THE WRITER
MY WRITINGS
In our world of wrongs, men walk with caution but caution limits the power to greatness.Those who ignore the barriers to wisdom and dance to wrongs become villains instead of heroes. But a world exist, free of rules, limits and boundaries; in this world impossible dies and power is ungraded. This is the world of imagination. The world where countless heroes discovered greatness and our world's greatest inventions where imported from. It is the beauty from this world and our world I merge in writing. I am the writer, welcome to my writings!
Aniwula
I sat in the barbershop dozing off as the blade massaged trickles of sensation onto my scalp. It had been a long day. But my weekly haircut ritual couldn’t wait. Eyes heavy as the accent of the Dagomba’s screaming through the meaningless hip life music roaring out of the low pitched speakers.
I reluctantly opened my eyes. It was the voice of a lady. Loud enough to send shivers down the spine of a ghost much more a slumbering man.
Her reflection was staring straight at me. It must have missed her own image standing left to me. I looked away seeking the cordial respect from her eyes. This little intruder had no intention to dialogue respect. She stared on. I closed my eyes.
‘Aniwula'
There goes the familiar voice.
‘Aniwula'
I opened my eyes. She leaned in right in front of me in greeting. Smiling mischievously like an investigator throwing her strongest piece of evidence at a suspect. Am I to confess that I’m a foreigner now, drama queen?
'Naa'
I responded. Hoping she bugs off this time. She fills in the empty seat next to me. I could feel her eyes singeing my cheeks on my left. I slumbered on as her voice exchanged heavy echoes with the barbers.
I opened my eyes to the waning echoes, looked to the sides of the long mirror and closed them again in relief. Drama queen was gone.
The barber dusted off the hair from my shirt. I paid him and stepped out. I plugged my earpiece into my ears and started a little jazz club in my head. I heard shouts in the background. Turned to see an image running towards me. Drama queen?
I took off my earpiece and the familiar tympanic punches began.
You know I can’t understand you right?
I tried to burst her bubble back into reality but she kept laughing on with no intention to stop talking. I laughed back at the empty statements she made. By the time I came back to reality we were taking a stroll home chatting in foreign languages and laughing at each other or ourselves. It was beautifully awkward. I kept repeating I don’t understand but she made no effort to stop talking.
Our shadows started shrinking as we approached the street light in the dark. That’s when I turned to take a closer look at her. Her beauty was her face, streamlined with carefully placed eyes, nose and mouth. Her lips were African; meaty and symmetrically parted to show her carefully planted dentition. In her eyes, her laughter was genuine. She held her own hands playfully. Whatever I was doing was making her night a memory so I decided to let go my defenses and sink in the moment with her. Her long dress was gathering dust at her feet as she dramatically jumped up and down in laughter of what my demeanor was inducing.
We walked a bit more closer to my house. I tried to tell her I appreciate the walk but I’m almost home and I can walk her back, but she wouldn’t hear or couldn’t hear. I tried signs but it only made her laugh harder.
We got to my gate and she entered the compound with me. My calm left my face with my smile. Now I really wanted her to go back. I knew nothing about her. She could be anybody… I stood in protest not to go again. She smiled at me and after a few more sentences gave me her phone.
I figured that was the deal she’ll offer for letting me be. So I typed in my MTN number which I give to people who pester me for my number. She called to make sure it’s my line. She smiled and started walking to the gate. Her spirits lowered now. I decided to walk her back but she started to run off with a bye when she got out of the gate. Guilt flooded me. She probably just wanted to be friends.
I lay on my bed that night thinking of how strange my day ended. I felt concerned if she arrived home safe and if she still had a smile on. I picked up my phone and called her. She responded at the second beep happily throwing around her accent.
Shhhh!
I hushed her over the phone, something she clearly understood.
I just wanted to say thank you for today, thank you for making me laugh over nothing and thank you for walking me home. I wish I can have that everyday. And I just want you to know you’re the most beautiful person I’ve seen around here. Even though I don’t know your name I trust were friends now.
