ZARA's P.O.V
I'd rather risk getting caught smoking in the bathroom than be anywhere near cigarette smoke. Something about it rubs me wrong, maybe it's because it's not my kind of rebellion. But standing up to comments that are meant to shrink me or any other darkskinned black woman? Now that's a risk worth taking. I barely hesitated leaving that place—it doesn't value me.
I mean, I'd rather be broke and have my dignity intact than stay in a place that disrespects me just for the sake of a promotion. It's not even a question.
Walking out there was like a weight lifting off my chest. The kind of weight that makes you forget what breathing feels like until it's gone. That whole time, I thought maybe I was tired and burned out. But nah, that place was draining me, and I didn't even notice. Now I keep wondering, what else was Mr Jenkins really thinking when he looked at me said I wasn't "suited" for the beauty industry? How many of us has he silently written off like that? There's been so many projects I wasn't a part of, that featured models. I fail to not stop wondering how he be littled some of the darkskinned black women that could've been there.
There's a lot of things I could waste energy hating, but Mr Jenkins? He's gonna stay on my hit list for a while. He deserves to be the one packing up his desk, not me. But for now, I'm done with that, done with him, but I'm not sure if I'm done with his sorry ass opinions.
Anyway,
The moment I stepped into my apartment, though? Was as if the world slowed down. You know that feeling when you finally find your calm after a storm? Yeah that.
I was greeted by the smell of Sandalwood from my essential oils—sweet, earthy and warm. It's been burning since this morning and it fills the space in a way that's almost medicinal—healing I'd say. Every time, without fail, it soothes me.
The olive green and stone grey painted walls add to the whole mood of the place; it grounds everything. A soft beam of light filters through the blinds on the windows and paints a warm glow over the edges of the room.
My eyes land on my green babies—my indoor cannabis strains growing in different spots around the place. Some Jamaican Paridise is living it up on the bookshelves, chilling under a glow of grow lights I set up. Rasta berry's taking up the space in the kitchen’s grow tent where there's proper ventilation. Then there's my favourite, Pineapple Express doing it's thing in a mini grow house sitting in one of the kitchen cabinets.
Sometimes when I'm high, they all seem to dance a little to Erykah Badu's music playing softly by the surround sound speaker—24/7. Yeah, my dealer is like Heisenberg with the cannabis. He's so good, he taught me how to grow it myself.
The decor? It's me in every way—earthy tones, brown vases scattered here and there, and African and Rastafarian art hanging on the walls. I picked every piece myself, and each one takes me back to my roots—it makes feel something that's real. Like home, you know?
And don't even get me started on the three-seater balsam green couch. It's the my sanctuary. Ava's curled up on the other end, and honestly, even though we haven't said much yet, I know she gets it. This space, this peace—it's everything
"Then you quit your job too?" Ava asks, cross-legged with a wine glass held delicately in her hand.
"Yeah," I reply, tying a hemp thread on a joint around one of my locs, not bothering to meet her gaze.
Ava's glass clinks softly as she takes a sip. "Damn, girl, you got some thick skin to win," her voice drips with her usual charm. "So what now?"
I shrug as I pull the joint tighter around the strand. "I don't think I'm going back to the 9-to-5. It's time I do my own thing"
