Une femme complice
by Landa wo
“We resemble the wounds of our past.”
Barambo[1]
Karima had had a difficult night. The little fellow was cutting his teeth and Calambinga was working nights. Calambinga brought some warm croissants and suggested minding the child at home. He was sleeping so peacefully that he didn’t dare wake him up. Calambinga prepared the breakfast while Karima got ready. Karima was relieved to have her child’s father in her life. He did not match the stereotypes associated with the black men of Europe who are seen as irresponsible. He looked after his son.
She dashed to the shop. The image was circulating in a loop on the social networks. It was an image of a black child with a green hooded top with the inscription: “the coolest monkey in the jungle.” The white child also wore the same hooded top with the inscription of an “expert in survival”. Karima smiled at the customers. She was doing her work but her head was full of questions clashing together. The chain of bullshit seemed long, no one had noticed anything: the photographer, artistic director, stylist, marketing, sales, and of course the parents. Karima said a prayer for the child’s mother. She thought of resigning on principle. She called Calambinga who assured her of his support. She would find another job and he would work extra hours. He would support her. She thought again of the difficulty for Blacks in France and Europe for finding a job other than as a security guard or footballer. She trembled. One controversy driving out another. In a few weeks no one will be talking about it. She decided to keep her job so as not to have financial difficulties at month ends. She felt dirty and complicit. Her mother used to say that in a storm men break and women bend. Tomorrow is another day. At the end of her work, still deep in her thoughts, she went back up Gaston de Caillavet street then took a right onto Quai de Grenelle. A car struck her at the corner of rue du Théâtre. She died instantly. The last image that whizzed across her mind was that of the black child in his hoodie. Curtain. Rideau.
[1] Prince of minerals, first of the dead buried in the city of the wind (Angola/Cabinda)
Landa wo is a writer from Angola, Cabinda and France. A prior Metro Eireann award winner, his work has appeared in Columbia Journal, Colorado Review, The Common, Cyphers, Fiction International, Grain Magazine, Michigan Quarterly Review, Tule Review, Nashville Review, Raleigh Review, and other journals and anthologies. Politically engaged and his works deal with prominent issues of social justice, discrimination, and cultural strife. He can be found on Twitter @wo_landa.