Babatunde

Call me Batu. My real name is Babatunde. In yoruba, the language of my people, it means "father returns". When I was a child, my mother used to say I had the luckiest name in the family: my father would return some day - to take care of us. Mother is no more. And father never returned. In life, at least. They both keep coming in my dreams, though.
Kayin, my cousin and mate, claims Babatunde now has a new meaning. He is right, of course. It's my turn: I am a father of four - and must honour the promise in my name. I try to - really. I smile, I reach out, I wait.
But this place I'm in seems so far away. I don't mind hardship. It's the cold in people's eyes that makes me quiver, somehow. Seems my skin is too dark for them to trust me. And maybe theirs is too pale for me to feel at ease. I wonder...
Then again, Kayin says he knows why - but he won't tell. Not on this beach. Not on this day. Another time. When father returns.