Coloured Monkey

The lady I had been staring at for so long that I feared for my eyes wore a red, shiny dress which fitted her curvy form perfectly; showing off her long, creamy legs as she sat with her legs crossed. She held a half-filled wine glass with slightly shaking hands—it’s dark-coloured content swirling in the transparent container as she laughed, throwing her head back and letting her hair fall in a golden cascade like an Atlantis waterfall down her bare back.

   A million thoughts churned in my head as I watched her. I thought of asking her to dance, but I shook the thought away. Some minutes before, a man with blonde hair had come to her side and had whispered something in her ears—probably asking her to save a dance. Surely, she would not even behold the shoes at my feet with that man still around.

   I also thought of walking up to her and saying she was beautiful but I thought of what her reaction would be. She would most likely look past me as if I were invisible and would pretend to hear nothing. Then, her friends would add salt to the injury and say that her admirer is a fine blend with the night. God, no!

   Just when I was thinking of another method of approach and I glanced up her face for inspiration, her startlingly sea-blue eyes met mine, and held—and lingered. Then, her red-hued lips curved upwards in a smile. At that very moment, no other person was in the room. Not the talkative white-skinned men at my table, or the mostly vinegar-faced friends she had around her.

   It was just me and her. Until someone said—

   “Oh! It’s a coloured Monkey”

 The remark was not directed to me as I had been at the same table with the speaker for a few hours, but I was stung nevertheless. I tore my gaze sharply away from her and followed the eyes of the speaker— (a loud-mouthed and obviously drunk white-skinned man, who sat at our table and whose name I did not know for I only knew one soul at the table—Bailey, my university roommate and the only white friend I had ).

   I saw then, that the drunk, loud-mouth was referring to a short newcomer—a black-skinned man wearing a black suit and who was coming towards our circle. The man’s eyes met mine and I perceived that with my presence at the table, he thought it was alright for him to sit as well. My turned-sour face conveyed the warning in my head. It was not alright. Not for him; for as he made to settle his buttocks on the spacious bench, one of the men in a dark suit (the one who had whispered something in my fair lady’s ear earlier) stopped him with a raised hand.

   “No coloureds on this table, monkey!”

I closed my eyes in a bid to stop myself from reeling as the familiar, yet unpleasant words made me feel slightly nauseated. I had thought I would not hear it again—those offensive words. And even if they were not referring to me, they dug deep like daggers into my heart.

The first time I heard the words ‘Coloured Monkey ’, I was six and being scrubbed hard in our small bathroom by my mother. I had just come home from school and had just fed an obnoxious white boy sand in a fight I won. 

   “You coloured Monkey...Get clean!” She had muttered, the thick iron sponge in her hands inflicting bloody sores on my skin as soon as I had peeled off my dirty uniform. Afterwards, I had numerous blisters all over my body from rigorous scrubbing. I did not understand then that my mother wanted to scrub off my colour. She wanted me, at that moment, to have white skin. So she had scrubbed me till I bled. 

   I started to realise my colour was not ideal the second time I heard ‘Coloured Monkey’. It was my first day in primary school, when I sat down next to a white boy on my desk labelled ‘Black’; my fingers grazing his slightly. I had watched as his pale face crumbled with disdain as he said the words, moving his fingers away as if the black hue on my skin could stain his. 

   The third time; the time I acquired a means of defence, I was on a bus beside my mother. We were sitting on one of the spaces reserved for whites. One of the white-skinned patrols came up to us and made to drag me away by the arm. 

   “You little coloured Monkey! What are you doing here?!” He thundered, his pale face turning fearfully red. 

My mother quickly held on to my other arm and pleaded loudly. 

   “He’s my son! I am his mother! Let him be!”

The man halted, looked to and fro my mother and I and sneered. 

   “So, you fooled around with a monkey, ma’am?” He said and released my arm with a rude shove. 

My mother had not replied the patrol man’s offensive words but gathered me in her arms and cried. Later, she told me as we got down the bus:

   “Tell them your mother is white. That is the only way they would leave you alone”

And I had heeded her words since then. I had been able to sit in white-reserved areas, drink from white-reserved taps and look from white-reserved windows with the help of a singular excuse: “My mother is white”

Even then, as the black newcomer at our table protested against the fact that I was sitting whereas he was not allowed to saying ;“But, that man is a coloured!”, I stood firm by my always-efficient maxim—

   “My mother is white”

White-skinned and drunk Mr Davis nodded, a wobbling finger pointing at me.

