Sweet Dreams – From Grandma’s House to My Own Police Car

Because I am posted in a country where I might contract malaria, I have been given an antimalarial medication called, “Mefloquine”. One of the side effects of this medication is lucid dreaming. The following is what I dreamt last night (as best I can remember). 

I was at my grandmother’s house. But the layout was completely different than what I remember. Her bedroom was in a room off of the kitchen. I had never been in her bedroom. There were some neighbors who only wanted to buy the bedroom (as opposed to the house). Grandmother agreed too this sale. 

Another family member and I are now helping grandmother to pack up everything in her bedroom. The bedroom is massive. There are all kinds of really cool artifacts. My brother ends up coming to the house with his laundry. 

Shortly after, I was leaving a gas station. It was mid afternoon. Across the street, I noticed a lot of people coming out of what looked like a storefront. Not sure if it was a church or what. Apparently, they were just giving away police officer jobs. Someone brought me a pair of police ski pants, a badge, a gun, and a car. I don’t know where the rest of the uniform was. I was given the option to start as a police officer right there, or wait until the next day. I thought, “eh, I’m not doing anything”. 

I started putting on the ski pants right beside my new police car. The pants were kind of snug on me, but still fit okay. I didn’t have any kind of police utility belt or anything. I was wondering where I was going to put my gun. 

As I was getting dressed, people were gathering around me. A relatively famous gospel singer was about to put on a show. She was locally famous. She only sang one song. “I sing because I’m happy/I sing because I’m free”. This other lady, who apparently was a new police officer as well, was there with her young son. It had started to drizzle. She was telling her son that they had to get home before the rain started. I realized that not everyone was given their own police car. I somehow managed to find some boots. 

As I’m putting on a boots, a fellow new police officer, who’s a man, asked me if I was going to take the Benz. I looked at him in a confused state, and asked for clarification. He told me about the police Mercedes Benz. I said that I didn’t know. He said that I should take it. He responded that the Philadelphia police were always showing of their Benz, and it was time to show off ours. 

Be kind to yourself. 

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On the outside, looking in

​The year was 2011. I had purchased a roundtrip ticket from Washington, DC to Cape Town, South Africa. I would be vacationing in southern Africa for almost a month. I wanted to do all there was to do, and see all there was to see. While crossing a border (either from Mozambique to Swaziland, or Swaziland to South Africa), I started talking with one of the other passengers on the bus as we waited for everyone to clear customs and immigration. He asked me where I was from and if this was my first time in Africa. I told him that it was my first time, and that I lived in DC. He, a Mozambican  working in South Africa, went on to ask me how Africa was treating me. I let him know that I was enjoying my time and that everyone had been very welcoming and kind. His response has stayed with me, and probably will forever. He expressed happiness that Africa had been so welcoming. He told me that I was always welcome here, and that any family or friends would welcomed just as warmly across the continent. Wow! 

Fast forward to now. October 2016. I live in southern Africa. In Swaziland, on the border with South Africa. I have been asked family, friends, and locals if I’m scared, or worried, being so far away from home. I’m not. When I actually reflect on the state of affairs around the globe (especially in the US), I’m actually worried to return to the US. I’m a burly, bearded 30-something Black man, and I have feared and would fear for my safety in various parts of the US much more than here in Swaziland. 

Last year, as riots filled the streets of Baltimore (a 40 minute drive north of DC), I watched news coverage from my living room. People were fed up with another Black man dying at the hands of law enforcement officers. That evening, I received a text message from my brother saying, “Stay safe. It’s only a matter of time before the revolution makes down there (to DC).” Since I left the US in June, there have been even more Black people to die at the hands of law enforcement. There aren’t the same massive protests that seemed commonplace even a year ago when Black people were killed by law enforcement. I doubt that the protests can keep up with the shootings. As I write this, I think about that text message from my brother. I think about sending him a similar message. It’s a strange dichotomy. Some family and friends fear for my safety here in Swaziland, while I have similar fears for their respective safety across the US. 

In contrast to the many law enforcement shootings at home, I feel really safe, warm, and welcomed here in Swaziland. This is the country that has been called one of the friendliest in Africa. I’ve only seen one police officer with a firearm, and that was weird to see. The biggest fear of crime against me that I have here is being robbed or having something stolen, which is miniscule compared to my worries about speaking siSwati more fluently and being understood. 

Be kind to yourself.