Black Lives, Like Mine

A Life Four Sizes Too Small

Paulo looked up at the moonlit, starry sky and say: "I wish I'm dead."

"That not true. You say it, but you aren't meaning it." 

He shook his head. Shook his head at me, his best friend, and say: "Nico, this life's not for me. Too small, like wearing the clothes of my little brother. I try to breathe and can't. We never leave this place, not ever in our lives. We born here, we die here. I want to die right now."

"Die? Then you can't eat good, hot Pamonha anymore!  What about the beautiful colours in the sunset? Football? That not breathing? That little clothes?  If you die, I gonna be all alone, Paulo. You gonna leave me behind, alone?"

Paulo smiled at me. I remember, I barely see it in the light from the balcony of a neighbour's house, but it there. I see it. 

"We born here, we die here. Who cares? You find a new best friend."

I shoved him. "Not true. You my best friend, since always. Don't talk so. I hate to hear you talk these things." 

I shoved him again and get up and go home because I'm angry. He want to die?, I thought. Good, let him die. 

But I didn't mean it. 

Next time I went with Mama to mass in the big white church at the bottom of of our hill, I confess so that God and Jesus and the Virgin understand I don't mean it. I really don't.  

That a few years ago now, and we still here in the slum, still in the favelas. In the small huts that climb the hills, stack up one on the next, roof on floor, window on door. We lean on the neighbours for help, for support, just like the walls, and floors and ceilings lean on each other. Like I lean on Paulo and Paulo on me. 

But, I older now. I see more. I go with Mama and my brothers and sisters down into the gas-choke streets to collect cardboard from the rubbish bins. Mama sell the cardboard to a man in a baseball cap, and then we have money to buy food and pay some things. 

Some days, the bins so full, cardboard fall into our hands like rain. We walk up the hill with some food and are happy. Other days, it's harder. We must climb into the bins to rescue scraps, and it not enough. We collect for so many hours the sun go to bed before we finish, and we sleep down in the city in the entrance of a bank, a fancy shop.

I like to look at the pretty, shiny stone of the walls and all the little colours like sprinkles of confetti in it. Or just look at the nice clothes or shoes or machines in the windows, like perfect dreams, as I fall asleep, my little sister or brother snuggled against me for comfort. 

Mama don't look at the stone or the things in the windows, she look for a camera of security.  

Paulo tell me, Mama want our murder on film. She want a witness, that why she always choose a place with a camera. That make her feel safer. "But police don't care if you murdered, film or no film. You come from the favela, so what? Your Mama try, but she want too much." 

Police refuse to come to the favelas. They say, crime our own problem. 

That's why Paulo carry a big machine gun now. It almost too big for him. He a security member and patrols with the neighbour men to keep the drug dealers and thieves and murderers out of the narrow, steep streets on our hill where it easy for them to hide. Paulo's face now in a permanent frown, lines across the forehead straight and serious like the line of his mouth. He never laugh and almost never smile. But he still my best friend. 

Sometimes I'm thinking he gonna get shot. "You careful, Paulo, yes? You careful when the bad men come?" 

Paulo just look at me, and then I know what he thinking. It doesn't make me angry anymore, only afraid. Afraid for my friend who gonna leave me behind. 

One day, it start to rain. But then, it doesn't stop.

More and more and more rain fall, and the walls swell up and the toilet overflow and everything stink so bad.

Paulo sit under a balcony at the top of the favela with his machine gun and watch the water run down the empty stairs like rivers. He doesn't want to talk. I give him a chocolate. He put it in his mouth, but doesn't really taste it. He only chew and stare at the water.   

After a while, he say: "Go home, Nico. You get sick in this rain." 

"What about you? You don't get sick?"

Paulo shrug and I know it's time to leave him to himself. He full of thoughts about his life that four sizes too small, with no room for chocolate or the pretty colours in stone. 

I go home, but in the night, we all wake up scared to shouting and screaming. Mama keep us back from the door when she go peer out. I hug my brothers and sisters who cry because of the noises from outside. 

"What happen?" I ask, when Mama come back.

"Mud slide. The earth let go from the mountain. Not here, but close by." She wave her hand in the direction of maybe where I left Paulo. 

I run out into the night. Mama yell for me to come back, it too dangerous. 

"Where?" I ask neighbours standing on their balconies, roofs. They point me toward the top of the hill where I can see some lights. 

When I get there, I can't believe what I see. Many houses gone, torn apart and filled with mud like pastries. Security men dig and shout in the bright lamps they bring from somewhere.

I shout for Paolo, but no one answer. I look around and know this is the place I leave him. 

I climb up on the wreckage of the houses and dig with my hands, throwing wood and rubble aside like the security men around me. 

"Paulo! Answer! Paulo!" 

The rain still come down hard and I fall and slide many times. But I'm so scared that Paolo trapped under all the mud that I just digging and digging. 

Finally, I find a limp hand that hang out from under a long, hollow piece of concrete. I shout for the security men that I find my friend and they come, sliding and crawling.  

We uncover Paulo from where pieces of house and mud fall on him. I hold his hand as the security men yell and wave for the emergency people and armed soldiers who wait with stretchers and blankets farther down the hill.

"Everything okay, Paulo," I whisper, and try to protect him from the rain. "They take you to hospital. They make you healthy again. Everything okay, Paulo."  

"Why?" he whisper, not listening to my words. "Why you pull me out of my grave?  I was happy there."   

"Because you my best friend, Paulo. Since always. We're best friends."

Paolo look up at the blank, black sky and say: "Not anymore."