A Colorful Murder

By Urbain B. Blaise

A visit between grandson and grandfather devolves into a scintillating conversation about race, jazz, and hip-hop. Together they examine the contradictions of an era with a black president in power, while the incarceration and unemployment rates climb to record heights in the African milieu.
The grandfather, a well-educated and experienced man, desires to share his wisdom with his grandson, an introverted but outspoken young man. Despite the grandsons admission that he is disappointed with the black race, a race he believes has yet to claim their achievement, the grandpa remains impartial and observant, attempting to expose the truth to his grandson.
As the two individuals explore deeper the issues at hand, the reader journeys into the complex, colorful, and disturbing mind of the grandson, delving into a world of mental illness, misconceptions, and a colorful murder.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jun 23, 2014
• ISBN: 9781499037449

Book preview

CHAPTER I

A Sad and Empty Thing

"W ho are you? What are you doing here, blackie ? Where the hell are you coming from?" the French police officer asks me on a TGV train boarding for Redon, on my way to see him .

I am heading up north to spend time with a person that I care for deeply, in a region northwest of Paris by the name of Bretagne, in a little village approximately 1.5 kilometers from Rochefort-en-Terre, petite cité de caractère. From Redon, someone is supposed to pick me up to drive me to Rochefort-en-Terre. It is not far, approximately ninety minutes or so. Then, I am going to walk my way up to his place.

As I am thinking of how to convey this to the officer, I notice his eyes fixated on me, frisking me unreservedly. I shift slightly in my seat and stare at the train window view, ignoring my faint reflection in the glass, losing myself under the twilight of colors that were faintly moving into the trees. Colors linger on my tongue, overwhelming the pulses of my brain; the open field races backward, sinking my heart into an abyss.

I finally find myself able to respond. My name is Niabru. Please forgive me, I have a condition! I answer the officer.

Like a caged monster, my heart ceaselessly kicks my chest for comfort. I try to remain calm. My eyes then ogle over two passengers that were right in front of me. Everything seems calm and normal except for the officer’s eyes, which appear to be searching for backup.

Perhaps I have said something wrong.

Come to think of it, what I should have earnestly said is that I am aware officer, that I am a black man traveling first class, tall, yet skin as dark as the dirtiest piece of dirt. But I am not dangerous. And let that not baffle anyone, for I am also damn proud of my skin tone.

In fact, I don’t talk much about myself. Like a motherless child, I drift away to cave myself into isolation, not allowing anyone into my affairs.

Why? One might ask.

I don’t think I know. I have no clue how and when this reclusive attitude began, but as far as I can remember, I have always hated myself.

I know I just said that I am proud of my overburnt charcoal skin. That should have, to a degree, insinuated that I’m fond of my skin color—far from it.

The truth is, this contradiction is something that I am trying to learn and accept. At times, conceivably, in order for me to feel safe, secured inside my skin, I would boast as if I were narcissistic. How could that be true?

I imagine if someone were to get to know me, they would find an introverted, scared person, skeptical of the world and its people. Someone who is shy, someone who knows the world from no angle, but at the same time, someone who needs help. Perhaps this was apparent to the officer.

Nevertheless, this is not something I am willing to openly admit to anyone.

You see, my father has always taught me to be exaggeratedly discreet, not to reveal too much, to be humble about my experience, not to be too flashy or too conceited. As kids, my siblings and I were forbidden to play with anyone in our neighborhood. You must not venture outside of these gates! He would say, looking all panicky, waving his index finger uncontrollably at the sky, I don’t want you to hang out with those people. It’s not good for you!

Not knowing whether it was because my dad thought we were different or better than our neighbors or whether he was very particular about exposing his business to the world, as a result, I think, I have become a person who is very reserved. At the minimum, I should theorize that my childhood upbringing might have contributed to my approach in life. Yet I am certain it is not the only reason I am so reticent.

My dad would often go out of his way to not even disclose any problem that was going on in the household. He would maintain to my mom that the kids are not supposed to know of our quarrels or fights. Maybe he wanted a perfect family, or maybe he did not want us to learn of those unfortunate moments in life at such an early age. I don’t know what that was all about, but we grew up never witnessing my mother and my father quarrel . Then again, there is no way that could have messed my life up.

Yes, at one point, we were shielded from the realities of this earth, but we were quick to learn from the outside world of our bubble. We quickly realized that the world we grew up in was a world fabricated by our dad.

Even that, though, does not explain why I am so guarded and secretive or why I am shy, introverted, and distant; why I have so many difficulties; why I find my life utterly worthless; and why, in turn, my life has become a sad and empty thing.

Come to think of it, though it might give people a little insight about myself, what I have described so far has not been quite true to the reality. I have not given the story due diligence. Even what I have said has been far too romantic of a depiction. It is bleaker than that.

