NYU Black Renaissance Noire Spring/Summer 2013 | Page 8

The Shape of a
Full Circle

Well, son, I’ll tell you:
Life for me ain’t been no crystal stair.
—Langston Hughes, Mother to Son

1

Dimié Abrakasa was fourteen years
old. He had small ears, a long neck,
and the sensitive, flexible fingers of
a pickpocket. His grandmother said
his skin was the colour of polished
camwood. His mother hated his eyes.

2

The house that bore the number ‘197’
on Adaka Boro Street was painted a
sunny-sky blue. On the wall above the
doorway, in drippy black paint, were
written the words:

6

this house is not for sale
beware of 419

BRN-SPRING-2013.indb 6

The street door, which was ajar because
of a broken latch, opened into a corridor
that smelled of kerosene smoke and
rat fur. The corridor had nine doors on
each side, and led into a courtyard. The
courtyard served as a store, a kitchen,
and a place of social gathering.

3

Dimié Abrakasa entered the corridor.
He walked to his apartment, the fifth
door on the right, and turned the
handle. Despite the gentleness of his
touch, the door opened with a squeal.
The heat that wafted out had the force
of a chemical combustion. Dimié
Abrakasa unshouldered his school
backpack, then walked in and nudged
the door closed with his heel.
The TV was on. Méneia and Benaebi
were home.

By

A. IgONI BARRETT

‘Welcome Dimié,’ his brother and sister
greeted in unison.
‘Ehn,’ he answered, and looked at his
mother. ‘Afternoon, Mma.’
Daoju Anabraba lay on the bed, on
her side, her face turned towards the
door. From chest to knee she was
wrapped in a red, black and green wax
print cloth. Her skin shone with sweat;
the bed sheet—pale green, with white
flowers patterned across it—was limp
with dirt. An empty Gordon’s Gin
bottle rested on its side on the floor
beside the bed. Dimié Abrakasa waited
for her to reply to his greeting, which
he knew she wouldn’t, so he turned
and walked to the corner to remove his
school uniform.
A single electric bulb hung from the
ceiling and lit the room. There was
a window in the wall that faced the
door, but the wooden shutters were
fastened with nails. The bed was lined
against this wall. At the foot of the
bed stood a sturdy, antique redwood
dresser; on its varnished top sat a
gilt-framed photograph. Dimié
Abrakasa stripped to his underpants in
front of the dresser, then pulled
open the bottommost drawer and
rummaged in it until he found a pair
of jeans and his yellow t-shirt.

4/8/13 9:38 PM