The swing

This essay was written in response to a visual prompt as part of the Ochre Sky writing circle - Dec to March 2025

Mummy tells me that we lived in a magical country ten years ago. The soil was reddish brown; trees grew overnight from seeds, bougainvillea crept up on trees taller than skyrise buildings, flowers were called birds of paradise, and the winds were balmy and gently kissed your skin.

I stare intently at the hologram world map. I read on my tablet that when maps were designed, the cartographers made the continent of Africa smaller and Europe bigger because they were Europeans. How stupid, like the school prefects. I zoom into Kenya, a medium-sized country surrounded by countries that rhyme: Tanzania, Rwanda, and Ethiopia. On the right side, it touches the big blue sea, the Indian Ocean, or Swahili waters, as it is now called.

Mummy says that we moved to Kenya in November 2020 during something called COVID-19. Whenever mummy talks about this period, I notice how her forehead wrinkles and jaw tenses. “It was a difficult period for me,” says Mummy. “You were 4 months old when it started. Papa and I lived in a small apartment in Paris. I was a first-time mother, we had full-time jobs. I was constantly scared of what would happen to you, to Nana, Nani, to the world. I worried so much that I made my heart sick,” she tears up.

Mummy loves telling the story of us arriving in Kenya. Airports were closed off amidst the chaos of increased contamination around the world. Exactly like the movie AI: The Enemy Virus, we were the Avengers making the last flight out of Paris.

Mummy had never been to Nairobi before. It was all new to her, like for me. We were both babies together. She says that before arriving there, she had never seen so many hues of green. Emerald, fluorescent, lime, forest, fern, seaweed, pistachio, apple, tea, sage, there were so many shades that one had to learn the names to rightfully discern them rather than use light and dark green.

Mummy and Papa sometimes talk about it. They share a particular look whenever Kenya pops up. Like a shared secret, with a dollop of nostalgia. You know the original Lion King movie with archaic animation and the Hakuna Matata song? It’s part of the Singh-Kohler Christmas traditions.

The other day, my friends at school were discussing where they did kindergarten. I asked mummy what the name of my school was, and she gave me this big smile and proudly said, “Waldorf Kindergarten.” I don’t know why she looks so pleased like she bought the newest Metaverse glasses. They always credit Waldorf for my creativity, but I think I was born this way.

I have hazy memories of my first school. I remember the old, slightly chipped, and rackety green gate with a rainbow painted on it. The different classes looked over the central playground, where we joined in a circle each morning for ‘Morning Ring.’ Mud was everywhere all around all the time, browns and greens in a huddle. There were many songs, a song to tidy up, eat, play, and learn. It was all kind of silly when I think back now. The teachers were kind, Teacher Mary, Teacher Oliva, and Teacher Amidah. They were not real teachers like the teachers I have now, more like grandmothers who made sure we didn’t fall or break something.

I remember my friends – Mulumu, TJ, Judo, Baraka, Greta, and Dante. I particularly remember Greta, she was my best friend and we both loved to play on the swing.

We had three swings right outside our class. After class and before our mummies picked us up, Greta and I would dash to swirl in those swings. Our tushies would be cradled by the swing seat. We would swing our buttocks and push ourselves, we could almost touch the skies. But it was always a bit far away. It was fun.

I loved the tingling sensation in my tummy. You wanted to vomit, even a headache; we went that high. Playstations try to mimic it, but it doesn’t match the vibe.

One day, Greta and I were swinging and TJ came to swing beside us. TJ was in my class and he was a boy-boy, you know. He always said things like, “Girls don’t play football, boys don’t do ballet.” Very Barron Trump. Anyway, Greta and I were happily chatting when out of nowhere, he told me that I was white. I remember feeling stunned. I didn’t like the way he said that I was white. Like it was a bad thing. I retorted, “Noooo I am light brown,” but they only laughed. I thought Greta would support me. But, she too chimed in, “Suhani you are white.”

I remember in Kenya; most people were dark brown. My teachers, friends, and my nanny, Mary. Some people, like Mummy, me, and the Doctor Uncle, were light brown. Daddy and Colette were white. But I knew, I was light brown.

I was sitting on the swing, swirling with these thoughts in my head, when Mummy appeared at the end of the playground. I remember shouting, “Mummy,” leaving the swing behind and dashing towards her with all my force. Mummy knew which color I was.

My hologram map makes a buzzing sound on a location. NAIROBI. If Papa and Mummy agree, maybe we can visit Kenya and Waldorf next Easter holidays?