The other side of the phone stayed quiet so I said hello and she responded back.
Anyway just wanted to know you’re safe home. And thanks for tonight. Goodnight queen!
There was a pause for a minute, then she said something short this time in a calm voice. I just felt it was time to hang up, so I did.
I saved her number as Aniwula, the only thing she said to me that I understood. It means Good Evening.
83
There might be only two great stories written by the autocratic hands of nature during my generation. That 20th May 1947 eclipse was the first of its kind. Church bells churned through the air as souls thronged to church praying and waiting to be saved. Oh, we thought that was the end time! Of course, there was no advanced technology and Ghana broadcasting our only source of information, had no clue so we were all hit by the surprise; eclipse! That is a story you can laugh about. The second story nature wrote was in 1983. With an unknown beginning; a struggle we barely speak of; and an unknown end. I present to you, “Ghana Ntam Kese.”
We were the forgotten ones, cursed by nature and punished for a wrong we still debate about. Some say it was a punishment from God for a leadership that resulted in spilling of innocent blood; why should we all face the wrath of the creator for the wrongs of a few leaders? I don’t agree with them, I believe God was warning each one of us; we belonged to a country buried in greed; prices of goods were escalating and low income earners could barely afford. That was our wrong, but I won’t deny the fear driven anger in the hearts of our generation for the 1979 and 1981 coup d’état that made our land bleed. Whatever the reason may be, there is no doubt in any mind that this was not a mere coincidence but a warning from God for wrongs we all committed.
Beautiful days started becoming sorrowful; like the eclipse, nobody saw it coming. From the start it disguised itself as if some few careless farmers were accidentally causing bush fires but then it got worse and beyond what looked like the handy work of man. Reality took time but gradually caught up with us; every red sky that took the nights came with screams from the vocal cords of somebody losing a home. There were no rains for almost a year, and fire ruled our farms and forest. The beginning of the greatest famine ever to hit this country, Ghana.
My side of the story would take us to Akwatia, a diamond mining town in Ghana. I was the senior plant security officer there. I was called from the military to take on this job some years ago and 1983 met me there. The harsh military training and good job was not enough to build any man for what was nearing. My wife was pregnant with our first child; after years of marriage nature gifted us with a seed at the most barren season of all and that took my plight a length more.
The gushing sound of fire traded for the beautiful sound of the morning birds; all living creatures had their share of the year. It was an easy sight to see an almost burnt wild animal moaning in pain everywhere. For a story it sounds like an easy game to feed on, but reality painted a scene so sorrowful no human could further prey on those forsaken animals. In fact, meat was not a problem, we could still buy chicken and beef from the stores. The problem was foodstuffs; the ground was hard and hot, nothing grew from it. For a start, I set off with my driver to the villages looking for foodstuffs to buy; I had the privilege of a company Land Rover because of my position there, so I’m not the perfect shoes to project the pain others went through to acquire foodstuffs. My pregnant wife would be waiting for me to bring home some foodstuff so she could eat; so for me there was nothing like giving up on the search for food. Some days I came back home with nothing but the few times I got some food it was either some dry cassava which will melt on cooking or some corn which was the gold of that season. The few people who had harvested maize already, were into the kenkey business. That was when we cued with stones to buy kenkey. How do you identify your stone? Hahaha! Wait till you are starving and your only option to getting food was to identify a stone, then you’ll discover how good you are in archeology. Of course there was a limit to how many balls of kenkey you could buy, we were forced by the hands of nature to learn to share but not everyone in the cue would still get a share of it; with something close to faith or more specifically without any other options, we all waited till it was finished. They even went ahead to sell the raw corn dough when the kenkey was finished, yet some still had nothing to take home. This was the perfect time in my lifetime that nature proved to mankind that money doesn’t make the world go round.