    “Oh yes, Peter’s Mama’s white. Your own Mama white? Your papa white? You coloured monkey! Get away!” He said, waving the man off. 

   I did not look at the black man as he finally left but turned and resumed feeding my eyes on the insanely attractive woman yards away. She was alone now, her gaze fixed on the sparse dance floor, her empty wine glass on the table beside her. 

   “Pretty, isn’t she?” A voice said near my ear. 

   “Extraordinarily” I affirmed before catching myself. I turned to the smug expression on my white-skinned friend Bailey’s face. He had been the one who had convinced me to come to the party with his other white friends. 

    “Go talk to her” He encouraged, before I could defend myself. 

    “She’s white, Bailey” I said. I had realised that even with my grown boldness hoarded over the years, I was not confident enough to face the lady. 

    “So what? You are partly white aren’t you?” Bailey asked, his eyebrows high up. I knew that Bailey was mainly friends with me in the beginning because I had told him at our first meeting that I have white ancestors. However, he learned with time to like me for who I was and not what I was. 

    “I’m not...” I made to protest but he was already making his way to the woman, holding my hand as he went. 

I was as still as stone when I finally stood in front of her. Bailey thankfully had to do the introductions. I heard my name—Peter Aitomu—but I heard no more from him, my ears only listening to the angelic voice of the goddess as she introduced herself. 

   “Nice to meet you, Mr Aitomu. I’m Sara Mackenzie” Her smile was perfect. 

Moments later, when Bailey had disappeared, and I was no longer stuttering with extreme nervousness, Miss Mackenzie and I strolled out to the balcony, talking about everything. I even told her I feared asking her to dance because of the blonde man who I thought was her boy-friend (I did not mention him stopping the coloured man from sitting with us). She laughed and said that ‘blondie’ was her sister’s fiancé. I sighed in relief at that. She had just commented on the freshness of the balcony air; different from how stuffy inside the house was when she said calmly:

    “You said earlier that your mother is white”

I was mute for some seconds. So, she had seen what happened! 

   “Yes, she was. My father worked for her family. When they found out she was pregnant, her family abandoned her. My father went missing during that period. I have never heard anything about him” My eyes were fixed on the brightly lit porch. I remembered how my grandmother—my mother’s mother had paid us a visit once and had told my mother that she suspected my grandfather had ‘taken care’ of him. I had not known what ‘taken care’ meant then. I glanced at the lady by my side. It was the first time I talked about my mother and father to anyone. It felt strange. 

  “Why do you say that?” Miss Mackenzie asked after a pause. “...that your mother’s white?”

   “Because white folks would never talk to me if I do not say that” I replied. 

   “I am talking to you now. And it’s not because your mother is white”

I was quiet. I could not tell if she was hurt that I insinuated she would hate me if she had not heard about my ancestry or she was pitying me; seeing me as another coloured boy who had been cheated by society and so needed a messiah amongst them. 

But then she said;

   “We are just the same, Mr Aitomu. We both feel the need to blend. To be accepted in a society unfair to people like us. So we hide the part of us not acceptable. Sometimes we become blinded to those who are not concerned about what status we hold”

    “How do you know that? How are we the same?” My eyes scammed her cream, pale-skinned body—very much different from mine. 

    “My mother was coloured. My father hid her in a secluded town till she gave birth. She died afterwards. I physically had no relations with my mother so it was easy to hide. Papa married another woman—a white woman to protect me” 

Her expression was pained. “Yeah, I’m a coloured Monkey. You should welcome me to the club” She gave a mirthless laugh. 

My eyes widened in shock as the pieces all fitted together now in my head. We truly were the same. I advocated the ‘whiteness’ in me and subdued the part of me that was coloured. Miss Mackenzie did the same. Only, her skin-colour made it much easier. Either way we used our blood ties to our advantage in our status-crazed society. 

   The nausea I felt from earlier, the painful solitude I basked in since childhood, the insecurity, feelings of inferiority—she surely had had a taste of all of it. 

   Wordlessly, I reached for her hand and squeezed. She looked up at me and gave her bright, perfect smile and I smiled as well.