Mildew creates a wrinkled skin over the half-eaten rice filled pan.

Authors Avatar

11th February 2003

English Coursework: Creative Writing

Anthony Seymour

Mildew creates a wrinkled skin over the half-eaten rice filled pan. A cracked glass of murky water magnifies the light protruding from the tangled blind. A vile aroma circulates the empty walls, and there slumped on the stained rug, lies a disillusioned and motionless man. A man in his mid-forties of African origin, yet no one had shown enough courtesy to ask him of his home life as he roamed the golden sands of the Ivory Coast.

The night was vanquished as the morning rays pierced the lingering darkness. Golly - as he had been aptly named by his unconcerned neighbours - stirred from his slump; gradually mustering enough strength to explore his still very foreign high-rise ‘family’ apartment. Except it seemed more appropriate for a man in his situation due to the one room sleeping arrangement and broom cupboard converted kitchen.

What a contrast the balcony view showed. The concrete jungle which he had been promised was the land of opportunity, yet the men who had smuggled him away from his wife and two children stressed he would certainly land on his feet and afford to bring his family over for a better life within a year of his arrival. However the wonderful British regime refused to fund his escapade and so five years on he found himself with no word from his family, no work and barely enough to pay for his dreary existence. Trapped, higher than he had ever ventured, and no one battered an eyelid. The money he had initially been given had turned from a thick wad of crisp notes to a few jangling silver pieces, exploitation was the main problem. He spoke the language partially and Liverpudlian so he had picked up was a whole other language from anything barely resembling English.

Join now!

He despised the endless comments directed his way. So many had complained about the stench from his living quarters, and what kind of a tag was ‘Golly’. In his homeland he had been called Ikmah, but it was just an annoyance and inconvenience to enforce his name on the idle teenagers who never let up with their increasing ignorance of his culture and pressing racist comments.

It was not a good time to be black in Liverpool. Others of his ‘kind’ had segregated, since they wanted as much as Ikmah to be accepted and not to be stereotyped ...

This is a preview of the whole essay