After she had heard her son's murderers run through the stream and up the track, she looked out and understood the sounds that had continued after her son had ceased: they had been trying to take off his high-top sneakers; they'd got one off before she threw open her door. Tears came now, as it came back, unstoppable, the sight no mother should have to see or could ever forget: her own child, killed like wild meat in her own yard, left with no face and one shoe. There was no God. There was no hope. There was just the same thing that would happen again and again until black people vanished. Theirs was a trap with no way out but immigration, death or a Lotto ticket. There was a black man in the White House in America but every little black girl in her own village dreamed of being a soca singer and ended up as a bar girl. It was lies that bound un-free people to one another. Her granddaughter, on the step below, felt the heaviness of her heart and followed her eyes across the river. The BMW rolled away, across the bridge. She watched her grandmother watch it disappear. "Who it is driving that car, Granny?" asked the little girl. She looked down at the little thing, not yet crushed. Better a hard truth than a pretty lie. "That is my father," she said. "But he don't know it on to now."
BC Pires does tell story on Christmas Adam. Read more of his writing at www.BCraw.com