Midnight
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Midnight Ch. 01 free porn video
Please note: There is no sex in this story for the first few chapters. – Virtual Atheist
MIDNIGHT
A Tale of Misfits, Colour, Education and Science
PROLOGUE
Hiya, I’m Usiku Wa Manane. Manni to my friends. Well, what’s to say? I’m a less than typical Yorkshire lass with a less than typical life. It’s basically been a journey from a slut to a princess and back to slut again.
There’s more to it that that, obviously. After all nobody can describe themselves in a single word.
I’ve been a swot, a slut, a nigger (not too keen on that one), a barmaid, an executive assistant, a princess, a wife, a mother, a doctor and a slut… Yes, I know I said slut twice.
I’m highly intelligent. That’s not a boast, merely a statement of truth and I’m incredibly well organised, with a love of learning. These things play a huge part in the way things panned out, so please understand that I’m really not trying to blow my own trumpet, it’s all part of the rich tapestry that I call my life.
Sound interesting? Maybe you’d like to hear about it. I hope so, otherwise my time here on the patio with my laptop and a flask of strong coffee is a bit of a waste.
Anyway, here goes…
CHAPTER ONE
Where to begin? At the beginning I suppose.
My parents came over from Kenya as a young couple looking to improve their lives. They could have tried to emigrate to America. Maybe if they had, I’d have been a Valley Girl or living next door to Disney World in Florida. But nooooo, they had to move to freezing, fucking Yorkshire!
Not only that, but they moved to Kingston Upon Hull, a proper shit hole of a place. If the planet needed an enema, then Hull is where the tube would go. Now there are cities in the north of England with a large ethnic population, but at the time, Hull wasn’t one of them. So my parents stood out, to say the least.
My parents, Siwatu and Chiku Mwenye both managed to find work rapidly, at the time it was easy to get a job, if it was one that not many people really wanted to do. Dad got a job on the docks and mum ended up on the production line of a factory across the road from it that produced aerosol paint sprays.
They were hard working people and although they started their married life in this country in a tiny council flat on the Bransholme estate, a place where the council normally put ‘challenging families’ if you know what I mean, they scrimped and saved and got the deposit together for a small, two up-two down in a little side street, just off Newlands Avenue, near the University on Cottingham Road.
Yes, I know that’s a rather select area of Hull now, but it wasn’t at the time. It was a different world back then. I’ll give you an example, Because there were very few black people in Hull at the time, my parents were known locally as the nignogs at number seventeen. Don’t get me wrong, it wasn’t racist Well I suppose it was But there was no hatred, no rancour. It was just descriptive, like ‘the fat bastard who ran the chip shop’ or ‘the gaylord with the antique shop’. I know it wouldn’t happen now, that innocent, casual bigotry… Like I said, it was a different world. The racism I faced later on had a much sharper edge to it.
Anyway, into their little lives came me. Born on the stroke of midnight between 28 and 29 February. The midwife asked my parents if they wanted the time ‘adjusted’ so I was born on a particular day rather than in between as it were.
Dad wanted to change the time to 00:01 29 February, his reasoning being that it would save a fortune on birthday presents. He was joking, or at least he always maintained that he was.
Apparently mum went fucking ballistic. Hardly surprising I suppose, after thirteen hours of labour and a rather difficult delivery, she had a bit of a sense of humour failure.
Dad bore the brunt, but he managed in his own way to calm her down, what with his easy smile and his cheerful, disarming manner. It helped that he loved her to distraction, and she knew it! I know for a fact they fancied the pants off each other too! I’ve lost count of the number of times that I was kept awake, by the banging of a headboard against the shared wall, and the shouting and wailing of two people going at it like the World’s about to end.
But anyway, that was Dad all over, even at the most emotional of times, he was always ready with a bad joke. At least back then he was… And that’s how I prefer to remember him.
Actually, it was how I got my name.
Although it sounds like it should be, Usiku Wa Manane isn’t a traditional African name. It’s Swahili and it means ‘Midnight’. Dad thought it was appropriate and Mum just liked the sound of it.
Don’t for one second think that you can call me Midnight though!
