Yellow Brick Road

Sophia Sophie

Description

Eight-year-old Nika candidly tells the story of her life growing up in a Caribbean ghetto in the eighties. Nika is unintentionally funny, unbelievably clever, and kicks butt when she needs to. Nika's dilemma is simple. She wants to exist without torture but life in the ghetto makes this an unrealistic desire.Being the twelfth child of fifteen, Nika finds a way to get the attention she needs. Her cute, little black face sheds light on the woes of a Caribbean ghetto. Despite abject poverty, violence, and physical abuse, Nika maintains a hopeful demeanor that is far too mature for her age. She stands up to bullies, outsmarts sexual predators, and puts an end to her desire to cheat and steal.After her most horrific experience, Nika finds a diary of a visitor to her Caribbean island that tells the story of Meredith. Meredith is a successful criminal defense lawyer with many burdens, struggles, and secrets. Will Meredith's heart-rending story help Nika uncover the "happily-ever-after" in the ghetto? Or will the ghetto destroy Nika's resilient spirit?

Informations

• Publié par: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Date de parution: 31 août 2020
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781645368601
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 3 Mo

Extrait

Yellow Brick Road
Sophia Sophie
Austin Macauley Publishers
2020-08-31
Yellow Brick Road About the Author Dedication Copyright Information © Acknowledgment Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Chapter Twelve Chapter Thirteen Chapter Fourteen Chapter Fifteen Chapter Sixteen Chapter Seventeen Chapter Eighteen Chapter Nineteen Chapter Twenty Chapter Twenty-One Chapter Twenty-Two Chapter Twenty-Three Chapter Twenty-Four Chapter Twenty-Five Chapter Twenty-Six Chapter Twenty-Seven Chapter Twenty-Eight Chapter Twenty-Nine Chapter Thirty Chapter Thirty-One Chapter Thirty-Two Chapter Thirty-Three Chapter Thirty-Four Chapter Thirty-Five Chapter Thirty-Six Chapter Thirty-Seven Chapter Thirty-Eight Chapter Thirty-Nine
About the Author
Sophia is a new fictional author, mother of two, wife, scholar, and university instructor who aspires to tell the stories of the poor and marginalized via fictional accounts. Her roots in the Caribbean provide her with a plethora of opportunities to witness many untold stories. Sophia believes these stories must be shared so others can learn the true meaning of resilience.
Dedication
This book is dedicated to the people who live in ghettos across the globe. The world has much to learn from your strength, grace, and resilience.
Copyright Information ©
Sophia Sophie (2020)
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher.
Any person who commits any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Ordering Information:
Quantity sales: special discounts are available on quantity purchases by corporations, associations, and others. For details, contact the publisher at the address below.
Publisher’s Cataloging-in-Publication data
Sophie, Sophia
Yellow Brick Road
ISBN 9781645362449 (Paperback)
ISBN 9781645362456 (Hardback)
ISBN 9781645368601 (ePub e-book)
Library of Congress Control Number: 2020908899
www.austinmacauley.com/us
First Published (2020)
Austin Macauley Publishers LLC
40 Wall Street, 28th Floor
New York, NY 10005
USA
[e-mail]
[phone]
Acknowledgment
Thank you to my two most precious gifts: Tori and Jon. Audrey Lynn, you are forever with me.
Chapter One
“Nika, you sleepin’? Nika, it’s me. Wake up. I come to shoot marbles with you.”
I roll over and look up at the naked bedroom window. I see Makalo’s narrow, black face pressed against the web-covered window screen. He smiles when he sees my eyes open.
“Nika, I come to shoot marbles with you. How come you still sleepin’?”
“Makalo, why you come so early? What time it is now?” My hoarse morning voice is rough.
“Time to get up, that’s what. Come on, Nika. It’s already seven o’clock.”
I sit up then rub my eyes to get rid of the sleepiness.
“Nika, you look funny when you wake up. You gat two plaits stickin’ up on top of your head.” Makalo laughs and then presses his small face against the dusty window screen.
“You look like a monkey, Makalo. Wait for me. I comin’.”
I run out to the side yard to meet Makalo whose presence makes this a typical morning in July. Makalo comes to play with me just about every day. His long, lanky frame and charcoal skin is what shows on the outside but inside he is a meek lamb. A lamb with a shark’s smile. I never understand why he smiles so much but I like it. Makalo is always happy. His bright smile is a sign of his permanent cheerful mood. Makalo’s teeth are even happy. They line up perfectly inside his big mouth. Even though he neglects to brush thoroughly and regularly, they are so white, and his gums are so pink.
“Makalo, you know I don’t have any marbles. You win all from me the day before yesterday. You ga gimme some marbles?”
“Here. Take these.” Makalo hands me ten small marbles.
“But I want a big, fat rollie pollie. I can’t win without a rollie pollie.” I put my small, brown hand out to Makalo.
