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The Racist Raisin

My gran was making currant buns. The flour and egg and all that stuff was mixed in the bowl and she tipped in the currants. As they fell into the mix a huge currant jumped up and shouted, "This is unfair, I'm a raisin, not a currant, I don't deserve to be treated like this."

"How should you be treated?" My gran asked.

"I'm a fat and juicy, all golden in colour. Look at these currants, all dried and dark and shrivelled."

"What's wrong with being dark and shrivelled?" Said my gran, whose skin looked like mahogany leather.

The raisin was abashed.

"There's nothing wrong with it," it said, shamefaced, "but it's not the way I'm supposed to be. If I was a currant I'd accept the way I was but I ain't no currant, I'm a raisin, and I'm proud of it."

"You're a racist," said my gran, "thinking you're better than anyone else."

"No I ain't," shouted the raisin, but his voice was filled with cake mix as my gran stirred him in with all the other ingredients.

When they were cooked I carefully broke my current bun into tiny bite sized pieces to check for a raisin 'cos I didn't want to eat something that might cause trouble inside me. I'd seen a race riots on TV. I didn't want one in my tummy.

Story by:

Samantha Memi

submitted at 10:35pm

20 July 2011

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