MULATTO (Iyila) (Editing)

chapter eight ~ Dedicated to Hamed

A NEW ENEMY

Holding the gown with one hand, she angrily brushed off the tears on her face with the unoccupied hand before she started moving towards the exit. She received some amazed stares from the other slaves but refused to bother due to her angry disposition.

So carefully hiding her discomfort and unwillingness to make any eye contact with either of them, she rushed for the handle on the door. Quickly, she opened it, hastily slamming it behind her.

She let out a frustrated groan when her head registered the warmth of a hot liquid on her already swelling cheek. Like her earlier gesture she angrily brushed it off and concentrated on what she had to do. Her neck revolved from left to right as she confusedly contemplated which way to go. After some seconds of an intense mental review, she finally decided on going to the right since she and Deila came in through the left.

Though she knew nothing about the house, asking for directions was an idea she considered. However, that idea was quickly aborted when she noticed the murderous facade and stares from the passersby. She looked around to see if she could spot Deila. Unfortunately, she didn't. Rather, she spotted a black slave boy rushing in her direction. "Good evening," she warmly greeted him. Just like the others, he ignored her and moved on. She frowned, "you could have at least replied to my greetings," she angrily murmured.

He halted and turned, an amusing smirk displaying on his oval face. She frowned when she noticed it. "Good evening?" he asked in a chuckle as he slowly walked to her.

She noticed his voice was enriched with a thick masculine flavour and his accent was clearly African. "Yes good evening, or don't you understand English?"

"Of course I do, but its funny," he said scanning her being.

"What's funny?" she irritably asked, "the fact that I greeted you?"

"Yes" he promptly replied still staring at her, "I don't understand," was her reply.

With an amused smile he leaned closer, "You just said good evening. It is funny because the life of a slave is never good. But I cannot blame you. After all you look like them, talk like them, so why should you not behave like them," he calmly replied. "We should as well shake hands, or pat our backs, don't you think so miss?" he added with a grin.

All she could do was stare at him. She hadn't realized how close they were until that moment. So she shifted back slightly. Her gaze never left his face. No wonder the other slaves had intentionally ignored her, all because she wanted to be a little civil.

Yes, a slaves life was never a manageable plight, but there was no harm in being polite. Or was there? She wouldn't have greeted any of them if she had known they had a phobia for etiquette. But she couldn't blame him for hating her because she looked like a white or spoke like one. After all, her own family showed her nothing but hate. Her mother took it as a daily responsibility to remind her of how much pain her father had caused her.

No, she didn't hate him for having the same ideology, but he had no right to criticize her the way he just did. He had no right to mock her because he didn't know anything about her.

And God saved him that he was masculine and not a girl, or else she would have slapped him. She held her fist back. Though his voice was calm when he spoke she observed the mockery, hate, and anger in it. Also his eyes helped portray it.

She swallowed hard and offered her most fake smile that, sadly, usually turned into a stupid grin. "I apologize for greeting you, I wouldn't have if I knew you and everyone here is allergic to manners. But I am not sorry that I am me," she bravely sputtered,