Jackson

One

It was 2.AM I'd been waiting antsy in the crowded aircraft. I'd never flown before, never had the need to run away.

But my parents had been shot due to racial discrimination in South Africa. There was nothing left here for me and my cousin so we decided to venture for a new life, with my aunty in England, her mother.

It's the beginning of a new life.

Hopefully, England is more accepting of black people. Well, that's what my Aunty said.

"Yocelyn, it's going to be a new life!" I exclaim gripping her hands. Her nails were painted a glossy bright red, she had my mom's wedding ring on her left hand.

I was excited, I wasn't the type to avenge for my parents death. I'd get killed in the process. You see, in South Africa, black Africans aren't as accepted.

"I know my love. New identity. New school," She smiles back at me just as excited.

I was 15 going on 16. Yocelyn was 18 - just turned. Apparently I'd be put back a year in school, my aunt had chose near her home back in a town called Birmingham.

The seats squeaked as we tossed in attempts to catch up on missed sleep. The smiley attendants shoot welcoming vibes which made me excited and I felt welcomed.

England.

I was woke to Yocelyn jolting me awake.

I was too tired, my head was pounding and security checks were going to fast.
But reality hit me when I saw the radiant smile of my aunt who I hadn't seen since I was 10.

We're here.

"Hey my lovelies," she says pinching both our cheeks like she did when we were younger.

"Hey aunt Kayla."

We drive off in a packed car, there were no scratches, graffiti or dents. No ripped wheels or half distorted doors unlike the ones we were used to.

'Taxi' it read in bold black letters as a header on the vehicle and an asian man with a smile greeted us swaying his hands accordingly to the Bollywood beats he blasted in the car.

"So where did you guys go to on holiday?" He asked bobbing his head and glancing over his shoulder.

I look to my right where Yocelyn was clutching uneasily on to me.
Could we tell him? In South Africa we couldn't trust anyone in fear of our lives.

"Ahh! Got it, you probably went to Pakistan that's why your disappointed." His Pakistani accent shone through as he laughs at his own joke.

"Don't get me wrong, I mean I'm from there, but England is so much better. Pakistan is a corrupt country." The driver blabbed on, yet his words comforted me as he spoke good about England. I look out the window, where Yocelyn's gaze had been most of the ride.

There were people in suits, some in boots. Some in heels some in trainers. Some men dressed as woman, people of all diversities. Chinese, Indian, African, Polish, Mexicans you name it. Children's faces beamed lasers of positivity licking ice creams bobbing behind their parents who were busy calling or talking. There was no need for them to constantly stand by their child because this country felt safe.

There weren't security guards outside shops, people walked in freely without getting searched - even black people!

The car screeched to a halt outside a small white humbling house. It had a small wooden door with the metal digits '45' just under above what I think is a letter box. The wind swirled pushing past us along a instrument that chimed near the door.