Paul H. Williams, Contributor

Taniqua is not happy. In fact, she is very upset. She wants to cry, but cannot. If she did, the salty tears would irritate her tender facial skin, burnt by the caustic substance that she used to bleach her face.

The black face that she was born with is now replete with painful blotches and yellow pustules. She sits on the edge of the bed looking into the dresser mirror, looking at the face with which she cannot go to the dance tonight.

Two weeks ago, in her excitement, she bought her blond hair and its accessories, and the caustic substance. She had two weeks to metamorphose, two weeks to become a browning.

So, every night since then, she went through the ritual of pasting her face with the substance. She slept with the potion on, to wash it off before going to school. When it was off, she stared into the mirror hoping to see her new brown skin emerging. She was impatient.

One week into her blanching, she felt a slight irritation, but paid it no mind. When she attempted to remove the whitener, she realised how sore her face was.

She dashed to peer into the mirror, for she did not like what she felt on her face. In front of the mirror, she stood gaping, because on her 15-year-old face were blotches and pustules staring back at her, mockingly. And, her heart stood still, well, for a moment.

Since then, she has not been to school. Her classmates, especially the boys, would have given her hell.

Now, tonight is the night, and she is not going to her first big dance. Her 30-year-old mother has already gone, leaving her at the mercy of her lascivious stepfather. She turns off the light and rolls on to the narrow bed, to dream of what life could have been had she not been born blackavised.

Her black-skinned mother would not constantly refer to her as black ugly gal, and her brown father would not have abandoned her. The boys in her class would not refer to her as Blackie Tutus.

In primary school, the teachers would have put her at the front of the class, and buy her suck-suck when she had no break money.

She would perhaps make the centrespread of the local tabloid, or be captured by one of its photographers for the Hottie Hottie section. Had she been born brown, and had tall hair, she would not have had to save her lunch money to buy hair every time she was going out. And, as far-fetched as it might sound, she would have been considered for the lead role in Dreamgirls.

As hard as she tries, she cannot sleep. Her face aches, and she is anticipating her stepfathers knock on the door. She gets up and turns the light back on. She goes to the mirror and looks at her variegated face, at the images in her life that tells her, If you are black, stay back.

The females, in the illustrations of her nursery rhymes books, her comic books, her textbooks, Oscar-winning movies, music videos, are either white, light-skinned or brown. So, too, are the reporters on TV, most beauty-contest winners, calendar girls, bank tellers, receptionists, promotional girls, etc.

She remembers the time when she went to the north coast on a school trip. It was the first time she had seen a golliwog (a black doll, with exaggerated features, usually made from cloth). She was so thrilled to see a doll that looked like her. She pleaded with one of the vendors to drop the tourist price for the doll. The vendor did.

Back home, her mother was furious. That Taniqua could use her money to buy foolishness was upsetting enough, but to buy that ugly cloth dolly was the worst. She gave Tani to have sense, and threw the doll outside. The next morning, Taniqua stood in disbelief as she looked at the remnants of the doll; the mongrel dogs in the yard had torn it to shreds.

That same Christmas, her mother bought her a white baby doll, with curly golden hair, long black eyelashes, rosy cheeks, and marble-blue eyes. Thats the best she could have done, since she could not afford a Barbie.

She goes to the window and parts the curtains a little. Outside is pitch-black, but a streetlamp glows in the distance. In the soft light that emanates from it, she sees throngs of people at the dance. Half-naked females are bubbling to pulsating rhythms.

They are hot in their extravagant wigs, weaves, extensions, long false nails, contact lenses, and their bleached faces scream, Mi a goodas fi dem! Crushed, she snaps out of her reverie.

The anger builds up. She draws the curtain, and dumps herself into a white plastic easy chair, puts her feet on to a hassock, and turns the TV on. To her utter dismay, Macka Diamond is on talking about her looking prettier when she has on tall hair.

She remembers her own hair, those which she bought with her lunch money, and bites her bottom lip.

She is not going to have it. She pulls the plug on Macka Diamond. Click! While getting up, she recalls how upset another female artiste was when United States authorities seized her hair and hair products, in one of their anti-terrorist paranoiac tantrums.

This time, she avoids the mirror. But what she cannot avoid are the voices in her head. Buju Banton singing about his browning; the black-skinned taxi driver who said his grandmother told him that anything black nuh good; her mothers voice; her classmates voices; the silent voices of rejection and discrimination, and her own voice, cursing the day when she was born with a black face. Once again, she lies on the bed. In her turmoil, she drifts off to sleep.

While she sleeps, she does not realise how blessed she is. That her black skin protects her from the suns ultraviolet rays, and she will age gracefully. That in this world, there is a place for her, for you, for me. That there is room for everyone.

In a world where diversity is a constant, we have to appreciate ourselves. That the world will always have people who live in their own cocoons, wanting others to be like them, hating others because they are different. That beauty goes way beyond skin colour and bone structure. That the only thing she needs to bleach is her mind, to rid it of her psychology malaise. That wigs and extensions cannot cover deep-seated self-hatred. That the image of self is not determined from without, but from within. But with the social dynamics militating against her, she might never know.

There is a loud rap upon the front door; she is jolted from her sleep. Her stepfather is home.