Shades of Blue

Sadness.

Memories

I stood on the right side of the railway tracks overlooking the sea of scrappy, aluminium roofs. The city behind me, once a rural town, was now a business hub, taken over by a storm named urbanisation. 

I look down at the piece of paper I was clutching, where I had jotted down instructions on how to get here. Taking a deep breath, I tuck the paper into my jean pocket and walk down the narrow, dusty road leading to the slums.

Everything was exactly how I remember, that's saying a lot 'cause I don't remember much. Dirty, crowded, noisy. The slums are a harsh place. No proper running water, no electricity.... People here lived in poverty, barely any money or food to keep them alive. Opportunities were scarce, survival was tough, yet barely anyone left the slums. They were forced to stay and accept fate, sealed with poverty.

People stared as I walked through the narrow, winding paths between the haphazard constructions. It was unusual, but not rare to see people wearing denim jackets walking through the slums. Yet the contrast was almost comical. I could feel eyes boring into my back, but I knew they stared out of curiosity, or maybe recognition, and presented no real threat. They would easily dismiss me as another lost tourist or a journalist working on an article about life down here. Either would get them nowhere; tourists can't help them all, and those articles go unnoticed by authorities.

Children ran down the path, rolling tires, completely ignoring me. But something in the sound of their laughter made me stop in my tracks and stare at them. 

That used to be me. Young and carefree. Finding joy in the smallest things. Playing hopscotch next to the train tracks. Racing my friends through the confined pathways. Dancing in the rain and jumping in puddles of mud. No lack of food or water could take away the joys of my childhood.

A smile spread on my face at the flash flood of memories. Those were simpler days. Days where I didn't wake up to an empty apartment. Days where I wasn't forced to fake a smile. Days when art didn't feel like work. I blinked out of my daze, not wanting to to spiral down that rabbit hole. But the slums were a maze of twists and turns. Every corner brought on a fresh wave of nostalgia. But I kept going. Maybe it was the familiarity of the rough mud walls underneath my fingertips that gave my feet a mind of its own, or maybe it was the sound of voices speaking a language I'd long forgotten that made my heart clench.

 It wasn't until I heard the soft hum of reggae music playing on a beat up, battery-powered radio, the music floating through a window, that I felt myself drowning under the weight of my memories. 

Gone were the days my friends and I would dance dance our hearts out to the rhythm of street musicians. Gone were the nights everyone would come out to sing and dance, drumming on upturned buckets, all thoughts of hunger and poverty lost for a moment.

It was back then I had discovered my passion for music. My friends and I even formed a group and performed on the streets at night, secretly of course. But our families never asked where we found the meagre coins we'd come back home with. 

Then videos went viral and next thing I know I'm catapulted to the music industry and all its luxuries. It was a dream come true but New York never felt like home, my team never felt like family.... I still loved singing but instead of happiness, it now gave me exhaustion.

I round another corner. Lost in my thoughts. Drowning. Wave upon wave. Each one hitting me harder than the previous. It made me realise truly how much I've missed this place. I was grateful for my career and fame and money. They were luxuries that people like me never got a chance to experience. But poverty or no poverty, this will always be my home. 

Contrary to popular belief, the slums don't make you pitiful, instead it makes you appreciative of the small things in life. Things that ordinary, middle-class people with city lives would never notice or appreciate.

 I was so lost in thought, I almost missed it. The one,large tree with overgrown grass surrounding it. I recall it was too big to cut down so people had let it be. I don't remember much but I remember I used to come out here after coming back home from performing in the streets at night. 

I walk around the tree until I see the low branch; big enough to allow two people to sit comfortably. I run my hand along the the weathered branch, and then I see it. My lips turn up in a smile as I trace the two initials carved deeply into the branch. 

Fist time I came here was when Ma died. It was then I met her. 

Light brown skin and inky black hair cascading down her shoulders. The stark contrast between her two eye colours had left me baffled. One bright blue like the ocean, calling me to dive deep and explore its mysteries, and the other a sparkling green, like fresh grass in the fields on a spring morning. They'd twinkled whenever she laughed or smiled, filled with concentration when she drew on scrap pieces of paper. Those drawing were works of art. Like the one's you'd see in museums. Only better. 

Those unforgettable eyes had persisted in my dreams for so long, for so long that they brought me back here.

"Myles?¿Eres tu?" 

I froze, hand still outstretched. That voice. So familiar. So soft it should belong to an angel. A siren's call to my heart. It couldn't be. No. It's been too long. It can't possibly be her. She wouldn't recognise me anymore.

But it was. It was Tehja.

I turn slowly, until my eyes meet a piercing pair of mismatched eyes. I felt the the air catch in my lungs. Her lips curve in a delicate smile, but her eyes held a certain sadness. Confused, I look down to see her hand placed on the shoulder of a little girl. She has the same mismatched eyes as Tehja. Seeing her was like a punch to the gut. I felt my body go numb.

 I was right.

It has been too long.