Jimmy Parker in primary school found that out the hard way, but he was just the first of a few… Arseholes… Who thought my name and my skin tone were some sort of a joke. It didn’t take long for me to stop volunteering the meaning of my name unless somebody asked, and people rarely did.
If that made it sound like I was some sort of deadly street fighter, it wasn’t supposed to. What I meant was that I could have a bit of a temper, but normally restricted myself to shouty words. If it came to a proper punch up, I had maybe one good slap in me, but after that I’d be in trouble.
Fortunately for me, I wasn’t in many arguments that got physical.
I was only ever called Usiku Wa Manane by my Mum, and only when I was in the shit.
One… And only one person calls me Midnight, and that person isn’t you!
My childhood was normal I suppose. I had my circle of friends from starting at infants school, most of whom stayed in my life up to secondary school (that’s high school for our colonial cousins), and apart from the occasional altercation about my name that was it.
Well, not quite. The thing is, I’m top heavy if you know what I mean. I hit puberty and my bosoms grew and grew… And grew… And then just to go from the sublime to the ridiculous, grew some more. By the time I was sixteen, when they eventually stopped expanding I reached 44G. My figure was curvy, I was never a slimline gazelle, and finally stabilised at 44GG3038.
Sound sexy? Yeah, but not from where I was standing. Look, I was fully grown, 5’8′ thanks to my Swahili heritage, but even on my tall frame, my tits looked like a dead heat in a Zeppelin race! Back ache, ill fitting bras, never able to find trendy clothes to wear without spilling out all over the place… And the comments from dirty old men. Honestly! It didn’t take long for that shit to get old.
I also hated my hair. I was determined to change it to the ‘natural’ Caucasian style, A bit like Beyonce’s hair… Only I did it first, she pinched the idea from me. Okay, I suppose Diana Ross beat both of us to have it ‘natural’, or was it Aretha Franklin? Oh fuck it! Who cares? Anyway, it was my idea to dye it.
That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.
So there I was fully feminine with dyed, straight, blondish hair with red highlights, that I liked to wear in a ponytail for everyday. Chocolate brown eyes, and skin the colour of my name. My complexion could only be described as glossy. At night, you could see me a mile away. Not joking, black skin shines at night, did you know that?
S’true.
That’s why black soldiers (contrary to the old wives tales) have to use camouflage cream, just like white soldiers do. Although I couldn’t see it myself, my African features were regarded as quite pretty. Not beautiful, but pretty.
I know, I know. Easy to blow my own trumpet, but like I said I always thought I just looked ordinary. It was my girlfriends who told me I was pretty, and more than a few of the boys… Although I suspect they had ulterior motives for buttering me up, but more on that later.
Anyway, like I said, I had a normal childhood, Barbie dolls, boys we
re smelly until I was thirteen and then they were more interesting, make up, fashion and giggling with my friends about how Marlene Moore had been caught being very naughty with Dave Wilkes and wasn’t allowed out for a fortnight.
All in all, I just had a very normal childhood. I never rebelled against my parents, they never beat or starved me. In fact the only time I was in real trouble was when Mum caught me smoking when I was fourteen, ‘Just you wait until your Father gets home!’ she shouted, dragging me by the ponytail from Sally’s garden shed back up the street to my house.
I was mortified. Not only because all of my friends saw the whole embarrassing episode, but also because I was certain Dad was gonna kill me. I mean, I thought he was going to stand me in the street and run me over with his car or maybe, beat me to death with a claw hammer.
He didn’t, obviously. What he did was sigh deeply and give me a look of disappointment. One that broke my heart worse than any beating ever could. Then he forced me to smoke a whole pack of Capstan’s full strength, unfiltered cigarettes… And then clean the vomit up when I got to number eleven. And yes, he did make me finish the pack, afterwards!
I never smoked again!
In fact, I can’t stand to be around people who are smoking. The smell makes me feel sick to this day.
I always did well at school, not just because I was intelligent and I worked hard, but also because, like I told you, I love learning new things, always have, always will. I had a Saturday job at a local cafe, just across the road from the main entrance to the University. When the going was slow I’d often find myself leaning on the counter and staring out of the window at the students going in and out of those hallowed halls of learning. It was my dream to go there after my A Levels to study either history or archaeology, I hadn’t decided yet.
