A Fading Brunette: The Sad Saga of the First Two

Two wazungu, as we call the white skinned ones with pale faces, appeared in my village today. Before, we were a tightly packed throng painted in rich shades of brown... milk chocolate, sticky toffee, and black coffee browns. While the browns wave and curl in a diverse dance like gypsy women around a fire, the wazungu hang limp, their faces stiff and unyielding, having forgotten the dance of their people.

I see the ways of my people begin to slip away, drawn in and destroyed by the colorless charisma of this new people whom I do not understand. The invasion has begun, and they will not stop their slow march until only the white ones remain. Some of my brothers will try to blend in. Many will flee altogether - driven away as if by the Sahara winds of a wazungu assault. I see the future, stark and pale against the horizon. Between here and there stands a sea of brown faces, slowly fading until they are undistinguished from the faces of our adversaries.

But today I choose hope. I choose to believe that our people will be strong. We will withstand any infiltration. No wazungu influence will be tolerated. Yes, we will pluck it out at the very root!