It is very hard for me to explain to anyone who or what I am in so many words because I don’t really know how to articulate something so complicated and unclear. At times, I feel like a bystander, observing a life happening that does not quite seem to be mine—not a life worth living, not one that I fancy.

So I often go about telling people that my name is Niabru. I describe myself as very dark-skinned, a male, and that I have a condition—hoping if I admit to the fact that I have a condition, it will generate some compassion toward me. Then I would add at the very end that I’m very proud of it!

Depends on how fast I try to communicate that, my words only serve to complicate things further. Some people get that I am very proud of my complexion while others assume that I am referring to my abnormal, perhaps supernatural, condition. This time, I thought I have made it clear to the officer that it is my skin tone that I am proud of—as a blackie or not.

I often think, how can I portray myself as someone that I don’t even like? How can I let the world define me as worthless?

I try to reconcile the contradiction in my head. I’m sure it would have probably been safer for me to say that I have no idea who or what I am. For when people get to understand my condition, they get the wrong impression of me anyway. They call me strange, crazy, and weak.

As I catch myself derailing, I look up back at the officer, searching for his wondering eyes. His profile seems undisturbed, but the sporadic motions of his hands tell a different story. I notice a number of people moving rapidly, exiting the train as if they were running from a burning building, leaving all their belongings behind except for the one of sentimental value. Outside, more officers seem to be pushing their way toward the cart. I stay in my seat motionless, observing the disturbing scene.

I could have sworn we were on a moving train not too long ago. When did the train stop? I ask myself. I notice that outside people’s eyes are beginning to fixate on me, speaking to me undecipherable words. From afar, they don’t seem to be kind words. The words flow like angry, colorful butterflies but stop short of my eardrums.

Maybe they find it odd that I am so calm in such a chaotic situation. Maybe everyone is responding to a random act of terrorism that I haven’t noticed, and I must exit the train right away for my own safety. I know we are not yet in Redon. It does not seem like we are even halfway there. What is going on?

The people staring at me from the outside of the train are starting to scare me, reminding me of the villagers in Rochefort-en-Terre. Something seems disturbingly wrong. It is like nothing I have ever experienced before.

Like I have previously said, I am heading to Rochefort-en-Terre, Bretagne to see him. You know, the person I care for so dearly. Whenever I go visit him, I like it there. Although the people often stare unobtrusively, it is not as frightening there as it is on the train right now.

I have been telling myself that one day, I am going to simply tell the villagers that their eyes need not to remind me of my awkwardness, of the fact that I don’t know how to respond to a question properly, address people, make small talk, and even behave like a friendly person. I am aware of my abnormal condition. I suppose if one day I explain to them my situation, everything will be all right.

However, I often wonder if the staring has anything to do with my awkwardness; perhaps it has something more to do with my dark complexion. Perhaps, they think I am an illegal African immigrant who resides there to take advantage of the French socialist approach, up to no good, living comfortably, while corrupting the purity of the French culture they have preserved here for so long.

I don’t know what it is, but something has always felt a little out of depth for me in Rochefort-en-Terre.

I don’t need to be reminded that I seldom leave myself vulnerable to the scrutiny of the public. I don’t need to be reminded that I am never around where there is a crowd. I have heard people mention once behind my back, in Rochefort-en-Terre, that there was something off about me. If you ask me, there is something wrong with those people in general. Who are they to judge?

I remember, once I heard one of them murmur, I don’t know about him!

The other one replied, I know, with a pause of agreement, something about him. When you start looking at him or make any eye contact, he seems so uneasy that you are forced to turn your head away. Something about him that demands of you to look the other way, you know? The way he desperately twitches his body over and over like live maggots in a frying pan. Something is off about him!

Perhaps they’re right. Perhaps it is me; I don’t know. Perhaps I really am the problem. I guess feeling ill at ease is one thing I cannot escape. I have always been an awkward person. Sometimes I question whether I have said too much or too little, whether I have been too unclear or too ignorant, whether I have seen or commented on the wrong thing, expressed myself too much on one stance and not the other, and on and on.

I go on unremittingly, ruminating all my previous conversations, worrying whether my words were perfect, well-articulated, exact, extravagantly put, well-intended, well judged; whether my words were not misconstrued; whether I have been fair and consistent; whether I have offended anyone; and whether I have exposed myself to criticism, judgment of character, and what have you.

Without a doubt, I worry too much. But I would never describe myself as live maggots in a frying pan!

Perhaps I want to be perfect for this world. Perhaps I want the world to see me as a perfect being. Perhaps I am a perfectionist.

A perfectionist? I often ridicule the thought.

