I dreamt the smell of a thousand crystal clear bombs shattering on the perspex shelter where she waited for the wrong bus with other mid-morning blacks at the end of another riotous night filled with bad old films, great white hope, cheap red wine and the expensive torrent of abuse that almost cost the nightmarish black woman her dream job.
Rain. With every explosion its smell filled her thinking. And now her narrow mind grows on the terrace below because the windows in Köln opened too wide and the smell of April rain mingles with the quietness of her isolation and a sudden explosion of emptiness fills the vacant hotel room.
The subtlety of her snobbery was commendable though immediately detectable in the aching uprightness of her posture. A priestly stance. There was a divinity about her wandering and even the wicked way she always managed to stop her roots from showing every time outrage took her tongue travelling through the wet green hills of St. Andrew.
She stifled her Jamaicaness in clenched toes and red cheeks that burnt with contrived eloquence. The Queen’s English – the tight line of barbed wire along a chicken wire fence; a polite and cleansing precaution protecting first world blacks from their third world homes. A cultural and linguistic suicide.
For those of us who’ve encountered its conniving simplicity, whiteness privilege is a sincere black problem. A slick or spillage of unearned assets in the small sea of blackness. A cultural contaminant. A pollutant of black promise. A disadvantage similar to rain that hits us all but only hurts a few. A place where some dance while others drown.