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30

The Nostalgia

Of Rain For

Leroy Wilson

8

“Mr. Leroy Wilson charged with the murder of Ms. J. Chisholm will be

sentenced to a minimum of 12 years in jail.” The words cut him like a knife…

The blade cut his arm. Blood dripped from it. He went pale. The

blade dropped out of his hands and dropped on the tiled, kitchen

floor. The silence was broken. “Please, your honour I cannot go to

jail.” But Leroy didn’t know that he wasn’t in the court. It was 12

years later. “I said please don’t send me to jail. I have kids. I have a

wife.” He wailed as he relived this dark memory.

He was taken into the cells. The dimly lit, grey cells. The lights flickered on

and off and a cold draught blew through the chambers. Silence was now a sound;

Leroy couldn’t stand to hear it. He was thrown into a small cell, where a white

man sat hunched in the corner. Leroy was on the floor crying he banged his fist-

shaped hands onto the concrete floor, crying. All that could be heard was the sound

of his agony. The agony of leaving those he loved behind. The agony of being black.

Droplets fell from his stormy eyes onto the cold, hard ground.

“So you deserve it! You, black murderer.” The man seemed as though he would

never speak, not until now. He stood up from his place standing above Leroy.

Leroy cowered under the dark shadow of the white man. He looked straight into

the thunderous eyes of the white man. “You killed that young lady. Now it’s time

to pay.” That word. Pay. The man was certainly reimbursed, but only 12

years later...

Leroy lay on the cold ground. Much like the cold ground of the

cells he found himself in on the 13

th

of April, 1995. Leroy could no

longer bare to live with his memory. To anyone he was a nobody. A

black nobody. Now he could rest in peace without his vivid, dark

nostalgia of rain haunting him. For the memory of rain to Leroy no

longer exists.