His brown skin girl

First off i want to start by saying you are beautiful. More chapters will be coming soon.









I am brown skinned and i am proud of it. No matter the color. Be proud!!!

Introduction.

My name is Katherine Mendes and I am black, the only black citizen in my country Koura. In My Country Koura, there used to be a history of black citizens, but the funny aspect is they don't exist anymore, or at least they aren't visible. Last I heard was six years ago. Of a black man who committed suicide, he used to be a scientist. And secretly he used to be my hope, but now I walk down the streets of Koura with the reminder that I only have me to prove myself. In the country koura, light skin is the ideal kind of skin or should I say the only kind of skin to have as a citizen. The way blacks used to be perceived, earned them a bad place in minds of the Kourians. There was nothing as bad as being black, except maybe suicide. My case came off different because I was lucky to be born into a family with a scientist.

Based on the hierarchy of our government artisans came first in every kind of arrangement, they own the law, they breathe it, they thrive in every aspect of creativity. Hence earning them a place in the top chain. As for the scientists, they aren't as important as the artisans but they seem to have an immunity, that basically covers them, like a green card. My dad Harry Mendes, is part of a secret organization of scientists, they have the lab to themselves, so my immunity as a lab scientist's daughter brought me a lot of advantage I could breathe normal, wear my hair normal. And have my space, without getting crowded, that of course didn't mean that people wouldn't stare. The staring just came with your brown skin.

The president of Koura, Felix Russell passed a decree just few years ago, that any man caught trying to sneak a black person in the country would by no means escape being beheaded. Currently the number of black citizens in the country is one. And that is me. How I got to be the only one, I would never know, I know we used to thrive, I've seen the pictures. Mama still kept them, but each year they seemed to be involved in unbelievable crimes. Crimes that I think were aimed at eradicating the black race. The hate slowly became mutual, as a war unfolded. The brutality, and the turnover of events, caused the blacks their heads. But deep within I believe justice will be ensued.

CHAPTER 1:

The drawing sitting in front of me makes my head swell, especially when I look at the signature name below it "Hae-keem" my pen name. I am part of the artisan organization, "an artist by make" according to my dad. As I drop the pencil on the desk beside me, my smile became broader.

"at last I am done"

A quality present for my dad, I think. I pick up the satchel beside me and begin putting my drawing materials in it, in the process of packing my materials my china ware that I use to store my brushes falls beside me, making a very loud clattering sound.

"why bother" I say, recalling the same thing happening not too long ago I should just stick to cups, or other containers used to hold pencils and pens, and brushes. But one more thing though, I just can't seem to get enough of the painting. My dad's face sits on the once empty board, his eyes holding the most of interesting emotions. And this is my first time taking my signature out in the open, I usually hide behind the scenes, begging curators that I used to know help me publicize my work, and I have to say, not bragging though, that I have earned generous amount of fan base. Then as I look just below the drawing seeing the message I wrote in calligraphy, I smile again, tears finding its way to my once clear eyes. My studio is quite small, just a corner in my room, and it is dark most of the time, a small bulb to brighten the room. Thanks to the help I got from my mom, I am now able to pack all my work in one of our empty rooms. After I quit admiring the now complete portrait, I decide it is time for me to take my leave. As I shut the door to my cramped studio, my ears become almost as I hear a high frequency wail from a corner of our home. With all my might I begin running out of the room and down the stairs, then towards the part of the house where I heard the wail, and as I come to a stop in my dad's room, the pace at which my heart beats, spikes. my dad lay lifeless on the floor beside a chair, a rope, and as I look all around me, the first thing I notice is the misplaced stool just below the rope, and the hole in my Dad's chest.

"was this supposed to be a suicide or what" I ask my voice coming out shaky. Our house keeper looks at me confusion in her eyes, and a lot of questions on her face, directed at me, and those questions I see written in her eyes, and the expressions on her face I don't want to think about. I am already accustomed to the accusatory stare. But this stare is by far the most senseless. I kneel before my dad, expecting him to at least speak last words, my once shy tears become bold, as even strange sounds begin coming out my lips. Why did it have to be on the eve of his birthday, my hands become hot, as I cradle his heavy head in my hands, why didn't I even hear the gunshot. It's supposed to ring out.

"what happened here is a wonder don't you think Katherine" my house keeper miss Laurel asks, her eyes somewhat quizzical as she stomps her fat foot, her face still red from tears, and just on her cheeks you could detect dried tears. I stare at her in bewilderment as I ask her the question that has been at the tip of my tongue, since I noticed her strange looks.

"do you by any means think I shot my dad?" I ask with tears still in my eyes, and my whole mind focused on the death of my dad.

"I called the morgue after the police, they are on their way. Your mom too" she says, her hands in the pockets of her jeans.

