The Brother from Another Planet

There was no sign of enslaved life in this city of Harlem; no city on this planet could thrive tethered to pain for long, not with its alleys and after-hour joints to scream in: a quadrant whose design holds mysteries, shibboleths, and idioms. In the streets, life forms “walked” on leashes but cared for by others tugging the leash, feeding those leashed, scooping up excrement behind them. Their behavior bends through my mind like voices breaking through a boarded-up window. There was no place in which The Men in Black could blend with inhabitants; though some inhabitants, some who looked like them, would also get lost in the city, both stood out as lost men, trying to find a way out. My goal was to cast a shadow alongside those who accepted me; our shadows cast the same darkness. Some were flung against walls, some were thrown to the ground. All the same darkness.

Question: Do our shadows make us equals in light?

I’m an alien to those around me, though we look alike . . . They search my face . . . They call me brother: They say, “The brother has a way with machines, but he’s short on words.” They say, “The brother just wants to sit in peace, man. Leave him alone.” But I want to stay among those who call me brother, not left alone. I understand what they mean when they talk, but I cannot speak their language; I can only reply with my deeds. They seem to appreciate my honesty.

Question: Why do they even speak, when words fall short?

I’ve escaped, it seems, to a home in which I’ve never lived. Though the possibility of this seems nil, or, at least, illogical. Yet, I explored to see how close I could come to a proof . . . I made friends . . . I made love . . . I cared for those I had never met . . . Time passed . . . Soon, I noticed my feet were not like theirs. The three toes on each of my feet have onyx nails. When I heard a woman singing, I fell in love. I cut my toenails, made her a necklace. When I offered it to her, I held my heart; she smiled. Her palm fit inside mine like a girl holding her father’s hand. I found a boy inside me. I smiled, too . . . Time passed . . . One day, down an alley, I found a boy with a needle in his arm; his body lay still. I took the instrument from his vein, pulled it out from his vein, inserting it into mine. I felt as if my shadow were peeled off the ground, as if my shadow walked away from me . . . Time passed . . . I awakened . . . I began my mission to find The Source of this joy that was not good in me. I observed. But I heard someone’s mother say it’s rude to stare, so I walked away, leaving my right eye in a potted plant . . . Time passed . . . Night: I came to retrieve data from my eye. I traced The Source of the pain . . . I set out to track The Source . . .

Question: What god makes a love one cannot put down, even as it destroys?

I recognize the potential for drudgery. Years ago, I escaped slavery on my planet. The skills I used to escape, I’ll use now to stay free. These skills adapt well to my new home, where brotherhood is a language. Those who don’t know its alphabet, soon feel the jarring of earth beneath them . . . I located The Source . . . The Source had not consumed the substance he released through the city. I smothered him in its acquired taste. The skills I used to escape, I use now to help others stay free. But by “getting involved,” which is how I heard a man in the Lenox Lounge describe it, I exposed myself. The Men in Black found me . . . I ran . . . I fought back . . . I kept running . . . The local brothers tried to help, but they were not equipped. I ran . . . I fought back . . . A quiet came over the city. Time passed . . . I kept running. I...