Gateway to the Sahara

They were the only non-white family in the village. Although they all had British passports, they were foreigners in their own country. 25% of their genetics was from West Africa which meant, in an isolated country area where everyone else was pasty white, they stood out.

The locals could never remember his name. “N***r”, “s***o” and “j****e b***y” became familiar terms of endearment. The adults would never use the first two if they thought he could hear them, but he heard them. The children weren’t so careful.

He was desperate to play so he lived with it. And he played hard which meant that he gained some sort of respect. He was reasonably good at football and cricket which meant that they eventually wanted him on their side, he got picked ahead of the “fat” kid. His brother didn’t like sports, so he had a harder time.

At his school, which had around 600 children, there were only two others who “stood out”. One was in his class, he had darker skin and got most of the attention. Everyone called him “Sam”, even the teachers. Maybe they forgot his real name.

Strangely, he grew to like the term “j****e b***y”. He had grown up 100 miles south of the Sahara. The ground was mainly a thin sand coloured dust layered over hard sandy coloured ground with an occasional bush or tree. There was a small tributary of the Niger nearby which meant that every now and again the water table would be close enough to the surface to allow a few trees to grow. When the wind blew, and it did in the Harmattan season, the dust rose in the dry wind and created a haze that diffused the light and desiccated your skin. Not really like a jungle. And to be likened to a cute rabbit, well, what is bad about that?

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