My social life was hectic too, but I was always able to manage. You see I learned very early to organise my time effectively, I never set out to do it, it just worked out that way. Good genes I suppose, that and the work ethic that my parents instilled in me.
I passed my O Levels at sixteen and went on to the Sixth Form to study for my A Levels. The plan being to get good passes and hopefully go on to university.
So there I was, just turned seventeen, halfway through my A Levels… And my whole world fell apart.
I was in double History when Mr Willis, the Headmaster came in and pulled me out of the class. I knew from his sombre expression that something was wrong.
‘What is it? What’s happened?’ I asked.
‘Miss Mwenye, I have some bad news for you…’
I was starting to panic, ‘What?’
‘There’s been a fire at the factory where your mum works.’
I started to cry, ‘Is she okay?’
He removed his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose before saying as gently as he could, ‘I’m sorry Manni… She’s dead.’
I almost collapsed. I don’t remember much about what happened in the next few hours. I know I was screaming and sobbing. I know the pain and grief were overwhelming and I know that Miss Weatherall, one of the PT teachers took me home in the school minibus and waited there with me until my Dad could come home.
It took some time as Dad had been taken from the docks to the hospital, he had the job of identifying the body.
When he did get home, I could tell that he had been crying too, but was trying his best to stay strong for me. Miss Weatherall gave us both a hug and told us both not to hesitate to ask if we needed anything. Then she left us in our grief.
I don’t like thinking about this part of my life. Mum’s funeral wasn’t the only one I had to attend.
Sally Thomsett, a friend who had started at the factory when she left school at sixteen, died in hospital a few days later. They told us that she had suffered awful injuries and that her jeans had actually melted to her legs.
The papers reported that nine people died in the fire, and that Mum had indeed not suffered. An electrical fault had caused a spark that ignited some spilled chemicals in the aerosol store. Mum had entered the store with a pallet transporter just as the cans exploded. That is at least one small mercy. She was dead before she even knew there was a problem… Didn’t make it any easier on me and Dad though.
After the funeral, I spent the next few months in a daze. Shame really, if I’d been more together I might have noticed… I might have been able to help Dad. I still blame myself. In my heart of hearts, I know I’m not responsible, but I still carry a lot of guilt.
I never saw him smile again, not the easy, beaming grin that he wore most of the time before the accident. Oh he smiled at times, but it wasn’t the same, it would be just a sad, half smile that never reached his eyes.
He started drinking too. Something he’d never done before.
I found myself taking on more and more household duties as well as juggling schoolwork, my part time job at the cafe and my social life, such as it was by that point. Not only that, but our finances began to suffer as well.
Dad started to drop into the pub on the way home from work every day, drinking all his pay and more and more often failing to give me enough to buy groceries. It lead to some massive arguments I can tell you.
We couldn’t afford to pay the electricity so it was cut off, then the gas went. We would have lost the water as well, if it wasn’t against the law for them to stop our water supply, but they sent us many, many shitty letters.
I must admit, one of the lowest points was when I went to my money box to get a few bob for some milk and found it empty. Dad had taken every last penny I owned so he could nip to the Spotted Dog and get drunk… Again. I started hiding my money after that.
Can you imagine that? Having to hide your money from your own father so you knew you’d be able to eat for the week.
Something had to give, and sadly it was my schoolwork. My grades suffered and I simply couldn’t afford to stay in school, so I asked at the cafe if I could work full time.
I took myself to bed and cried my eyes out. The door had just been slammed in my face. I wasn’t going to pass my A Levels and I wasn’t going to University. All my hopes, all my dreams were crushed and I knew I would never escape from this shit hole of a city.
When Dad fell in through the front door that night, I went absolutely ballistic at him. I mean I went for the fucking jugular! Although I may as well have not bothered, he was so pissed up he could barely understand a word I said. I rarely spoke to him after that, he stopped speaking to me all together. The best response I could ever hope for was an unintelligible grunt in response to any question.
