​We Can’t Do That Here, by Cynthia Ajuzie

Sunday Afternoon on La Grande Jatte, by Georges Seurat (France) 1884

​We Can’t Do That Here
 
The woman notices you. During her visit, she sees you peering out from the bedroom in your tiny princess pajamas. Your eyes are like two black stones ready to roll away from your skull upon catching sight of this figure. Her skin is a patchwork of colours: light browns, rusted reds, dried purples. 

This encounter, though brief, stays with you. The kaleidoscopic woman. Her image is transported to your mind one day when you are on a date at an art museum. The man you are with holds your hand kindly but explains each piece to you like you are a child. Since you are 34 and Nigerian American and unmarried, you let him guide you. This is called pointillism, he says. It was founded in the late 19th century, coined by a French painter named Georges Seurat. It involves painting miniscule dots until they form a cohesive piece from a distance. You look from afar first, then move closer to see the details. Hundreds of colourful specks together but separated by glimpses of white. It is in staring at the white space, the dot-less, that the memory of the woman’s face intrudes into your mind, accompanied by a scene of muffled words and actions:

Through the cracked door, the kitchen light breaks the darkness of the bedroom. You move your eyes quickly to take in everything. There is a woman standing near the counter. Based on her appearance, you don’t register her as Nigerian. She wears a wrinkled, navy tracksuit and a gray coat, buttons done wrong. A few strands of fine, black hair graze her shoulders, while the rest is held in a slack ponytail. Her light tawny skin, almost translucent, is mottled with bruises. 

I don’t know what else to do, she says, eyes glossed.

Your mom shakes her head and apologizes, handing the woman a tissue like a practiced behaviour.

Your dad grabs his phone and dials. Moments pass before someone answers his call.

How many times do I have to tell you that you can’t do that here? his voice raises through the receiver.
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Your mind locks onto the word “here” and wonders what it means. At first, you think it means your house. Though, you had not seen or heard anything happen to the woman in your home that night. But now, at this museum, as you reflect on the collage of painted pain covering the woman’s skin, the “here” occupies more space than the creaky walls of your home. It symbolizes a larger world, a land of opportunity. A world separated from there.
 
Cynthia Ajuzie
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This story was first published in Quarter After Eight.
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Cynthia Ajuzie is a Nigerian American writer who grew up in Baltimore, Maryland. While attending University of Virginia, she wrote for the theatrical production, The Black Monologues, and had her work performed for the university’s community. After obtaining a BA in Literary Prose, Cynthia taught high school English for three years in Houston, Texas within an underserved community. She is an MFA graduate from Rutgers University-Newark and her work can be found in the literary magazine, Quarter After Eight and Brittle Paper.