"I just can't believe I chose to work with a family that has black in it" she says as she grudgingly walks away.

I don't care, I don't care what anyone thinks, I laugh sadly as I recall how many times I have gotten more wicked comments. I look down at my dad's lifeless body again. My heart constricts in my chest as memories keep flying in my head.

"why!" I scream. "Why did my dad..." I stop halfway as I see the bullet just a little bit close to his belt, and then an open window. My head begins to spin, questions popping up from every direction.

My conclusion becomes clearer by the minute.

"someone. Killed. Him" a rookie I think, he was supposed to do a neat work, but by the look of things, he did expose himself. My mind stops in its track as an Idea came. "or maybe not" I say out loud. After all there is a black in this house who can do well in taking the blame for anyone. I smile with tears running down my cheeks.

**

I sit on the couch with my mom, in tears again, my mom unlike me wasn't hysterical, she handled it quite well, and one thing I noticed though, as she cradled my dad's head with tears in her eyes, she sneakily pocketed the bullet. And not long after the cops came in. my mom's sob becomes louder when we see my dad being carried out on a stretcher. She stands up, her both hands cover her lips as a sob was released, I quickly walk toward the door seeing the last of the cop department depart and shut it, well not before he gave me a dirty stare.

I bring my mother back to the couch and continue from where I stopped in comforting her. "I can't believe your father is gone sweetie" she says looking at me. I nod frantically, making my curls bounce above my shoulders. I come closer and peck her, her eyes although still glassy with tears becomes determined as she says. "I'll protect you honey, they won't take you like they took him, even if it means me talking to the president" I didn't care what she meant by that but it did bounce in my brain as the words got registered. "just what is she talking about. And who took dad" my brain asks. she pecks my forehead, drawing me close to her bosom I close my eyes in tears. Remembering the painting I excuse myself and walk back up the stairs then into my studio to stare at it one last time before putting it back into the special box.

I let the tears play on my cheeks one more time as I pay my final personal respect to my dad. I place the portrait down gently into the already made package, and seal it. My hands begin to shake as I carry it out my room, and as I am about to shut the door, I hear muffled sounds, no doubt coming from the sitting room. My heart begins its normal race and in wander I take little steps down the stairs.

"as a member of the elites group of scientists, we promise to get to the bottom of this..." the huge man paused as he brings out a brown file from within his grasp. No doubt containing some of dads document.

"I have a request Mary?" he asks a frown marring his face, making the scar on his nose more hideous than it was few seconds ago.

"permit me on behalf of the council of scientists to file a case against the alleged suspect Katherine Mendes" my feet of their own accord stuck themselves to the stairs, my eyes on their own accord widen.

"just who gave you the right to walk into my home, and accuse my daughter of murder. Its suicide!" she screams at him. "my husband committed suicide" she speaks again.

"with all due respect Mary" he says walking closer.

"we both know; it wasn't suicide"

My mom in her fiery stance walks towards him and says.

"with all due respect Dean we both know my daughter did not kill him" she walks back to the couch and as she seats, The Dean guy says.

"she is black"

If my eyes could kill, I know this bulky object of a man, would have dropped down on the floor lifeless by now. My eyes grew larger than they grew before as he hands her a paper and tells her.

"find a lawyer, or better still, let her get the punishment she deserves, for being black" I didn't know when my legs decided to give up on me, as my butt finds solace on the stair. Both their eyes turn toward me. Dean releasing a smirk, and my mom looking at me determined but sympathetic.

Dean looks back at my mom, and then slowly, like he was trying to taunt me, waves at me then blows a kiss to my mom. His pap like face looking more disgusting. That's a lie though. Dean is handsome, even with a scar on his face.

"I guess I will see you both more often from now on." He turns toward the door then adds. "in court" as he leaves he looks back at us, then with a glare stares hard at me. Then shuts the door. My mom hurries toward me the paper on her hand, and her eyes redder than they were before.

"I won't let him okay, remember what I said before, they won't take you away" she adds, unsurely as she kneels beside me and grabs my head, resting it on her bosom. My eyes seem to find solace in her legs, but my heart constricts in my chest. I couldn't seem to make out why, just a reason why. Why does it have to be that way? And why the hell does that guy across the street have to make it so hard for me by killing himself. I am black and so what? I am still human, as I think these thoughts, tears begin rushing down my cheeks, and I begin wiping them off angrily. My mom seems to notice the state I am in as she pecks me goodnight. But oh my heart went out to her, I could feel her pain, her heels click hard against the floor as I listen to her door get shut. How will she cope in that room all alone? she lost dad today, and is threatened by someone else concerning her only family. And We both know a case held in court involving a black is very unfavorable towards the black of course. My hand flies to my chest, as I think of the death of my father, his corpse had been taken to the morgue for an autopsy, and not too long ago a man "Dean" seemed to have an imprinted vision of me killing my dad. Tears begin to cloud my vision making it hard for me to see, I hastily begin rubbing my eyes attacking it in such a way that I begin to feel the sting.

