Blonde Roots Read Online Free PDF Page B

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    Most important, the Burbs sold exotic Europane food unobtainable elsewhere. You could get Brussels sprouts, cucumber, lettuce, peas, tapioca pudding, lemonade, processed white bread, even cabbage.
    My mouth used to water at the very thought of all that lovely plain food without any horrid peppers and spices.
    The Burbs were out of bounds to the likes of me, of course, but I used to dream of wandering around the legendary Brixtane in the south of the city or To Ten Ha Ma in the east, which had been originally settled by Chinese seamen.
    Some of these free whytes earned a paltry living as porters or watermen down at the docks, while the women took in laundry, or more often were hawkers—of all kinds of wares.
    To the Ambossans the Vanilla Suburbs were generally a no-go area except for the feared sheriffs who trawled the dunes most days looking for runaways. Naturally it was the last destination for an escaping slave. More recently I’d heard that the more adventurous Aphrikan holidaymakers from the mainland of the continent had taken to visiting the Burbs on tourist trips to Great Ambossa. From the safety of their carriages and with an escort of Masai or Zulu warriors, they would gawk at the ghetto natives with anthropological fascination.
    The free whytes all stuck together in a city where sheriffs roamed the thoroughfares and stopped and searched young males under the dreaded SUS Laws—which meant detainment on suspicion of being either runaways or common or garden-variety criminals. Naturally, having a whyte skin was all the evidence the sheriffs needed to accost a young man and strip-search him. Most carriage drivers were always being stopped and searched by the sheriffs when they were out on the road without passengers, especially those owned by the wealthy who indulged in custom-made fittings such as gold-plated spokes.
    Adding to the danger were the opportunistic press gangs who roamed the backstreets and would happily tear up a Freedom Certificate and cart a hapless free man or woman off to a waiting slave ship at the docks of West Japan Quays on the Isle of Wild Dogs.
    I prayed those whyte men wouldn’t follow me. As a single whyte female, I was often sought after by my own men, who found my bony size-4 figure attractive. A prominent clavicle, corrugated chest bones, concave stomach and thin blonde hair were considered the embodiment of beauty in Europa, even though the Ambossans considered me ugly as sin. And as it was their world I was living in, I had image issues, of course.
    Every morning I’d repeat an uplifting mantra to myself while looking in the mirror. I’d try not to see the “pinched nostrils, pasty skin, greasy hair, pale shifty eyes and flat bottom” that the Ambossans labeled inferior. Instead I tried to say with confidence:
    “I may be fair and flaxen. I may have slim nostrils and slender lips. I may have oil-rich hair and a non-rotund bottom. I may blush easily, go rubicund in the sun and have covert yet mentally alert blue eyes. Yes, I may be whyte. But I am whyte and I am beautiful!”
    Our guys would call women who looked like me Barbee, named after the popular rag dolls of the Motherland, those floppy little female figures with one-inch waists, blue-button eyes and four-inch blonde tresses that every little girl loved over there.
    Not here, though. Find a little slave girl on this continent and you’ll discover she’s hankering after one of the Aphrikan Queens, a rag doll with a big butt, big lips, lots of bangles and woolly hair.
    It was so bad for our self-esteem.
    In private the more voluptuous whyte women were sometimes highly desired by the Ambossan male. In any case, all whyte women were labeled sexually insatiable. A sick joke, of course, because how could we refuse their advances?
    The Ambossan male liked his women large and juicy: a fat woman was a well-fed one, and when he strolled out with her it was as good as flashing his checkbook. Some women ate chicken hormones to