It made no difference. He continued drinking, lost his job because he was found to be drunk at work whilst he was driving the container lifter. So he went on the dole and got a cheque every two weeks… That he immediately went out and drank.
It was killing me to see this once happy, vibrant, hard working man change before my eyes into a shambling wreck. He never washed or changed his clothes. I stopped going into his bedroom to try and keep it as clean as I kept the rest of the house. The smell in there was sickening, the best I could do was push the door slightly open and spray air freshener inside to try and stop the stench from seeping out on to the landing.
I honestly thought my life couldn’t get any worse. I was wrong, not only could it get worse… It did.
We started getting red letters from the mortgage company. Dad hadn’t paid it in months. At first they were antsy, but now they were getting serious.
I’ll never forget the knock on the door that afternoon. I’d just got home from work and started running a bath for a nice long soak as my back and my feet were killing me. I was shocked to see two very large men at the doo
r. They had a piece of paper that stated the house was being repossessed. I was going to be thrown out of the only home I’d ever known.
But that wasn’t the worst, they were also there to empty the house of furniture to cover several other household bills that hadn’t been paid.
I had to stand and watch as every stick of furniture was removed. One of the men supervised me as I filled two small suitcases with clothing and escorted me from the house before they secured it with new locks. Several curtains twitched and more than a few of the neighbours came out to openly gawk.
I was burning with shame.
The humiliation of standing there in the street seeing the expressions on faces ranging from pity, to the outright glee of a small bloke who lived three doors down, who had never made a secret of the fact that he hated us.
Yep! Being made homeless was my eighteenth birthday present. That’s right, in less than a year, my life was destroyed.
All I could do was sit on the kerb with my head in my hands and listen to one of the bailliffs advise me that if I needed money, there were always spots available in front of the railway station in the city centre… That was where the cheap prostitutes plied their trade.
I must admit the other bloke was a bit nicer. He offered me a card with some numbers for the housing department of the local council.
Eventually, I made my way over to the council offices, stopping off at the Spotted Dog to properly tear into Dad in front of all his alcoholic friends. I told him that I never wanted to see him again.
And I never did.
A few days later, he walked out of the pub, straight in front of a bus. To this day, I don’t know if it was just because he was out of his tree on cheap whisky or if he did it on purpose. All I know is, I didn’t mourn his passing. I was all cried out. I was numb.
Anyway, the housing clerk told me that my name had been added to the waiting list and as a single female, I was quite high up the list. She told me that if I wanted to increase my chances of getting something decent, I should nip out and get myself pregnant. I didn’t tell her to go and fuck herself… Not quite.
For the next few weeks, I slept where I could, a few days on the couch of a friend here, a spare bedroom there, but more and more often I made myself as comfortable as I could in the small concrete yard at the back of the cafe. I had to be sure that I made myself scarce in the morning, before the cafe opened. I really didn’t want my employers to know my predicament. I still had some pride after all.
I used to sneak into the gym at the University to use the showers. I had to keep myself clean somehow.
Eventually, the council placed me in a small flat in one of the highrise blocks on the Orchard Park Estate at the north end of Hall Road. It was a complete dump. Cheap nylon carpets. No cooker, just a two ring electric hob in a small kitchenette. A tiny living room that lead on to a concrete balcony and a pokey little bedroom. I did at least have a bathroom again and the place was furnished… Massively cheap and shabby furniture, but beggars couldn’t be choosers.
My main problem was, even this basic flat was beyond my means with just the cafe job. I needed to find something else to bulk my income up a bit. The rent and utilities would eat up my meager savings in just a few months.
Another problem was the estate itself. It was a slum and a dangerous place to live, especially for a girl on her own and it didn’t help that I was black. I lost count of the number of times that the graffiti on my front door was added to. More often than not it was a variation on the theme of ‘Niggers Out!’ and I heard the cry of, ‘Fuck off, Nigger!’ pretty much daily. After all, your average racist scumbag isn’t really known for his imagination.
The lifts never worked, so I had to make my way to and from my seventh floor hovel down several unlit flights of steps that stank of piss, and had more than their share of used condoms and syringes scattered around.
Oceana
- 05.03.2020
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