"what did I ever do?" I ask myself. I cannot commit suicide, because despite the hate, I know I have people who love me, and I have a lot to live for, I know they'll be more blacks to be born, and I cannot wait for the time to come, when blacks begin to have the same rights as whites. But you know what's strange? They've been no record of a black child being born for four years now.

I put my handmade box of crayons, and pencils in my bag, as I let my hand linger on my china ware. "it's odd all I buy for you is the finest of wares, and I never see you use them" I smile as my dad's voice forces its way to my brain, a tear slip down my right cheek and I angrily begin to wipe at my cheeks as tears begin pouring down. why did he have to die? Even as early as five o'clock this morning, a lot of sympathizers have made their way to the house to sympathize and also criticize. "just what did I ever do wrong?" I ask myself as I sit down back on my bed, my hands on my head. "I have always been a loyal fan of my dad, I was in my studio for crying out loud!" I scream the last part out. And why would Laurel think that I even had anything to my father's death, when she stood in the crime scene before me. "I am so not looking forward to today" I say. I let my feeble legs carry me down the stairs where a lot of real and fake sympathizers are, I decide to walk away from them without a trace. But oh how can I, in a house full of light. darkness cannot walk through without any sort of recognition. So with my back rigid, I decide to still walk out the door, even when the whispers became heavy, and too hard to bear, as I hear words like "suspect" and darkness".

I go to the koura's school of arts. And I study fine arts. In the school of arts, we seem to have different tiers. The first set is the law students, then next we have the models, then the others. The law students all seem to have a certain air of confidence, an aura that seem to follow them anytime they march down the hall in their crisp white shirt, blue long woolen jackets, a matching trouser, a black tie and shoes. The president's son unconsciously leading them. Donald Russel was never one to talk, he always seems so reserved. Many at times I have caught his eyes and the way he looks at me with a hatred, that I couldn't phantom. At school, I won't lie by saying I am that very hidden person. As the only black in the country, I have a certain kind of fame attached to my name, freshmen always want to peep through the window, to see the famous girl with a disgusting skin color. Like I said I have gotten used to the, harsh words, and meaningless accusation. But right now, as I walk down the hallway, I don't feel so used to the words, as people quack me and call me a "psycho" a "murderer". I have no confidence, no boldness. In a bid to open my locker, a petit blue headed girl quacks me, making me fall down from the shock. One little fact about me though, I might be quiet, I might appear shy but once it comes to matters like this I can't seem to hold myself, as my dad always said. "coupled with your skin color, your sudden brazenness can land you somewhere I don't even want you to end up at" so with my feet landing firmly on the ground I stood my ground, and pushed her hard she fell. And did I feel sorry about that? No, certainly no. I might accept a whole lot of bully from behind, but not upfront. And she having the courage to walk up to me, means she really sees me as trash, before I shut my locker, I turn back and look at her, and just as I made a turn to walk back to where I am headed to I noticed the whole crowd that gathered around few minutes ago seem to have shut their mouth. My head makes contact with a very firm chest, making me slowly look up, and come face to face with a very uninterested looking Donald. Then he says. "it no longer a wonder to me as to why you've been deemed a suspect" he pauses, looking at me with disdain. "even if you didn't do it on your own, I think it might also be a case of aid and abet". I have nothing to say at this moment, this is when my self-control usually comes in. I know when to hold it in, and when to let out and I don't think even for one second that speaking back to the president's son is worth anything, so my mouth at this moment is shut, waiting for him to make a move. His ironed suit produces a beautiful fragrance as he bends a little lower to whisper in my ear. "be careful though. I might deny the honor of taking up your case" he whispers, then takes his leave, making the rest of the crowd depart in disappointment. Thank God I wasn't reprimanded for anything. "being called a murderer Is just enough". I say. For so long I have waited for my bestie to come back. As a model November my best friend travels around the country of Koura, and so she's been gone for more than two weeks. She is currently at "justice city" a state, yes our country made sure to name states according to some really legal words. We have the state of "actus reus" a place that was once filled with blacks, hence the name, as the term actus reus is associated with illegality and theft. "affidavit" associated with confirmation, this state houses the school for major athletes. and I am currently in the republic of Koura the major city, where the happenings happen. And then there is the state of "ante" a Latin word for before. It houses the school for sciences.my dad graduated from there. Every other school, major market and any other is in my state.

My legs began walking toward the hall of creativity. "the vice chancellor requires your presence miss Mendel" it would have been a thing of nonchalance if he was actually just a vice chancellor. But when you have the president of your country seeking for your presence it demands fear, and nervousness.

