Around six weeks into my time in Sierra Leone, I took on the persona of my too expensive shoe and wrote a long running narrative about my existence. I think I did this one after a blistering hot, humid day. Since it was July, I probably got rained on on the way home.

Kinsei: first-world shoe in a third-world country
July 17th, 2006

I’m a duality: two separate yet equal parts, working in tandem to do great things. Left Foot. Right Foot. Though they live in an independent and autonomous state, they’re inseparable. They are two, but they are one. They are me. This is my story.

I know little of my history. What I can tell you is that I was conceived far away in a mind’s eye by a great visionary. He had seen those like me before, and he was displeased. He sought to build a better, more efficient version of what he saw around him. He constructed me with care from the finest materials and gave me a body for sacrifice and a soul for speed, if it were to be my destiny. And he saw that I was good.

I was sold into slavery by a man named Bruce in the early spring while I was still young. Bruce worked in a paradoxical way- he spoke of my virtues. He was my champion. He loved me like a father might yet in singing my praises, delivered me into a life of hardship. I had experienced nothing short of birth and darkness when I learned of my relocation. I knew neither my destination nor how my life would unfold. But even if I did, it wouldn’t have mattered. I was born to experience my fate, wherever it would lead me.

My master broke me in slowly. In the beginning, life was easy. Days were short and were spent navigating the streets of Europe. We moved from the cobblestone roads of Paris to the fields of Switzerland to the rolling hills of Tuscany. The work was light, the sun bathed me in its warmth for the first time, and the women were sweet.

Yet I was lonely. But this was my burden.

Several weeks were spent in isolation. I remember little, save a few dark journeys nestled in with some foul-smelling textiles. The dark times ended. Then resumed.

Light came suddenly, though not unexpectedly. The air grew warmer and more humid. In my soul - intrinsically - I became aware that I had entered my raison d’etre. The sand was sweet, but the pavement was hard. I spent my days in the sun, but unlike my Master, my color remained constant. It was only my soles that became red from the loose arid dirt that lined the streets here.

Today was particularly tough. My master brought me into the wilderness to test me. To tempt me. To break me. The beginning was deceptively easy. He either went slow and even when his speed increased, he kept me on the sand, where the remnants of small blue waves would refreshingly tickle my sides as they died on the beachhead. I drank it in.

Then things changed. Master decided more speed was necessary. Companions that had joined us faded into the distance and for a brief moment, we were airborne. The pavement almost broke me. I lost all consciousness, only to fade back in, then out, ripe with agony and delirious from the thick air. Master kept going, but I noticed his stride began to change. Like me, he felt the pain.

Like me, he felt pain. But his weakness was that he succumbed to it. Where I owned my pain, he was owned by his. He mistook my submission for acquiescence and paid the price.

In the forty-third minute, the bad foot and the bad air had caught up to him. He favored Left Foot and wheezed when the black smoke of the afternoon traffic engulfed his senses. We passed several piles of trash and pools of filthy water. I could hear Master hold his breath as he alternated between running and resting, trying to save face in the midst of his peers. I sensed we were moving closer to his – our – home.

The pavement faded and I felt the rough texture of the dirt and stones of Signal Hill. I sensed conversations in the smoky air and laughter. The conversations were in a language I recognized but was unable to decipher.

We passed men, women, and children. They were laughing with increasing intensity as we moved closer. Perhaps they were laughing at him- at us. The hill grew steeper and Master had a second wind.

It was over quickly. We were home. I felt us hobbling up a set of stairs, indicating our presence on the ceramic times. I felt myself being loosened and simultaneously stretched. We were kicked off and left in solitude by the door. Our movement had ceased and we were left to rest. For the time being. Out of the corner of my eye, I sensed Master sinking his feet into a bucket of ice water. He was finished, at least for today.