(1)
vomit froths in my mouth as i remember the man splayed on the pavement the pool of blood dark pants dark legs a banana next to his hand even in death they can be so cruel and everyone walking past i’m hoping he’d just passed out and
if he dies it’s your fault
and fearing to stall to call the ambulance fearing what that would embroil me in, entangle me in, fearing what they might do to him. out of sight (would they even come? who would pay?)
hoping he had just passed out that was all and thinking how he looked exactly like the other man that had passed out at the african music festival knocked his head, pool of blood, woke up crying for his mother how everyone there indifferent too the woman i was near, the woman i was screaming at is he okay? is this guy okay? just complimented me on my dress wondering if it’s the same guy.
knocked head
dried blood
so faint
hard to see
the dark blood dark pants
swallowing back the vomit as I order
a chai latte
(2)
man that knocked his head at the festival cries out for his mum i message the poc friend this poc friend she says have you called the police i say no i can’t he’s african she says hahahaha
hahahahaa
i’ve seen the irony over and over again, no the hypocrisy made me bleed over, spill over – no i was always right-leaning no i always saw it i just tried to understand i just tried – searching, then, i was hurting cos that’s what you do when you have wounds.
i always saw it it was with me all my life back in perth the vietnamese friend calls me the n-word every time i see him never misses a chance to make a racist joke the last time he’s laughing and saying no, no, no piri you wouldn’t be scared of getting raped walking home at night you’d be begging the rapist to rape you please, someone, just rape me i need to get laid everyone’s silent.
and she turns and looks at me, an irritated sigh, you know asian people hate black people right? as if sorry to break it to you kiddo. i tell her i know, you think I was born yesterday? i grew up in perth, you think i was born yesterday? like east asian like south-east asian like all like all like i can’t get dark, i can’t get darker, ew that’s so gross like while i’m right there in front of you obsessed with it like if a tan’s disgusting then what am i? get their racism all the time. all your hair looked better last time, that is, in the weaves like why did you do it like this it doesn’t look nice why did you cut it why don’t you just grow it long? all that stupidity. all those looks from your parents when i walk into your houses, barely concealed discomfort and disdain, all that need within to harp on about my education, make sure to knock down that stereotype, make sure to emphasise my parents pushed us just as yours did just as bad, that education is highly valued among my people all that surprise when i say that, always surprised, without fail all that really, really, really? wow your kind studies.
my birthday dinner chinese-indo supposedly best friend asks me whether i’ve been bleaching my skin, it looks good i’m retorting ‘no’ my face is twisted in anger she’s oblivious to it all, nodding, smiling your skin looks good, it’s lighter, looks better it’s winter time. the other time she’s saying that white people are racist toward me because of the benefits i get, government benefits they’re jealous, but i’m not aboriginal i say yeah but the benefits you get indirectly she means we all look the same, even to her.
she says she’ll show her guy friends my photo and ask what they think cos you know all that no luck in love thing this was back in uni days, before apps, later on the phone she says they don’t think i’m attractive they asked why didn’t i just stick with my own kind? i’m angry toward her – did she show them the right ones? that’s what they said piri, and it’s true – why don’t you? later i’m crying.
get away from me with all your poc sjw hypocrisy, too many times your prejudice showing, unchecked freudian slips, ridiculous ignorance, eyes darting to me frantically as a somalian talks about a lynching, black bodies hanging, you’re looking to me to figure out how to feel, how to respond, your eyes saying i don’t feel anything, why don’t i feel anything? your obvious discomfort when you’re the only one among the sisters, when it’s not all about how “bad” it is for you, when you’re faced with real stories of injustice real racism and i bit my tongue because then i didn’t have the words or because giving benefit of the doubt or because fear or i don’t know why… a wise man once said judge people by the content of their character and not the colour of their skin still, you do anything but. check your own history, your own afro-latino slave trade, you forgot the dark continent is also among you, your own colourism charts, yes your own unashamed paintings of the social order of things, oh yes they took away the official charts but it’s still there in the minds of the people the darker the flesh and where do you always put the african race? the log out of your own eye before the speck in another’s you know all of that all pretending they’re winning in the oppression olympics but all secretly glad they’re not black.
About the author
Piriye (Piri) Altraide is a Nigerian-born writer, spoken word artist and self-proclaimed dancefloor extraordinaire. Having escaped Perth and her past life as a Chartered Accountant, she is now a Melbournian undertaking a Masters in Creative Writing. Piriye’s work centres on identity, belonging and the journey to self-acceptance in the context of the African-Australian diaspora. Piriye has featured at Afro Hub, The Howler and for Multicultural Arts Victoria. She is a 2014 Perth Poetry Slam finalist, co-curator of RMIT’s Unlecture series, and has had her work published in Mirrors of Africa, Myriad, The Lifted Brow and Milk Crates.