“I can’t give you a rollie pollie. I only gat one left. Don’t worry, Nika. I won’t use the rollie pollie this time.” Makalo kneels in the dirt and uses his long, boney, pointer finger to draw a circle about the size of a large bowl. We put our marbles in the circle.
“You go first, Nika.” Makalo gathers some dirt in one hand and sprinkles it in his other hand. He rubs both his hands together and wipes them on his thin bare chest that holds his boney ribs. I kneel. Take my first shot but I miss all the marbles in the circle.
“Dang it! I missed.” I look at Makalo.
He smiles and prepares to take his first shot.
Makalo has the best aim. I watch as he kneels in the dirt on one scrubby knee. He squeezes a big, fat marble between his thumb and pointer finger. He shoots. Immediately, he hits three of my marbles out of the circle. Makalo wears the same dirty, navy blue shorts from yesterday. Yet, his face screams of contentment.
“Hey, you said you wouldn’t use a rollie pollie. You cheat, Makalo.”
“Oh, yeah. I forgot about that. I won’t take those three marbles. Go ahead, Nika. Put them back in the circle.” Makalo points at the marbles outside the circle. I quickly grab the three small marbles and put them back in with the others. Makalo shoots again, this time, with a small marble.
“Yes!” Makalo hits one marble out of the circle.
“Miss, miss… Please let him miss.” I press my hands together in a prayerful position. I look over at the tall coconut tree that bows his head when he sees me. The crooked, rigid tree trunk winks at me. I wink back because the shade he gives provides much relief from the sun on the hottest days.
“Yes! I got another one.” Makalo smiles. He picks up the marble and puts it in his pocket. He walks over to the coconut tree and kisses the rigid brown trunk for more good luck. I think I hear the tamarind tree sigh because she wants a kiss, too.
The yellow Caribbean sun grows brighter and the blueness of the sky makes the scene so beautiful. Makalo and I play for thirty minutes. His pocket bulges as he puts his winnings inside it. Black, dirty, boney bare feet are evidence of his determination to win. He wipes the sweat from his forehead with his dirty, skinny hands after the game ends. He returns home with his pocket full of marbles he wins from me.
The next morning, Makalo returns. Bare feet and bareback, wearing the same dirty shorts. He repeats his kind gesture and gives me some marbles.
“You can have these,” he says.
Makalo is kind to me. So, I am kind to him. At school, if he asks me to help him with math or reading, I gladly assist. Numbers and words are a challenge for Makalo. The teachers say he is a slow learner. I wish the teachers could see him shoot marbles. They would see how smart he really is.
Makalo and I have a lot in common. Apart from being playmates, we are both eight years old. We are in the same classes at school. Marbles in the dirt and hide-and-seek are games Makalo and I like to play. Bat-and-ball is our favorite.
Today, the game ends when Makalo runs into the bushes to retrieve the tennis ball. He encounters the jewels of the violent ghetto. Sparkling pieces of colored glass bottles hidden in the bushes. Makalo returns with a wound in his right foot that gapes and spews black blood like a water fountain. His big, beautiful smile goes away. A look of worry comes that causes lines to form in his forehead.
Makalo does not cry but he says, “I’m going home now.”
He hops along and leaves, a blood trail I see the next morning. It reminds me that ghetto children play barefoot games at their own risk. We hold on to the old, rotting piece of lumber, with rusted nails along each side. We eagerly await the tennis ball. We swing with a smile and hope the ball sails high enough. The smile quickly exits when we realize the ball crosses over into the forbidden yard of the grouchiest neighbor. The game ends because no one dares retrieve the ball.
A week later, Makalo’s foot is better. He finds a tennis ball in the bushes and brings it when he comes to play with me. After a game of marbles in the dirt, we play bat-and-ball. Makalo throws the tennis ball. I hit it with the old, rotting piece of wood that is my bat. I run to touch the three rock bases with my thin, dust-covered bare feet. I head for the empty soda can that marks home.
“Ouch!” I scream because I feel the sting of the tennis ball at the center of my back.
“Makalo, that hurt!”
“You’re out, Nika. I got you.” Makalo holds his growling belly while he laughs.
“Makalo, why you laughin’? You hit me hard with that ball. Don’t worry. You ga feel it when I pork you with the ball.” I try to reach my hands to rub the painful spot on my back.
Makalo continues to laugh. I smile. Then I giggle.
“Nika, you should have seen your face. Look like someone put you in a tub full of snakes. Why you make a squirmy face like that? You always makin’ me laugh, Nika.”
“Keep laughin’. Don’t worry, Makalo. I’ll have the last laugh. Get the bat. It’s your time now.”
I pitch the tennis ball. Makalo swings. He hits the ball so hard. It sails through the air and crosses over the fence into Mr. Roker’s yard. Makalo doesn’t run because he knows the game ends now.
“Oh, no! No, no, no. Game over, Nika.” Makalo tosses the rotting bat into the tall, littered bu