Tales from the North

Two strangers met in a bar. One from Chile and one from Colombia. As all bar talk tends to do, their conversation turned towards their lives at home. The Chilean man spoke of cold summer days spent toiling in the fields and even colder winter nights spent huddling in a hut.
    "Ah, how warm it must be in Colombia. With all the full bosomed women, it must be paraíso."
The Colombian shook his head.
    "Colombia is no paraíso. I'd give an arm and a leg to live like you do. But alas, a wife and baby need supporting and there's only one way to do that in the North. Drugs and cartels."
The infamous couple, known to many yet understood by few. Lives are harvested by the cartels which in turn are used to make and transport the drugs. A vicious cycle ravaging Central America.
    "Perhaps Colombia is not for me," the Chilean muttered.
    "Sí," the Colombian chuckled.
And they grew silent, these two men. Each lost in his own drink, pondering the situation of the other. 


It's the start of the 20th century and racial tensions are running high. A young black accountant heads South for a business trip. It's his first time down there and he's heard all kinds of things on the news. He takes a Greyhound cause, well, he ain't rich and a Greyhound is cheaper than a plane. It's gotta be quite unnerving getting on a bus full of white people so he finds a familiar face to sit beside. Not familiar like two friends would be, familiar like when two black sheep meet in a field of white sheep. Charlie (the other guy's name) was visiting his niece who got into some kind of "smart person" school.
    "So, what's an accountant doing in the South?"
    "A textile company needs their auditing done and I was the only person free at the office."
    "Must not have been your lucky day."
    "How so? I've heard on the news that blacks are finally getting to own property."
    "I don't know what you've been listening to sonny, but life ain't swell in the South if your skin's too dark. I'd reckon that 1000 of our folk gets lynched every year. If you was thinking of getting some sightseeing done, I'd forget that. Do your job and get out."
    "Really? So the South ain't like the North? I've always thought the South would feel like home. After all, it's where my mother and my father were born."
    "Didn't they tell you anything, boy? The South is where all the old money is at. They don't take any guff from your politicians, as such, none of the Northern laws regarding blacks have reached the South so life is basically the same as when slavery was a thing."
    "Ah, I see." The accountant was skeptical of the stories his friends told him but Charlie's story, from a real Southern black, was the last straw.




I was going to write more stories but I ran outa time.