The village

This introduction is an illustration how remorse and not so happy feeling about who she identified with as her people. The stories that unfolds later result to her emotional outbreak at the beginning

I hate the natives, especially in these remote parts of the world where the mentality is of an extreme deviousness and barrenness. I wonder if it can either be called devious or perverse. It’s a mentality that ties and bends absolutely to their favors and to their whims. They blindly stick to their foolishness and act in ways that only profit their wicked minds.  The cultural beliefs and practices are set to glorify, magnify, and privilege its own creators and benefactors. The weaks are doomed to be weaker and to die likewise and regardless, so do their progenitors and those after them. I hate the fools, the cowards, the insane, the ignorant, their dogmas, atrocities, absurdities, selfishness, sluggishness, merciless selves.

it is not easy to break the cycle. It has been this way for centuries and no generation can easily put an end to it as long as the weak stays weak and the strong becomes stronger. The assumption is the strong rules this devious world but it is not the case. Each rules in his own way. The only difference rests on the context and drives the content. Where the poor and weak acts in disdain with little consideration of the outside world, the rich and strong sugar coat their acts of barbary with elegance and sophistication with a mindful eye of what others see. Acts are dressed up differently as a result of the actors financial means. What is the difference between the villager who ruthlessly slaughters his neighbor as a result of his strong supernatural belief and the wealthy serigne who gives himself the luxury of openly satisfying his lust through dozens of wives and hundreds of children as a result of his strong supernatural belief?

“Die, Die, Die evil children! To Hell, evil children! Witches!

As the dust arose, more commotion filled the air. The marketplace was immersed in an unbelievable intense stance of cries and yells, shouts and curses. It progressively amplified until it became a huge muffled sound that gobbled everything. The mere humidity in the air was subsided by a venal and vindictive aura. It seemed the whole world was subdued to a single mass while the sun and sky remained quiescent. Yes, it was full of life; things thrown out in the air would hardly find their ways back onto the earth.

It was one of those days when the African Sun boasted about being a sun, shattering its brightness onto the earth and radiating its heat on all living things underneath. The alarmed chirping of the birds could barely be contained in the gigantic foliages of the trees that tried to hide in the scary moroseness of the market. A dusty dry wind powerlessly kept rubbing our ears leaving a ghastly heat that bore a deadly blast. Utter destitution dressed the people in rags, and shreds while crimping their cheeks to mere bones stuck onto their skins. Red eyes wide open, bulging out as if about to pop out, a crowd that bore a pitifully unknown burden.

The look on their face and their body language were like a rainbow, full of colors and each standing for a strange emotion. While some looked angry and spiteful, others were dubious or confused. Most of these people were armed with sheathed machetes, sticks, or stones; others were angrily branding their fists. “To hell, evil children”, they shouted angrily.  

The sun was high up in the sky and blazing its rays onto the black mass whose skulls were shedding out waves of sweat. The gloomy mixture of sweat and dust apparently turned into mud onto the faces of the villagers who gathered to apply the fate of the two young lads.

Their names were Bola and Rama, respectively 7 and 5 years of age. While their story went unnoticed in these distant parts of the world, I still could see them staring blankly at me both imploring for my help and answers. Their gaze was different from what I used to know. I could not forget the frail figure of Rama, shaking wildly as if her weak legs could barely support her. She was weak and exhausted, hungry and thirsty, scared and powerless. She could’ve been blown away by the slightest wind. A dusty and dirty rag covered her little body favoring just half of her right shoulder and small breast; it tumbled down to her knee while the rest of her body remained wide open. Her hair, lacking the luxury of being done for years, echoed the desperate look of trees after a bushfire. Multiple small tufts spread out all over her skull  uneasy and leery about the crowd.

Author's Note

what do you think about the story as it enfolds.. what do you think about the introduction

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[MyFrica]

This is a nonfiction story that seeks to recollect hard childhood memories in which the writer later hates and questions her identity, values, and beliefs as an African born