Why don’t you love me? Why don’t you like me anymore? Please can you stop saying it’s a matter of preference? What preference are you talking about? I know it’s because I’m Black. Yet don’t you see you’re also Black? Alright, lighter, the better. But it seems not to be just a question of skin's color. I know I’m a way too fem for you. But tell me baby – can I call you baby again? – where do you put the curser? From where do you think I’m not light enough to be your preference? From where do you think I’m too fem to be your guy? And the other one, is he not fem too?
Oh baby, all those years I’ve spent with you… and today you leave me to get married with him. I knew he was your boyfriend, your White boyfriend. Actually, he’s not that White. He’s Latino. I mean, if you look back to his roots, you will surely find some Blackness. They must have done everything, in his family, to cancel all that color.
Do you remember when you were used to come to my place? All those cold nights, in the winter, when your White boyfriend kicked you out of his apartment, saying you don’t want to work. You told me he was used to say Black people are lazy. That you are lazy. You told me, and I do believe you, how tough it was for you to find a job. You had a very good education. You are a smart guy, I know. You are good at computer. You are an engineer. You did many internships. In Banks. In Insurances. In big compagnies. You speak many languages. For sure, you were good at your job, likewise at your personal relationships – because people think having a job is just a matter of being good at their field of education, no: being able to work together with others, diverse backgrounds also matter. You told me; you did that all. You were sure at the end of the internship; they would have hired you. But in the end, when there was a vacancy, they always preferred to hire a White person. You told me all that, in the cold of the winters when your partner kicked you out of his apartment. And I believed you. I believed you because I know precisely what you’re meaning. I know how it does feel to be put aside. We share that indescribable feeling, you and me.
Yep, my place isn’t as big as the place of your White man. But you know the value of the warmth that you could find in my arms, in my tiny single place bed. I can still feel your tears on my arms, my skinny shoulders. We cried together. We shared our desperate feelings, because of that hideous thing. Actually, it’s impossible to tell it. People will always say we are exaggerating.
Hey, look at me, are you serious when you say you don’t want to see me anymore? Look at me in eyes please! Tell me, are you really serious? All what I had, the little I had, I shared it with you. I took you in my business. You became my administrative assistant. You take the requests, I write the texts, and you send the bills for us to get paid. Oh, I’m Just a little poor writer. Just a little poor storyteller. But like you, I had a very good education. Like you, I did university. Like you, I did lots of internships and never have I been hired. Unlike you, I refused to mention that hideous word. I’ve always refused to explain everything with that. Because I always thought that by only mentioning that hideous thing, I would have stopped myself from achieving anything. Yet, not mentioning something doesn’t mean you don’t see it in your mind.
One night, in those cold nights, always in the winter, you asked me how come I became an author. It wasn’t the first time someone asked me that question. Many journalists are used to do so. My answer has been always the same: I became writer by passion. I became writer because I love words since my early childhood, because I like to tell stories, blablabla… And also, because I wanted to tell things that people don’t want to see, those things that are so big before our eyes, so big that we can’t see them, we can’t even realize they exist.
I became a writer by passion. That’s a lie. You know the right answer. You know it because I told you the truth. I remember your dark gaze on me, in that cold night. I told you all those answers were a commonplace. The truth is that I become a writer mostly because I had to cope with that hideous thing we both know. Thank God, I’m talented and good at it. And by doing it, I liked it and realized it’s my vocation. What if I hadn’t had any other talent? You know more than anyone that my talent grew to passion and from passion to vocation.
Tell me, where does your White Latino boyfriend work? What's his education? He isn’t better than you, neither than me, oh no! But he holds a good position in that organization which fight against that hideous thing we both know. He uses you as his guinea pig and kicks out during the winter. But now, you are leaving me to get married to him. You say I’m not your type. I’m too black for you. I’m too fem for you. I’m an artist, no stability, vulnerability, uncertainty. Oh, my dear brother, my dear lover. Oh, my brover! Do you think is right what you’re doing to me? You’ve blocked me everywhere. You say you want to be discreet. Discretion. You will get married to your more masculine White man, and you people are going to be discreet. You will adoupt a very light skin kid, and you will be discreet. Because marriage isn’t like civil union. You are going to be married and have all the benefits of the White male dominant. He, your White hairless blond friend is going to have all the benefits of White dominant cis men. But you, oh you my lovely brover, make no mistake, you won’t get the same benefits. Because even though you got light skin, even though you are very masculine, you are still Black. And remember, because of that, they are still going to be put aside when you’re going to look for a job. And that’s a shame! Don’t you think?
credits pictures: Nathanael Koffi.