Page 93 of The Black Flamingo

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I say, offering a wooden spoonful.

He takes a tiny taste.

“So what is ackee?”

“It’s a fruit,” I tell him.

“It comes in a tin.”

I fish the empty tin

out of our recycling bin.

I hand it to him and

take back the spoon.

“How fascinating,” he says,

examining it like an alien artifact.

I don’t last long at Freshman Fair

in Library Square. There are sports teams

in their full uniforms trying to sign people up.

The soccer, rugby, and basketball teams

all look terrifying to me.

There are other groups of people at tables

with banners and flags, giving out their flyers.

I see a rainbow flag but I’ve already checked

on the Students’ Union website to find out

when LGBT Society meets, so I don’t go over.

I already have a reminder in my phone for it,

along with African Caribbean Society and

open mic night.

Instead, I go to a less intimidating table

of posters: there’s one with a black cat

and French writing, another of clocks that look

like they’re melting; there’s one of a big blue

and white wave; there’s aPulp Fictionmovie

still of Samuel L. Jackson and John Travolta

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