Mummy dumps a bucket of water over my head. I heard only her footsteps, my back toward the open verandah door, my face toward the sea. My freshly pressed hair shrinks, coils. I can taste the oil sheen as the water rushes down my face. But I had done it, with Grandma’s help. Just for today, I looked like Mummy.
This is the fourth installment of an online series highlighting work by Black authors published in The Common. To read The Common’s statement in support of the nationwide protests against anti-Black racism, white supremacy, and police brutality, click here.
I smell her—
she is in the bed sheets
conjuring aged summers
when popsicles stained
our mouths red,
and the sun colored
our noses black.
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