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As a journalist, I thought I hit a big one and could bring a bigger light to things that are happening. Black mothers and Native mothers are questioning why their sons are being taken, snatched, and erased like they didn’t spend hours in labor only to be told by officials, “Sorry, we can’t find anything on these boys.” These mothers don’t understand how that is even possible. There’s really no news coverage, and missing persons flyers fade with the seasons.
So, I, Danuwoa, come in demanding answers for these mothers.
“Who cares?” One detective told me. “There are more important things for our people to take care of than some missing little Black and Native boys. They’ll show up eventually.”
Every place these boys were last seen, I went. I asked questions. I walked up and down these streets like I could relive their last moments right before they were taken. It’s always the same thing. No one saw anything.
How do eleven teenage boys from different counties just disappear without a trace?
These mothers reached out to me every day, asking if I had found anything about their sons. The only thing I gave them was false hope. And the only thing I could conclude was that what happened to their sons was human trafficking.
I made sure the newspapers kept their photos, and I wrote something on each of them showing readers, “What if this were your child?” There was no public outcry, no movements, and if the news stations covered their stories, it was brief and then followed by some celebrity cheating scandal that people cared more about.
And I was back at the corner where a Blockbuster used to be. Outside of it, homeless people pitched tents, did their drugs, and engaged in prostitution. Some of them would speak to me if I gave them money.
“Ten.” The older gentleman said.
He smelled of urine and gasoline.
I take a crumpled bill out of my wallet I was going to use to buy Taco Bell for dinner.
“I saw one of them boys.” He said.
I showed him the photos I carried around. He looked through each of them and pointed a shaky, dirty finger. “Seen him walking out here one night with an older Black guy. Kid looked drugged up. Eyes glazed over.”
“What did this guy look like?”
“Black.”
“Features.”
“Don’t know.”
“Okay.” I said. “Did they get in a car?”
“A fog came in. And they were gone.”
“Fog?”
“Yeah.” He said, scratching his beard. “Black guy looked at me tho. Eyes red. Like glowing. And the fog came in and took ’em.”
I wrote it down. Every word. I didn’t know what drawer to put it in, but I wrote it down anyway. Then I looked down the street where he was pointing, like the fog might still be there.
Do I even trust the words of a junkie?
