Essay | The Great Everywhere
(Space All Around)
The Distance Between Us
Sometimes, I stand in the middle of the stoep in my backyard thinking about my time in the universe so far. My position in it. My actions as I walk through it. I have moved houses four times already with my parents, and I wonder what that says about where I have ever belonged. What does it mean to plant a tree with my mom outside my bedroom window at our third home and by the time it was as tall as our house, I had already left? I grew up more miles away from it than I imagined I would and that devastates me a little.
I remember how loved I was by my neighbours at that house. Yet I am loathed by the woman next door at our present house. I have to tiptoe if I want to catch some sunshine so that she does not spot me. She keeps to her front yard, staring into the street like an antagonistic guardian of the galaxy. She stares into us in our short skirts talking with the boys who dream of rap careers. “The awful youth of today” written all over her weary eyes.
The Shelves At Home
My eyes wander to my bra strap falling off my shoulders, as I walk carrying all my groceries home. It was a few times this has happened. I had to wait until I got home to put down those canned beans and cereal box-filled plastic bags, to pull the strap back into its place where it belonged. Right after comes the placing my food up into the cupboards where they all belonged. Each tin can, box, tub, carton, jar, and the one egg tray. Remember how we used to make paper mache cups and plates with those back in the day? How ever did my mother manage all of these tasks that exhausted me so?
How does every little thing in the world have its own space? My bra strap goes on my shoulder, the peanut butter jar goes to the far right on the second top shelf, the tinned foods go to the left side, the toothpaste goes onto the bathroom shelf, and everything else goes everywhere else that’s nice for it. What order. What space.
My Face
My mother quickly calls out my name when this happens. When I fall into the hole where my memories live. It makes me feel like a crazy person being snapped into reality. I assure her each time, “I am fine”. She always has to ask, “Are you okay?” Although she never asks what goes on when I space out, I bet she has her own assumptions.
When I come back to what is in front of me, it feels like I was building an Island in there, in my own little world where the ocean runs free and the sand speaks. My mind allows me to travel wild to the most creative places I can possibly imagine for myself. When I am not there, I dwell on the dark spots on my face. None of those belong there, by the way. How awful they are to stay.
Their Minds
When I am not thinking about random things, I am on the dreadful internet where the good Earth folk torch each other alive. I look for fashion inspiration and writing prompts. I never want to see slick comments about Black women; our stench marks, our dark and uneven skin tones, how this and that makes us less beautiful, how sassy we are sometimes, how they are now all turning to KPop because they have identity issues. How kind of User087543456899 to be so considerate of me.
I must say, what a small box I occupy in his head. If only we created large rooms with expensive chandeliers and Leonardo Da Vinci paintings hanging on the walls, for those groups of people we give time to in our heads. I think me and my coarse hair deserve more than your clever, uncalled-for judgements. We should be regarded as the individuals we are beyond your five-second read rants. It is so small this dress African women must wear to your amusement. I have had my own dresses to wear since the day I learned how to walk, thank you very much.
The Garden
Sometimes, I wear the dress of a woman who loves flowers. I water them for a few hours and I take pictures of them. It is an innocent friendship we have. The outside is beautiful if you think about it, if you go to it. That is, if you have opened your gates to lilies and roses of different colours, or those purple flowers with long thin petals – I never learned what they are called. The ones with a yellow pistil. I do know that I sometimes wish there were lavenders in this garden. almost everything in my house is lavender-scented. I wonder all day how the real ones smell.
The Stars
They say it all began from above. The above, where our eyes cannot truly reach. We all know the sun stays rooted in the same place. However, does it not feel as if it loses its space at night? It’s always the daytime somewhere but we all lose the sun for twelve hours. They should be mourned, I think. Does the sun weep as the Earth turns the other way? Does the sun have a favourite continent? Personally, the shape of Africa is magnificent. I would miss that view.
In all of this, I prefer the space in my soulmate’s eyes. I want him to look at me like the sun looks at Africa. I want that space to be filled with joy and candy when we meet someday.
Glossary
Stoep is a South African term for the veranda outside your doors enclosed by a mini extended roofing. Many houses where I come from have one in the front and back. Otherwise known as a porch or deck.
This is for MWC Space.
I thank you for taking the time to read my reflections.
