The Island

Gray early morning light seeping through the window bars, my thin blanket barely keeping away the chill of another dawn. I can hear The Guard, an early riser, moving around, whistling to his Alsatian: a vicious brute that growls at me and all other black men, having acquired but not lost its master’s biases. How I hate the Island and wonder, not for the first time, if I will live long enough to be free of this place. The Guard kicks hard at my door, jolting me out of the last moments of sleep. In spite of myself, I feel adrenaline flood my body.

“Maak gou,” he shouts. “We don’t have all blerrie day, you lazy skelm.”

His is a voice that cannot speak quietly; nothing less than a bellow would be satisfactory to this bull-like man. But I am grateful to him. Without his prodding, I would get no exercise at all, just grow into an old fat lag, squinting into the harsh light and lime dust of Robben Island. Today, however, I am going to punish him for this rude interruption to my sleep.

I dress quickly and lace up my running shoes, jog outside, my breath billowing steam in the dawn air. The Guard is waiting