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A Taste of Milk
by Sheree Mack
October 2004
And that day, the sun was in its usual place. The sun was in its usual place. In the middle of the sky. And as usual it was pale and weak. The pale and weak sun was in its usual place in the middle of the sky that day. And then it rained. I failed to remember as on that day as any other day, the sun was always in the middle of the sky shining bright for me. I was flames in my own fire.
I returned from church and she of my colour, Karen, was ill. Her lover of milk was away. I looked after her, her of my colour. I kept her warm and sang her songs.
At a late hour, we had a visitor, at a late hour. I let him in. I let him in and made tea as that’s what people do in this country when they have visitors, even if they don’t want visitors they make them tea. I made him tea, strong and hot, just like her of my colour, Karen, had shown me. He wanted more than I could give. He had made a mistake and thought my looks meant more than they did. He saw my looks and thought of other things. He saw my looks and thought of sin. I told him he was wrong. The looks he saw were not what he saw. He was wrong and I told him. He did not like to hear the truth. I told him the truth as I could not feel for him as he wanted. I could not give him what he wanted. He did not like it. I asked him to leave. He did not like it. I said, he had to leave, he did not like it. I told him, her of my colour, Karen, was ill and that he should leave. It would be for the best.
Cries of pain pierced the walls of the room, out of the house they were, and reached out into the dark skies. The clouds were thick and blocked out the light from the bright moon and stars. The cries cried out to the dark skies and the hidden moon.
Darkness. Darkness for a long time. I open my eyes, darkness. I close my eyes darkness. Inside and outside, darkness. Everything vanishes into darkness. A vast darkness descends over many things, many things I know. Darkness not like the darkness opposite to light, darkness not like the darkness of the night. But more like the darkness from which, I, and all I came from had originated.
It is said that for three days and three nights the world is without a moon, therefore in darkness. A darkness without light. A darkness where faith is put to the test. I am in the darkness. A darkness so vast that I am stumbling like a blind man in the unknown. A darkness that my Lord has abandoned me to. I feel like God’s jilted lover.
“Call me Medusa. Medusa is my name.” I was flames in my own fire. I was a beautiful lover, not proud. I was a beautiful lover, young. With my obsidian skin, my honey brown eyes and my long long black dread lock dreads. I was beautiful, inside and outside, a shining light. I didn’t waste my time with any earthly loves. Although they looked. My beauty was looked upon with admiration and affection by some. My beauty was looked upon with disapproval and scorn by others. This did not bother me. The Holy One was my lover and master, and I was satisfied. I believed he was satisfied in me as I helped the poor and needy, fed the orphaned children of our land. And there were many as the fighting continued. I was young and I was beautiful and my beauty was a blessing. I invited other people into the circle of my beauty. I was easy prey for the others who did not have my God as their lover. I didn’t hide who I loved, but I also didn’t need to parade it. We had made a bond and we stayed true.
I can remember they came in the dark with their torches, like snakes crawling on their bellies. Sly and sizzling, they came to the homes of the children. Those who ran met the machetes at the door.I believe I was spared. Spared by my lover’s protection. I confess I was saved to do good work elsewhere. Darkness. Except for the shape of their noses and the colour of their eyes. Every other memory recedes like a boat pulling away from the shore. A boat away from the shore, floating in the water. Darkness was the water. Wide was the water. The water I had left behind. The water I had turned my back on.
I came to this strange land where the people were the colour of milk and were sour to the taste. They spoke in a different tongue. Sharp and bitter tongue. I learnt fast. They said ugly things when they saw me pass. “Go back to where you come from.” Down underneath the covering of my black skin, where I am the same colour as them, the heat pricked and the fear set in. The fear pricked and the heat set in. But my lover offered his hand and guided me through the thorny path. He provided a home for me with kind people. One was of my colour, Karen, the other was milk, but not so bitter. I was part of their home and they were part of my heart. Their friend with the blue eyes became my friend. The man with the blue eyes was like sweetened milk. He teased me about my true love. I smiled, and drank more sweetened milk.
I found life in the church. My parents took me first to a church in the dusty heat. Since then I have gone. I remember. My mother and father I do not remember. They are lost like turns in the road, lost like the horizon in the dark.
I found life in the church here. It was cold, grey-stoned with hard wooden benches but the people were like warm milk. They accepted me as God’s lover. My light shone out. The words of the hymns soothed.
The words on the house. The words on the house were filthy words. They appeared in the darkness. The words appeared in the darkness and they would not scrub away. Warm milk boiled and spilt. She of my colour, Karen, tried to turn down the heat. Sweet milk burnt. The time was too long.
And from the sky fell sheets of rain. Sheets of rain for days upon days. It hammered on the windows and walls like fists. And the rain that fell from the sky, and hammered on the windows and walls, it covered the land like blankets and blankets. Not warm, cold, not light, dark.
Darkness. Darkness, vast and wide. Darkness, fast and wide. Blue eyes.
They ask questions, and I can’t remember. I can’t remember.
She of my colour, Karen, was sick. Her milky lover was away. I was looking after her. I know I was. I checked on her. Tea, strong and hot, just what the visitor liked. He did not like. She slept. I slept. I woke to blood. Red sticky stale. Dreadlocks coiling in blood, alive. She of my colour, Karen, was covered in blood. Red sticky stale more. Dead. I looked to my lover to explain. Silence. I prayed to my lover. I pleaded with my lover to show me the way. Darkness. Blue eyes.
I am in a cage like a dangerous animal. I am watered and fed. And stared at. They are happy now with their sour faces. “Typical. What do you expect from these jungle bunnies?”
I am what they expected. My lover is gone and I’m in the dark. Then blue eyes. He says, “ Medusa, you’ve got to help yourself.” I say, “I can’t remember.” “They think you killed her.” ” She of my colour, Karen, was kind and good and my friend.” “She’s dead. And they want answers.” ”I can’t remember. This is God’s will.” Blue eyes piercing through the dark. “Is it God’s will that the innocent suffer?” He says guilty or not they will send me back, back to the fighting and bloodshed.
Is this God’s will? I don’t understand.
Cries of pain pierce the walls of the room, out of the prison they are, and reach out into the dark skies. The clouds are thick and block out the light from the bright moon and stars. The cries cry out to the dark skies and the hidden moon.
I can’t remember.
Updated: 08/09/2006
Sheree image © Sheree Mack. Text and images © Sheree Mack 2004