Dating : Spotlights

I stand in a silent and dusty room. It is the period of darkness. While always somewhat dark, the days are differentiated from the total blackness by four small, bright lights which scrutinise my features. The sun does not exist here.

I cannot see through the gloom, but I know my neighbours well. To my left vast tapestries and garments are laid out, displaying their vibrant hues and blocky patterns. To my right stands a woman and her child. Almost directly opposite to me is a man of stone. I may not be able to see them, but they have been there for many decades. I know them better than I once knew my own family.

During the spotlight hours, many people pass by my window. They stare as though they are not also seen; their emotions play unobstructed over their faces and over the years I have learned how to identify those that walk past. There are the bored teenagers, clearly here against their will — those I do not mind as we have much in common. There are the doctors and scientists, or those who will soon become so. They regard me with interest both avid and detached, dissecting me not as a person but as a specimen to be examined. Then there are the frightened children, and the adults disgusted by my form. And finally, those who evoke the same responses in me, those whose eyes brim with the very same greed and malice I saw in that stranger’s eyes many years ago.

But for now, all is quiet. The only person in front of me is Hector, the stone man. He stands proud, though crooked, in his spot. The oglers always point to him with mouths agape and excited shouts, but he never seems to mind. He told me that he pledged himself to this place “for the betterment of learning”. When we first met, he pointed with gnarled fingers to a white label to his left, a plaque which apparently detailed his name, his life story and his message to future generations. I asked him to tell me what was on my plaque: the continent I am from and the name of the person that donated me.

It could be worse. The skulls at my feet, one of which was used as a sugar bowl, don’t have that much.

He asked me my story, and I told him of my kin, my home and my children. I told him my name and spoke of the beauty of my land. I told him about my grandmother’s jokes, my passion for cooking, my possessions. I told him of the day I was taken, and the measurements they took, the history they ascribed to me without asking. I detailed the tattoos I once had, which they stole from me. He said he was very sorry that none of that was on my plaque.

I can feel that the night is almost over. My neighbours are all quiet — perhaps all, like me, lost in contemplation, or enjoying the quiet before the throngs. This peace is not the one I would have chosen, but it is peace nonetheless.

Footsteps break the silence. Humming accompanies the lights. I once again become a spectacle.