Coming home

Saum's tight grip had left an imprint on on her black leather book. The once shining, and firm black exterior had born the brunt of many years of crying and nostalgia as Saum sought comfort in it's contents during the 6 years she spent training and working as a nurse in London's grey haze. Now, the greying, wrinkled book cover was bearing the brunt of weeks of excitement. Saum was standing in an immigration line at Salisbury airport. She could hear the cheers, and ululating of relatives reuniting for the first time in a decade. No-one would be waiting for her outside the doors, she didn't have enough to write to her relatives to let them know of her unexpected return. They wouldn't be expecting her for another 4 years, when she finally attained permanent residency and could leave the UK without the concern of not being approved a visa to return.

6 years ago Saum's husband had passed away from a fatal interaction with a Salisbury police officer. He was on his way home late one night, way passed the curfew set on Black Natives to travel, and without a stamped approval from his boss, a mine owner, that showed he was given permission to leave the mine camp. He was on his way home because despite pleading his boss to return home and see his first, newborn son, his boss would not let him leave the camp. He had seen and heard of other men sneaking home for a quick visit before being noticed as missing from the camp, and figured it was worth the risk. Saum never got told how he died, but she recognised the lumps and bruises caused by police batons from the many young black men and women that wound up at the rural hospital after running into a Salisbury officer. All she knew was that he fought that night, he fought to come home, he fought to escape misery, he always fought for what he loved.

Teary eyed from thinking about him, Saum opened her black book. It opened to her most viewed page, a drawing of her newborn son, wrapped in his father's favourite shirt. She drew it on her son's second day in the world. She was drawing it to send to her husband in her next letter. She had only just finished drawing it when a frightful siren burst through the still peace and happiness that her and her baby were resting in. Saum had left her son with her older sister 4 months later when a nun from the missionary recommended her for the nursing training program in London. Saum knew that this could be her only chance to support her new baby. She knew that her husband would have also supported her decision, despite it meaning that she would have to leave everything but a small bag behind, everything including her entire world, packaged into the most beautiful baby she had ever seen.

Saum had gotten through immigration an had now boarded the "blacks only" bus to her rural village, at least 3 hours outside of the city, and only partially accessible by vehicle. In the bus Saum flipped through other pages in her book. She had created an entire album of her Son over the years. She imagined how he looked as he grew up, she drew pictures of him walking, talking, eating his first plate of sadza, playing int the mud, playing in the water, playing with other children. Saum would sometimes draw her husband in the images. During the cold and dark winters when Saum had to lean in even deeper to her imagination to keep her soul alive, she drew an entire world where her family were together, happy and thriving. Her favourite drawing was one she drew on his 4th birthday, she pictured him being pushed down the soft hill outside their compound in a makeshift vehicle by his father, now a professional car shop owner. It was this same image that prompted Mrs Wiler, a wealthy, 70 year old woman with Alzheimer's to give Saum $20,000.

Saum had been caring for Mrs Wiler since she started as a nurse. Mrs Wiler had lived in Rhodesia for 3 years before her illness. Saum spent most of her time wheeling Mrs Wiler around the hospital grounds, they spent many hours sharing memories of Rhodesia, though their memories couldn't be more different. Mrs Wiler's memories included afternoon tea with her lunch club ladies, sitting in their acres of evergreen grass, being warmed by the hot, reliable African sun. Saum recollections of home were of the long stretches of deep brown sand that black communities were moved on to and built new communities. She recalled early long walks with fellow village women to fetch water from the river. She remembered the smell of smoke filling the village huts as families sat together and shared a meal. They were very different memories, but in her last few years on the earth, Mrs Wiler became wrapped up in Saum's stories and her art that she was determined that Saum not waste another year of her life away from her true love, her son. With the money Mrs Wiler gifted, Saum was determined to build a house, just like the one Mrs Wiler had lived in, with long stretches of grass as a backyard for her son to run free in, away from the dirt and the danger she had left him in.

The bus started to wobble as it approached the pedestrian path that would take Saum to her home. Luggage started to fall from the overhead baggage storage, throwing out blankets, clothing, and curtains that people were bringing back to decorate their homes and clothes for their families. The bus came to a jolted stop. Saum got off the bus, took off her shoes and lifted her bag on top of her head to carry down the uneven dust road. It was evening time, the sun was yawning over the naked ground, warming the soles of her feet. In the distance she heard children laughing followed by a sharp reprimand by a woman. Saum's heart twisted with happy nervousness, she followed the laughs until she came upon a group of 5 children racing with old tires. They were covered in dust, as they ran the soles of their feet flashed dark purple, stained with the dark juice of the nearby mulberry tree. Saum recognised her sister instantly. Her hand on her hips in her usual no nonsense stance. The smallest boy left the group and went to Saum's sister. Saum's heart skipped a beat, something deep inside her womb tugged hard.

He was nothing like her drawings. He glanced to the side, his eyes catching Saum's for a second. Saum's surroundings vanished into his deep, round, dark eyes. There was an instant and distinct distrust in his 3 second look. She was a stranger to him, unrecognisable, and by default untrustworthy. She froze, as he turned and followed her sister down the hill, away from her view. Where would Saum start? How would she earn his trust. In her drawings their love was unquestionable, it simply always existed, like the ground underneath their feet. She glanced at her black book that she was still clutching tightly in her hands. She opened to see a baby boy that loved her unconditionally, no distrust or disinterest. A part of her wanted to turn away and escape back to London, where she could live in the fantasy of her drawings. Another part wanted to throw away the book and call out to this boy she would now call her son.

She stood, frozen, black book in hand, as the sun sunk slowly into the dirt.