Hello Blog-world. Trust your weekdays were awesome. Mine had me pressed against the corner at a spreadeagle posture with my torso twined like a flexible mannequin.
Anyway, weekend starts in an hour (as I assume) and what better way to part the grand curtain than a piece.
I wrote this yesterday, pent up with fatigue. I attempted peeking into my thoughts – ever done that? – and penned the sights, sounds, and emotions. Stuff is, we don’t really see ourselves till we seek. Hence, God alone knows the heart…
Thwack, thwack. Digression. The piece shoots off in the next paragraph. I also added a picture of me – I’m not big on them. From the best I can summon, I pray a rewarding weekend for you. Stay meek.
About sixteen boys are pushed in a random queue before the door. A blue plate is pinned on the door, with the occupier’s name chiseled in block fonts. A man appears and orders three in. The remaining boys scamper past wooden stools to a larger entrance. The man takes four steps. A week’s worth of stubble festoons his cheek. He’s telling the remnants the difference between university and secondary school. They are as silent as the dead.
The book lies at centerspread. With the tip of a blunt pen, the writer churns away. Her eyes do not shift from the figure manning the stage. The figure is draped in an oversize shirt. To say he’s thin would be calling a tornado a slight storm. The hem of his pants jump to reveal sun-beaten ankles. He drops the marker and steps off the dais. The girl with the book stops writing. She doesn’t raise her head. Just as the figure approaches the girl, a thunderbolt strikes. The room is ghostly quiet in one minute and awashed with surprise the next minute. Two students are at the stairs, panting. The door is still swinging from the outburst. No one says anything.
Bunches of bananas are arranged in semicircles on a rusted tray. The girl kneeling at the tray is only slightly bigger than a bunch. The senior walks past the fruits, takes a pause, and drops his head backward. He turns slowly and considers the forest-green fruits. The girl springs like an exploded canister. She grabs two bunches and draws the senior. A mate passes and urges the senior to purchase. His brows arch and his stomach grumbles. A hand goes into the pocket. The pocket swallows two-thirds of the arm before spewing out six ruined notes. The girl before to grin.
A pavement, solid concrete, extends the length of the tarred passage, cut off only occasionally, in the event there’s a roundabout. One of such is marked in black and white paints, like a zoomed zebra crossing. It runs behind foggy bushes, arriving at West Gate. The gate is controversial, choosing to stay closed some and part wide some. On the other side of the road, tall trees sway east to west at the smallest breeze. The trees stand in proximity to each other, forming a frontline attack and a rear guard. In between, all that is expected is present.
Originally made for two, then converted to six, the room harbors ten bodies. They lay on mattresses as the sojourner makes his entry. His legs feel drained of blood, and a push from behind would have him tumbling. The sojourner is not so tall and less favored in body fatness. At times, he walks straight, like a parading soldier. Tonight is not one of those nights. Two of the occupants have mouths parted to exhale, the release filling the room like the grunt of a sow. The sojourner drops his items and slugs off.
It’s half past five in the morning. Before me are the rigid tasks for the day, not different from those undergone the previous day. I yawn, lift my lower leg, and sleep off.