"You've got this, Abad"

"You've got this, Abad. "

I was very young at my first memory, probably around four or five. My Mummy had a big belly and when I asked her why, she told me that a baby grows inside her stomach.

"Like a flowa?"

"Like a flower."

It was a nice day. The sun shined and Mummy decided, that it would be a great idea to spent her free afternoon with her teenage son and her toddler.

She brushed Rahim's hair with her hand. "You two will be great big brothers, I feel it."

Rahim didn't said anything. Maybe it was confidence, after all, he was already a big brother. Maybe he just didn't listened, after all, he was fourteen.

But I wasn't a big brother nor fourteen so I asked: "But what if I awen't, mummy?"

She just pated my curly hair, her warm brown eyes looked at me with such love I couldn't process. "You've got this, Abad."

"You've got this, Abad", Baba said with tears in his own eyes. I never saw Baba cry before.

It wasn't a nice day and I thought no nice day would follow. My clothes were soaked with water, my face red from crying.

My Mummy died.

She told me that childbirth can be dangerous but when we pray to Snivali and eat our vegetables, she will be fine.

Baba said that's nonsense. Allah would protect her better.

I prayed to all of them. Sinivali, Chandra, the Matrikas, Allah.

After all, Dasi's birth was already dangerous for her, another birth in the span of two years? Not a good idea.

But Mummy's gods couldn't protect her. Nor could Baba's god. I cried even more. Why couldn't they? Why couldn't they.

I went to Rahim. Partly, because I wanted to ask him if his god(s) also let Mummy die. Partly, because I looked for comfort from my older brother.

"Rahim", I said and I wanted to say a million different things in this situation, but I said:" I miss Mummy."

Rahim's eyes were as red as mine. He took a cigarette out of his pocket and lightened it. Mummy never allowed him to smoke.

"Me too, Abad. Me too. But you have to be strong", he said. He took a deep breath. "For Dasi. For Faouzi.For Baba."

He smoked again. "You've got this, Abad."

"You've got this, Abad", Baba said on my first day of working in the mines. I was twelve.

I was angry. I couldn't be at all. It was normal. It was terrifying. There was no sunlight, no air to breath. Nobody could recognize my darker skin.

The mines were not safe.

"You've got this, Anthony", said Jesse as I left him behind in the mining accident.

"You've got this, Abad", said Rahim as we stepped on the ship. "The Titanic is the fastest and safest ship of all time."

My older brother was terribly wrong

"You've got this, Abad", I said, as I saw the safety boat with Dasi drive away, saving her and leaving me behind on a sinking ship.

"You've got this, Abad", I said while crying.

The sun shined, just some clouds, but just like when my Mummy died, I thought there would be no good day anymore.

Mummy? Dead.

Baba? Dead.

Rahim? Dead?

London, my home, is on the other side of the Atlantic. The rest of my family doesn't like me, they wouldn't let my letters to Faouzi, my younger brother.

Dasi?

I sat on the beach of New York. Nobody else was there.

And I didn't knew what happened to Dasi. Maybe she's dead. Maybe she's in the US, maybe she's in England.

Maybe God knows. But he wouldn't help me, the same way he wouldn't help me Mummy. The same way he let the ship sink and Baba and Rahim die.

"I HATE YOU! ", I screamed. Mummy forbid me to scream, Baba said brown boys can't and Rahim said, it's a good idea if I wanted to get smacked. But the same way Rahim smoked when Mummy died, nobody could prevent me from screaming. Nobody was there. "I HATE YOU! WHOEVER YOU ARE. GODS, GOD, YOU DIDN'T DO ANYTHING! WHY? WHY? Why?"

More tears came out of me. I hugged myself. After all, there was nobody to do it now for me.

"You've got this, Abad."

I took a deep breath. Abad was my family's name. They were the only one to call me that way. My official name, Anthony, was used for the brits.

There was no family to call me anymore. "You've got, Anthony."

"You've got this, Anthony", I said, right before the place Charlotte told me to meet.

It was no date. I don't date anyone, after all, it's the sixties and I was nearly eighty.

But this was no date. We just went to a dance. Friends do that too.

It wasn't just one dance. And not two. Or three.

We started going regularly. And not just dancing. Eating at dinners, going to parks, anything. Even if we had to meet at colored dinners and colored parks and colored everything.

Officially, there was no segregation. The law has changed. The people haven't.

Charlotte was different then most white people, especially white girls. She looked me in the eyes, hold my hands (just while dancing, of course) and spoke with me friendly.

And it wasn't her fault. She didn't do something specific, she didn't do anything at all. But I fell in love. With her.

And that was impossible.

I packed my things and left. The one town, that felt like home for a long time. Where my boss was friendly, where the lakes where cold. (the one where the girl lived I loved.)

"You've got this, Anthony", I said, even when I wanted to say 'you've got this, Abad.'

("You've got this, Anthony", I said, crying. Again.

The sun shined. No clouds above. But it didn't mattered. It didn't made me happier. Again, I was convinced, that no good day would follow.

I wish I could've stop thinking that.

Charlotte died. I saw it in the newspaper. She was so young, seventeen, a day before eighteen. Just like me.

I hugged a tree. It was better than nothing. Other kids could run to their mothers for comfort, but mine was long gone. Same goes for my father. My older brother. Me.

"You've got this, Abad", I told myself this illusion, this lie. I can't do this anymore, loosing everything. Everyone.

I'm not Abad anymore. He died on the Titanic, like the rest of my family. But I wanted to believe this illusion, this lie. After all, it would be the thing Mummy, Baba, Rahim, would say.

"You've got this, Abad).