Nigga Nigga

The sultry 90s. Everyone wants to do a country, a town or a village.  I decided to "do" Paris. Cheapest flight through Martinique. I am petite. My hair, like now, is cut down to my skull. I am growing like a beautiful rose bush, thorns, flowers and all. I feel good about myself. Life could not be better. I have a good job; I am sent regularly overseas to work. I exercise a lot. I feel that I am "arriving" slowly but surely. I could do with a less airy fairy vision of the world, I am told, but that's Ok. I am me and I am happy with that self. I am doing things that I really like and being paid for it to boot. The world indeed is my oyster.

I purchase my designer spring wear ready for the most fashionable city on earth: my little boots, my fancy sweaters (A work colleague wished to lend me one of his but it was far too big), my thick trousers; friends rummage through town with me to find the right gear. I am a friolenta; I get cold very quickly. The only thing I do not have are a pair of gloves. It's just not possible to buy gloves here, at least not then. I am anxious to see the fashion gardens; I am dying to see Notre Dame. Is it really as beautiful as they say? Most of all - I want to see the original art of some of the French and other European Masters and I want to eat some great French food.

I have an image of Paris that is almost picture perfect. Nice spring weather. Great food. Wonderfully intellectually stimulating conversations. Good wine, not plonc. I am imagining walking down the Rue Montmatre, the Harlem of Paris, where all the famous writers and artists and general Bohemian types like what I picture myself as in my dreams lived. 

Paris. Paris. Paris and names and icons pop out of my head like champagne from a bottle - like a deluge. Josephine Baker, Richard Wright, James Baldwin, Charlie Parker and the lot, fleeing from post World War II  America - to freedom of a kind. George Lamming from Barbados  attended the first international congress for black writers and artists in Paris. I am excited. I still want to be a writer when I grow up. So Gaie Paris for me represents a coming of age - part of the litmus test of growth and change of seasons.

Then I step off the plane from Martinique. I had read all night, all nine hours. I was reading "At the Bottom of the River" by Jamaica Kincaid. It was a tiny novel and I finished it by the time the flight ended. One mission accomplished. Before I started to read “At the Bottom…” I happened to sit next to a gentleman going somewhere. He loved Martinique and black people he said. I was happy to listen to his banter about this and that,  about the city and country to which I was travelling.

I couldn't help wondering though, why that woman in the seat to the right of me in the other aisle is glaring at me with not a trace of warmth on her face. She scowled. What was that about I asked myself? The old gentleman chatted merrily on and I listened until he went off to sleep. As I started to read, the woman to my right, took out her book. She kept reading and looking across at me. When all the lights had been put out and we should have by now been both sleeping, we were both still reading. The woman kept staring at me in that intimidating way.

Now realizing that this was a duel, I refused to close my book, as she refused to close hers, all the time sneaking glances at me as I was at her. Finally, someone capitulated. It was not me. 

I stepped off the plane. The nice gentleman made sure that I got to the correct baggage claim area. Right next to me with her scowl was the lady from the plane, her strange awkward stare still extremely discomfiting and unfriendly. I remember that the gentleman had told me a bit about racism. I couldn't help but wonder if the woman was sending me the message that she did not want me there in what might have been her country. But I didn't want to speculate and left it at that.  

I thanked the kind old gentleman for his help and he went on his way. My friends were there patiently waiting and we set off for some place in the heart of the city. I was tired of course and so like all very weary travellers I was unable to sleep and then when I did, I slept like the proverbial log. Next day, I went out alone for an early morning walk, to feel the city, its air and life.

I stepped on to the pavement in the direction of the Eiffel Tower which I could see just up ahead. Wow! What a joy to be in Paris. I can't believe I am actually here. God is certainly good and great. I continued my walk slowly and purposefully, enjoying the moment. From out of nowhere, I heard a voice. It said, "Negre, Negre."  "Nigga, Nigga."