He sits across me in the living room of his village house, hands clasped, elbows on his knees. The ceramic tiles of the village house cool against the soles of my feet. The familiar smell of tangerines and a whiff of something pungent. A spice.
Fall of 1997, I was in second grade, he was in third. Recess time occurred in a village house in the middle of the Fanling Wai walled-village, he was the king of jump rope competitions, his feet flittering above the earth. And I, was the queen of hoola hoops, swaying my hips against the rhythm.
And then he flashes a grin, white teeth in sharp contrast with his dark features, “My parents and I came to escape the war in Sierra Leon. I was too young to have any memories, only vague recalls of gunshots firing, sounds of weeping and running. We landed August 28, 1993 and have lived here ever since.”
It was foreign to us for different reasons. To him, the harsh sounds of Cantonese rang foreign to his ears. His caramel skin looked alien against the streets of pale olive faces. Compared to the vast green fields and cotton clouds in the swimming blue skies of Texas, the noisy traffic and angry red men terrified me; and the humidity, the crowd suffocated me.
The house was cluttered with stuff. There was my brother’s old red fire truck parked in the corner, crumpled sheets of graded Chinese homework hiding behind the settee leg, a big white boxy computer from the 90’s sitting on the sturdy wooden desk. Apart from the family portraits hanging from the cyan painted walls, there was nothing in this comfortable four-walled space hinted at its inhabitants’ skin colour and afro-textured hair. “Sometimes, it is a bit hard, constantly being the center of attention on subway rides and not knowing how to order my favourite dish at Cha Chaan Tengs. Then I left the mission school and transferred to a local secondary and went from not knowing one word of Cantonese to stringing up raps in Cantoslang.” His voice broke the silence in perfect American English.
Camp Good News took place ever summer at the Wu Kai Sha YMCA, a little haven filled with shrilled laughter, skinned knees and childhood memories. We were sitting on the same row of bleachers, he and I - him with the guys and I, with the girls. Some scuffling occurred on their end and then he calls out “Hey Lydia!”. Trying ever so hard to suppress a grin, I managed to give out an indignant “What!” amidst the “ooohs”. Moments later, the chapel filled with the voices of a sea of black, red, blonde, and brown-haired children.
“Baby when you’re done come over and have some of this fried chicken!” the hearty voice of Momma filled the living room. Dressed in a loose fitting, blue and orange tye-dye dress, with her hair braided up, looking as gorgeous always. She had just returned from her daily visit to the wet market.
His momma was known for hosting their yearly birthday parties at the far east pavilion of the district park. She singlehandedly prepared all the party food, and those sloppy looking cakes with icing dripping off the corners, were bits of love and celebration in our mouths. It was the first time that I knew rice had other colours than white. There is also green rice, red, rice, yellow rice. I attended my last one in May 2006, a few days before my family and I left for the states.
Unconsciously tugging on the back of his black and white Nike high tops, he continued, “I tried to get out of Hong Kong twice, because, my A Level results weren’t too good. I mean, I did well in English and Maths but Chinese?” He laughs. “So I applied for the University of Liverpool, but my family couldn’t afford it and they didn’t offer me a scholarship. Second time around I succeeded and now I take the ferry from Macau to Hong Kong once a few months to see my family.”
Funny how life takes it turns, three years in the States and then I was back at the Hong Kong International Airport, this time on my on my own, trying to walk with two 25kg suitcases and two 15kg carryon. We spent my second Christmas away from home with Mrs. Jackson who had stopped over from the States, and Peter from New Zealand. “No matter what part of the world you’re in, McDonalds will always be good.”
My ticket back to Dallas Fort Worth has been booked for May 28, 2012, 20:00. When we exchanged goodbyes and embraces, I wondered how long it would be until our next meeting - if we ever do meet again.
And so we parted, a Chinese whose heart lies in Texas, an African who can read Chinese.
