Scribbles

The first time I got arrested, I was seven. They came to our house in their white Santana, asking for me and my mother. I hid behind the chimney protrusion outside our house, eyes shut so hard because I believed if I couldn’t see them then they couldn’t see me. I heard mum telling them that she did not where I was but they led her away anyway. Then they came back for me. With their bionic eyes they fished me out from behind the chimney. I did not fight them, although my legs felt rubbery and I couldn’t walk on my own. But they carried me to their car, dangerously parked in the middle of the road. One of them had a gun, at the very sight of it, my bladder almost gave. But the look my mama gave me stopped me from disgracing myself. But it did not stop the silent tears rolling down my cheeks. The car smelt of urine and unwashed bodies. All the windows were closed. The man with the gun poked my mama in the ribs and told her to sit up straight. “Eh, medem what do you t...