn’t believe such perception and keen observation would come from a man like Etwoke. I always saw a divide between us.
Etwoke, an average-sized, 5′ 6″ chubby 37-year-old, with large tribal marks, was always bustling with cigarettes, marijuana, and alcohol. His English was a mix of English and pidgin. “There probably wasn’t much to expect of him.” I had thought. Well, until now. Out of the blue, Etwoke surprised me.
I finally learned, there’s always more to people than meets the eye. But if I had any sense, I’d have used my own predicament to understand that, sometimes, people find themselves in places they don’t belong. And though I had hypocritically judged Etwoke all these years, maybe we weren’t as different as I’d imagined.
“You don’t belong here! I know you. I know what you can do. Na your type supposed dey office with tie deh speak big English.” Etwoke continued. “You may not find that opportunity here, but find something else. Just not this. I see shame written all over you. Try ehn! Try brother!”
When he finished, we shook hands, fist-bumped and he walked away.
For a while, I stood there, completely lost. I am truly despondent. My emotions swirled like a wave crashing against rocks.
I turned to see if the tall fair Sicilian lady was coming but saw no one. Pressing my hands into my pocket, I turned around, and just like I came, melancholically, walked home. But this time, with fire in my bones.
While the sun burned that day, a new resolve boiled within.
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