"you know your state don't you?" asks Mr. president his hands stretching as he brings them out of his pockets. His office looks so similar to a study room. Its huge, with lots of shelves, I doubt he even reads all the books in each shelf, then just beside his office table he has a bird cage, with a currently sleeping bird in it. His small sitting quarters looks so homely. Like it was designed for the sole purpose of encouraging students to feel at home around him. Well I don't know about others, but I feel a little bit comfortable.

"yes Mr. president" I respond. He nods his head, then shifts the file that is placed on top the center table toward my direction.

"as you know my son will be graduating from law school by early march, which is next week. And I would want him to pick up a case as critical as yours" he crosses his left leg over his right and then looks at me like he is expecting a response.

"yes sir"

"so in this file you'll find certain things that are deemed important. At this moment miss Mendes, you are supposed to be detained, due to how baseless this case is you can roam freely. But you've been accused by one of the high ups. And because you aren't light skinned any evidence raised up against you in the law court could be very crucial to your freedom"

I nod hastily, as I catch him looking at me with pity.

"my son will contact you once procedures commence. And if I were you, I wouldn't want to repeat what happened down the hall today" he gets up from the comfortable sofa and strolls out of the mini sitting room. Heading over to his office chair he turns and says.

"just so you know, it's been confirmed you are a victim, but once all evidence points at you, I will have no other choice but to sentence you" the way he talks on evidence, it's like he's trying to give me a heads up on something, but I can't seem to comprehend.

Looking at the clock just above the door I know now that I have missed two of my most important lectures. Can't wait for the graduation of law students next week Friday. I walk out the door with sadness in my heart. "daddy is dead" I say out loud, his face leaving an imprint in my mind and head. I could feel someone's eyes at my back just as I get closer to the classroom. History 124, one of my worst subjects, it's like the talk bullies me, and it's like as they keep painting the blacks, black, all eyes turn toward me. "I got to skip this" I mutter and walk away from the door leading to the class. I feel tears etched behind my eyeballs, but damn me I can't let it out and show how vulnerable I am. My legs lead me all the way to the school gate and outside of it, and all I can think of right now is mama's hug, we in this together.

**

Such a shame though as I have been deprived of my mom's hug, turns out she's at work, she's a teacher, a music and arts teacher, so yes she gets paid handsomely. With a paint brush in my hand and a laid out platelet I begin drawing my feelings. My sadness, how much I miss my dad. One thing I love about painting and drawing is the fact that you could literally see what you feel. I am sad, I draw. And I understand what my sadness look like. But sometimes, I can be sad enough to hinder my talent. I let tears roll down my cheeks, and sweat drop down the middle of my breasts. The heat in the small space, becomes hotter, when I decide to bend a little lower, and with all seriousness, I describe my feelings, mixing my sadness with the reason behind it, and in the process, anger pours out. The injustice, how unlucky I am, why I had to be put in a case, for something I am not even aware of, my hand is shaking out of anger and as I decide to stand the paint on my brush decides to splatter across my painting. I stop because looking at the image before me I feel unusually content; a little mix of the imperfect makes it perfect. The unintended splash of paint gave it a surreal look, completing it, and so with a small mouthed brush I write. "a little mix of the imperfect makes it just perfect". I smile, my sadness forgotten. "once its dry ill sign on it" I say. I look at my new china ware, and the discarded one in the waste bin and I stop smiling. I walk close to the waste bin and pick up a part of the shattered object. "maybe the gunshot rang, when it broke" I say. Now it all makes sense.

I look down at my skin, so content with its color, my hair looks different from the others, and I am so proud of it, it is thick and so full, although sometimes it can be hard to tame especially when it's not conditioned properly. My hands begin searching the depths of my hair. I am currently in my room staring so hard at myself. My skin "I am so proud of it" I say. Just then I hear my mother's voice.

**

"it wasn't a big deal for you then, you know" my mom says as she let my head stay for as long as I want on top her shoulder.

"what are you talking about?" I ask.

"your color" my mom says, "your color wasn't a problem for you then... But now I see the way you spend time in front of the mirror" she pauses. "and it bothers me"

"hope you're not starting to second guess your color" mom asks again. I get up noticing tears in the corner of her eyes. And just because I am so bothered I begin tapping her hand.

"it's quite the opposite actually. I just want to see what people hate about my beautiful color" I put on a smile, at least to let her know I'm actually speaking the truth.

"if you say so honey" she wipes the tears that threatens to expose her sadness.

"you'll have to see the president's son on the second of march"

"can I ask you something mom?" I question. She pushes my head off of her shoulder and nods yes.

"why am I not detained?" "I mean; I have been requested to appear in court?"

She nods, and then smiles to herself.

"there's no evidence, so you can't be in there" she says like she is trying to hide something.