Wishing you a badbye

"I WISH YOU WERE DEAD!"

"YEAH, MAN! FUCK YOU TOO!"

Those were the last words exchanged between us. On a bright sunny morning. I was sitting on my porch, worried, stressed, and irritated by the system I live with. And he was just passing by, to the mart. To the mart, in front of which, someone, just like us, was horizontally lynched by the police.

I too shop from that mart. I too was chased by the police several times, in this very disappointed neighborhood. One does not have to do much to be chased by them. Apparently, one does not have to do much to be lynched as well. One just needs to write a check when one does not know how much is there in one's bank account. It could have been me.

He, my friend, did not owe me much. Only 40 bucks. That's all it took to grant him a death wish from me. And it was only a bill of 29.35 that granted him the death by lynching, by those, who were supposed to protect the neighborhood.

A few bucks that all it takes. As if from time immemorial, the color palate we have, worth only a few bucks. Only a few bucks are the price of our lives. It is mostly cheaper than fancy women's lingerie. Million years of Evolution, to survive in some of the world's most extreme climates worth less than one song lap dance.

My neighborhood went silent. The only noise that is coming from, is the cacophony of news reports. Some, are furious about this lynching. Some are trying to justify it. Some are performing their social duty vehemently, by cussing us. We have plundered, looted, we are the wildlings in this super safe haven. "We" is what jeopardizing the security of this wonderful haven.

But I can hear the almost silent weeping of my friend's fragile mother. The lady who shared her grains of food with me, when I was hungry. The lady, sheltered me looked after me when my dad went missing. Strangely, it's her lullaby, that I remember, more than my mom's. Now, in the age of crumbling, she only could weep in silence. While the news repeats her son's murder over and over again.

I push myself out of the porch and through her front door. Her house, if it can be called a house, smells like stale old clothes, mothballs, a pitcher of sour milk, and a cheap stick of incense that tells many forgotten stories. The crickety stairs I ran up and down a gazillion times and the slightly slanted dining table that is my holy land of thanksgiving have not changed a bit. There is the same shadowy soothing darkness we all hid in.

There she is! Mama! Like my friend, I started calling her that. Sunlight cannot touch her through the heavy cardboards pasted on her broken windows. An anachronic t.v lights her creased face. Her teardrops reflect the changing lights of the t.v, while they make their way exploring through her creases, to her chin to dry. I heard she breastfed me. She can't produce many tears now.

I kneel beside her. That is my place. I love to kneel beside her, in front of her. Mama is my goddess. Mama gave me life. Mama gave me many second chances. As I touch her hand, she faintly smiles at me. Only my Mama's face can look so beautiful in the juxtapose of tears and smile. She does not break down, she does not know to break down. She is our unbreakable mama.

Instead, her hand vibrates inside her blouse and pulls out a small bundle of one dollar bills, creased and old like her face. Past few weeks I have not met her. Last time I saw her, was on the day, I came to loan 40 bucks to her son. She clung onto that memory. Now she silently passes the roll of crease dollar bills to my hand meekly. These bills came from her breasts. Once they fed me, sheltered me. And now they want to rid my brothers' debt.

I know my mama is not mad at me. She never asked to return the favors I owe her. I know she is handing me the dollars because even upon her son's death, my crisis comes first. She knows her son is dead and she cannot do anything about it. But she can rid her son's departed soul of the debt to his brother. She hugs me tight as I receive the dollar roll. She hugs me as she used to hug me when I was little. Except her other breast is empty now.

From Mama's hug, I can hear the neighborhood now gathering in front of her house. I can hear their angry, despaired roar. Do they protest her son's death? Mr. Fletcher, does he protest the death of the man who stole and sold his bike? Has Shay forgotten the beating my friend gave him? They have a bigger concern now. Killing one of us means killing all of us. This unity does not come from within. It comes from without. We all know killing us is a privilege for others. They can and they can walk away killing any of us. We know tomorrow we will fight each other for a couple of dollars. We will steal each other's shit and beat the crap out of each other. Yet we know just tomorrow, another of us will be lynched.

We the cheap people cling by those marginal margins. Those who have can wash their hands of the margin. But we can't. We survive by Mama's love. In this land of plenty, our Mama's touch is our worth. Otherwise, we have no monetary value. We have to pay our bills, which are higher than our total prices combined. We have to feed our children; their food is more expensive than them. Thus, I had to wish my friend's death for 40 bucks. Now I got his rusty old, helpless mother's tears for free. And now, I owe him his life.