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"