The
very last thing to cross over into the spiralling panic of ache1’s
consciousness as she lies bleeding to death in full view of the medics and the
very concerned doctor who has been flown in especial from Canada to supervise
this delivery, is the memory of a very young black boy whose path she crossed
on her first afternoon of absolute liberty in the city, walking down the bright
sunshine of suburban indistinction and interrupted by the noise coming from out
the speakers of this boy’s stereo which he struggles to carry, it being as tall
as he is wide, blaring out at high volume some political speech of Malcolm X,
whose voice she recognises from the very last class she took at school just
over a year ago, now.
