P1.1
There is a boy lounging against a pillar, half of him exposed to sunlight, the rest enjoying the dry coolness of a shaded corridor. In his hands are manuscripts in the Talhamaic writing,
which fear no prospect of abandonment by this boy anytime soon. Very unlike the case with other boys his age whose rancorous laughter float over the wall separating their play area from the ancient library courtyard in which he presently resides. His name is Adembi, and he’s late, very late. Putting aside the graceful nature in which he was taught to walk, Adembi hurriedly rolls up his manuscript and dashes with terrific urgency. His robes flow about him as though clouds, never quite losing their graceful appearance even as his surroundings flash by him in his haste. Adembi is a Talham. Theirs is a culture of grace and beauty which
is woven into even the most mundane of tasks. Painfully aware of the ruckus he is making in this most ancient of institutions, it is as though pins tumble in his stomach with every step he
takes in his rush through the labyrinth of corridors and stairs, courtyards and more corridors; a fountain; a tight squeeze between wizened professors; a window opening into yet another
courtyard; a rear passage through an occupied lecture hall. “How is it that I am late again? Professor will not listen to my pleas for pardon this time,” He ponders anxiously until “Adembi!” The roar of fury kills his thoughts and brings him skidding to a halt. It came from behind him. “I know this voice,” he thinks, in great trepidation. “Okay… one, two, three.” Turning around his suspicion is confirmed by the person standing before him. “Adembi, after me, now!”
P1.2
All around him people are chanting! He didn’t expect to find himself imprisoned within a mass of bodies that long since became one organism. “FREE THE PEOPLE!” Another chant launches forth from the swarming mass. Someone here dislodged the reluctance within him to join this movement. “FREE THE PEOPLE,” red eyes bulge with the intensity of the chant. Someone whom he watches with growing anxiety. It’s dry season in the capital. Dust from far away deserts have been unforgiving to people gathered as far as the eye can see. All because of this man he watches with great concern. The man has been on his knees for days. From where Kuromi kneels, he can see the tarmac beneath them stained red from the man’s blood. The man’s feeble lips move noiselessly once more, and Kuromi can easily make out the words “free,” then “the,” before the man collapses beneath the little brown canopy supporters had put up for him. The once tame organism of bodies instantly becomes a stampeding beast. Kuromi’s fears about coming here take shape before him. In the gun shots that send his heart galloping. In unseen shrieks of terror, many too close for his terrified mind. In the blur of motion his confused brain can no longer process. Just before passing out, he remembers seeing the gates fall. They had kept the raging beast of people away from representatives in the house of assembly. Now, only God can save those representatives the people seek out of frustration. God, or the army. May one prevail.
P1.3
“Please. Not today. Not this way.” The cool bark of a tree supports Kenlar as he makes this mental prayer. It’s one of many trees in the thick shrubbery of the Ntanga forest. Even amid the emanating cacophony of teeming life within its dense foliage, he can’t afford a whispered prayer. He watches her. His abdomen is a bloodied mess of shredded flesh, but he watches her beneath the weight of pain. She’s
unaware, tending to a firewood flame beneath a soul black pot. Not two paces from her, from a shed of a home, come the wails of a new born child. A girl he was supposed to kill. Warm tears of regret fall with anguish. It was her life or his families. A sound. His head snaps to the crack of a twig, forcing him to
continue his slow retreat. He prays once more: “Please no.” Every movement is a shockwave of blinding pain so he rests again not long after. He’s not sure how much time passes when his eyes are
closed. There is a light-headedness he now feels which is sickly comforting. And the sounds of breaking twigs;
they stopped when he stopped moving. “that must be good,” he thinks. Opening his eyes, he can no longer see the woman or her shed. It’s just him, the cacophony and an evening dark forest. Until he hears him. The one whose footsteps made those breaking sounds. “What was I thinking, praying for a criminal like
myself,” he thinks. Closing his eyes once more he waits for an arrow to pierce through him. He doesn’t recall when it did. He doesn’t recall dying. He only recalls his heart itself gasped for breath.