Nothing in my life seems perfect. According to my psychiatrists, I am not quite normal. In fact, I have other problems. I do not have a perfect job. I currently have negative US$26 in my bank account and €6 in my wallet. I am utterly disorganized. I am not good with planning. I have no stability in my life, my love life, my personal liaisons with people, or anything. I have no real friend. I am spoiled chaos.

A perfectionist? I doubt it!

I do not know what it is, but like my dad, I would like people to see me through the lenses that I myself have conjured up. I know it is unfair to ask so much of the world. Yet the world is expecting that we all behave a certain way. It is unfair for the world to ask so much of us. It is also unfair for me to ask so much of myself. And the worst part is, I cannot control any of that and no one seems to want to help me, not even the selective serotonin reuptake inhibitors and norepinephrine, tetracyclic antidepressants, monoamine oxidase inhibitors, and dopaminergic drugs I have taken to combat my condition. However, I feel they don’t do much for me anymore. These drugs seem to carry a risk of tolerance where I need higher and higher doses to get the same result. Perhaps one day I will simply take the whole bottle and go to sleep.

I suppose, if I were to be honest, I will say that I constantly think about dying. But my therapists will never hear that from me. They would lock me up and throw away the key. And yes, on numerous occasions, I have attempted to do away with my existence, but something has always rescued me. Maybe it is because my mission on earth is not yet complete.

Then again, what is life for me if every day I have to delight myself in bowls of pills—morning, afternoon, and evening? This is not the life I have asked for. I did not choose this sad and empty life. One day I am going back and demanding another one.

But where I am right now, it does not appear like there is anything I can say that will relieve me of this nightmarish situation. Everyone seems to have exited the train. Now, it is only me with a dozen French officers.

CHAPTER II

In Walks He

F or the life of me, I cannot remember saying anything more to the French police officers. In a blink of an eye, here I am in Rochefort-en-Terre, still feeling confused, feeling as if I’ve lost years from my life.

I thrust my head into the moving colors, looking around, begging the walls around me for clarification and recollection.

I really don’t know how I got here. I really don’t know who picked me up from Redon. What about the police officers? What has happened to them?

Redon is a little city that is ninety minutes away from Rochefort-en-Terre; someone must have dragged me in to this place.

Here I am sitting in his living room, feeling all numb, as if someone has tranquilized me with a heavy dose of benzodiazepines.

As I was thinking before the incident, I like it here. Here is my grandpa’s house. There is a small picture of us hanging thoughtlessly on the far end of the room. Here is my oasis. My grandpa has gone above and beyond to make me feel comfortable here. He seems to understand me. I often think he is the only one left in this world who has tried to understand me.

It feels like he seems to know how I feel about the world and often tries to make me feel better. Here is where I belong. I find in him someone comforting, easy to be around despite everything, in the midst of all the confusions.

Like a drugged detective, I gaze around the extended corners of the room, searching for clues. No one seems to be around. The room feels somber and distant. Where is he? I wonder.

My grandpa is not an average Joe. He is out there in style, taste, literature, interest—you name it. If you dare to venture on any topic with him, he’ll be happy to embark with you on the journey. He loves to talk. He views all topics as multisided. He’ll challenge you to think about other sides just for the sake of their existence. The problem is, when the conversation becomes too dense, it is hard for me to juggle all the different perspectives, expecting to duly do all of them service.

I am often overwhelmed. Then more anxiety kicks in.

Maybe I should simply say that I love chatting with him mostly when the conversation is not too intellectually stimulating—that, I cannot handle.

Besides the curious villagers and the long-drawn-out conversation with him, Rochefort-en-Terre is not a bad place. It is a quiet village to hang out. It certainly has character.

When I finally decide to go outside, I simply ignore the condescending looks of the villagers and savor the moment.

Often I walk by with a gentle, customary bonjour and proceed on my habitual way.

This place has helped me tremendously with my condition. I remember last year, I would go running every morning, down a hill that leads to a lake where I often saw people looking for a reason to seek refuge.

Nearby the site, there is a peaceful green setting slightly away from the village and the lake. I would tour the lake, thinking of stories and ideas, singing, and speeding au gré des vents. Every time my path would cross someone else’s, I would get a puzzling look. The customary bonjour I would add, only to receive a suspicious nod in return.

Though at times I have mixed feelings about it, this reserved attitude is generally good for me. It helps me stay isolated.

It is possible that these people are not harsh but strange. They are strange in the sense that they are both reserved and curious at the same time. On one hand, I feel they just don’t want to welcome me here, maybe not because of the color of my skin but because they are not welcoming to any foreigner in their village. If they knew the history or the origin of all it means to be French within the birth of their culture, they would have, perhaps, welcomed me more openly. I often contemplate their isolationist attitude along the line of a folie for linguistic purism that exists only in their figment of imagination. They have failed to understand that there is no purity in any culture. On the other hand, I feel sometimes they stare unreservedly simply