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“Guess where she works!”
He, a tall beautiful dread, considered me for a moment. “Give me a clue.”
“Well, she’s a journalist,” said my loctician, while I squirmed in a mixture of ouch-you’re-pulling-my-hair and embarrassment.
“Aha! The Voice!” he said, referring to the UK’s major “Afro-Caribbean” newspaper.
“No, try again.”
“New Nation!” he said, confident I was an employee of The Voice’s major rival.
“No no no. She working for a white man newspaper.”
“Oh ho? The Observer? The Times?”
“No, whiter than that.”
“The Guardian!” he said, in a tone that brooked no argument.
“No, no it’s none of the above,” I said, at last, and confessed.
He stared for a moment. “Serious? Freelance or staff?”
“Staff.”
“Pensions and everything? Well done girl. Show them white people what we can do.”
