Basquiat.

chapter two.

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Masika

I stood from my seat to collect pastels and blending brushes from the front of the class.

I decided on drawing a natural unenhanced black woman, to resemble my mother.

She had warm chocolate skin, a gravity defying afro, and full lips.

Something that was rarely seen as a "masterpiece" in society.

I sat down in my paint covered apron and became lost in my art.

Once she was fully brown, I began to think of my mother.

During my childhood, I hated my dark skin and associated it with the color of dirt. She would always tell me:

"The blacker na berry the sweeta' the juice my child, abi?"
(The blacker the berry the sweeter juice my child, isn't it?")

I also remembered coming to this awful country, and being called an "African booty scratcher," by black children.

They had no idea who their ancestors were.

Tears formed on my paper as I continued to blend the pastels together and feel every last ounce of pain within my heart kill me softly.

"It looks like you could use one of these, love."

I looked up to see Mr. Alsina towering over me again with comforting eyes.

"Thank you, sir." I said while grabbing a tissue from box he held out in front of me.

"What's the matta'?" He said with now furrowed eyebrows.

I grinned at the sincerity in his voice, "My mum, I miss her."

"Whea' she at? Out of state?"

"She died when I was a small child." I said through sniffles.

"Damn..." He trailed.
"I ain't mean ta'... I'm sorry about your loss."

"It's fine." I grinned.

"You know they say, art reflects an artists' inna' most thoughts, right?"

"Yes, I'm aware with the saying." I chuckled.

"I'm looking at what you drew and I can tell there's a whole story waiting ta' be told just by glancing at it."
"You put ya' foot into dat' bad boy right thea"

"Thank you, Mr. Alsina."

"When I'm going through some shit, I do the one thing that no one can deprive me of, my ability to draw what I feel."
"Shit is hella' therapeutic if ya' ask me."
"Otherwise you could get butt ass naked and throw paint on ya self, if that don't work out."

I giggled at his attempt to make me feel better.
"I really needed that laugh, thank you."

He sat down in one of the paint covered chairs next to me and tugged on one of his long black curls and twisted it.
"So whea' ya from?"

"Nigeria."

"The motha' land, huh? Das' dope."
"I always wanted to go thea' and paint."

"Oh really?"

"Hell yea, its a good thing ta' see whea' it all started, ya know?"

"Mhm." I nodded amazed at his response.

"You got got some gorgeous skin by tha' way, and I don't mean ta' sound like a creep or nothin." He said in his thick accent.

"No you're fine, it's the sweetest thing I've heard in a long time."

"I find it hard to be'lee dat, you're beautiful."

I blushed at how sweet he was being toward me, it felt amazing.

"Thanks."

"Well I'a let you get back to it, I didn't mean to intrude on tha' flow you had goin."

He was about to return to his desk until he stopped in his tracks and turned around.

"I'm still gon' see you afta' school, right?"

"My fath-"

"I'a let him know your with me."

And with that he turned around and sat in his desk. Only to give me a flirtatious wink in the process.

God.

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*Masika's drawing in the MM
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Xoxo,

•Trvps0ul_