Two hours a night he walks; past the smelly streets and loud music, the hungry passers by and furious shop owners. Every now and then, a rat scurries across his feet and he s only vaguely startled. He is more interested in how the rat might be- black, white, brown. Someone says, “John, wash those plates.” Who’s John? What might John be doing if not washing plates?

There’s no other thing for a rich blind man to o in the hours between six and eight. He sleeps till eleven am, eats, sleeps again, plays the piano, eats, sleeps. By six, the skin around his eyes is hot and taut and he has to walk. Early on, in those days when he could remember the difference between red and magenta, when the whole world could not possibly be black, these two hours were an infection in his psyche where all manner of mental illnesses bred. He rolled on his bed, dissatisfied, replaying what the doctor had said. Of course, he had to lose his sight. It was the logical, rational, occurrence.

He steps on something like skin and feels juices spill out of it and land on his leg. Smells, sadly, have not lost their pungency, but he is no longer queasy inhaling them. He has pleaded, begged, prayed, for synaesthesia. He tries to see if he can get it, though. The liquid smells brown, or black. No, grey. Gutter water.

“You yellow fool.”

“You black monkey.”

He knows the voices. This is the restaurant where he stays for twenty minutes after his walk, when his phone vibrates. His help, Julia would be home now, preparing his late night snack, his bath, his bed. “Junior, John,” he calls, “it doesn’t matter what color you are.”

“Ha, Oga,” they say, their indignant voices cloaked with mock enthusiasm. He smiles bitterly. He doesn't want to act mature. he wants to know how truly black this monkey is.

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