Time was not a cure but an aggravator of the situation; food got much scarce and our hunting and gathering methods were yielding less results as the days went by. We had to survive; I bought some maize and decided to plant. It looked like an impossible task but I had a plan. I collected manure from the company’s poultry farm to my backyard. With a pickaxe I dug in the concrete-like ground creating huge holes and filling them with the manure. I had a maid who placed the maize into the holes; my palms cracked and bled but I didn’t give up. I connected a hose pipe to the farm and started watering it. Some days later I finally saw some green; I was so happy. Months went by and I was harvesting my maize. Now we could make our own food. My wife roasted some for me to take to work; if you are a Ghanaian you know what a delicacy that was. Almost everybody at work ate roasted corn at break. We had imports of yellow corn from neighboring countries but that wasn’t a favorite of Ghanaians and others had also discovered my method of growing maize too.
The fires started to die down but the smile with which it came lasted only a fortnight; locust invaded the whole country. First it was everything inside the ground that was being cooked by the heat, now everything above the ground was being eaten by locust. If this wasn’t a well-orchestrated punishment then I don’t know what to call it. It was in this time that I made a friend, ‘Akwasi Ahoma.’ He had a huge cassava farm in a village far off. All you could see on the farm were long sticks sticking out of the ground. They were cassava plants pruned of their leaves by the ever skillful swarm of locust. I had to beg him on my knees to sell me some of the cassava; it was a pathetic sight. When he finally agreed, he gave me pickaxe to dig out the cassava I needed. Concrete grounds I broke again; I dug a sack full of cassava, took it to him to price it, I paid for it and took it home. I didn’t have a choice, my first child was almost about to be born and my pregnant wife needed all the best meals she could have. My strength couldn’t handle this torture for long so I made another friend. He brought me cassava at my doorsteps and I paid him; just when things were getting easier, word came out he was a thief. He stole the cassava from various farms till he had enough then he would sell them to me. That was true, it didn’t take investigative skills to notice the different colors of soil around the cassava but somehow this evil looked right till evidence made it obvious. I asked him to stop supplying me; no amount of struggle makes a wrong look right. I went back to my old struggle and pain.
The ‘curse’ was long; the exact time it lasted, I can’t tell but I remember when my son, my first child, was born the doctor asked us to stop feeding him with maize foods because he was getting bigger and bigger. I asked the doctor, what else is there to feed him? A question she couldn’t answer; that’s how severe 1983 was. You must have heard of the infamous “Rawlings chain;” that is the name we gave to the protruding collarbone 1983 gave almost all of us as the mark of our struggle and survival.Today my son asked me about the infamous 83, funny how numbers tick, I am 83 years old now. I told him these events almost choking on my laughter, but the real event was nothing close to the frowning half of Leonardo da Vinci’s Mona Lisa.
LOOPHOLES
I was locked in the mirror for a while, looking at that image in the white tuxedo shirt, switching ties to see which fits better; it was an hour away from the wedding of a very close friend of mine, Cyril. I finally decided on no tie at all; I’ve always preferred a simple look even though nature denied me the demeanor of a simple guy. As much as I try not to draw attention to myself, these sagging pants always seem to red carpet itself to the judging eyes of the world… This day is special, not because of the wedding but the gift I sent my friend; a gift in an all black shoe box with the inscription, “YOU JUST GOT SERVED.”
The wedding was great, old friends and smiles lightened the place up like a perfect old school reunion. I sat by a bottle of Paul Masons that very night listening to my favorite ‘careless whispers’ till I finally got that most awaited call from Cyril; he sounded so confused. Somehow I expected that; there’s no better way to react if you just received a shoebox stuffed with 500,000.00 GHS as a wedding present from a friend whose highest bid is driving a 2005 Toyota corolla. The obvious question was how I got that money? Well somewhere in 2010, back in university, he jovially dared me to rob a bank. It took me 3 years but I finally did and that money in the shoe box is a share to prove I made that dare my bitch. Ladies and gentlemen, I robbed the Bank of Ghana.
Do I have your attention now? I’m more like the last guy on earth you want to dare; the moment you tell me I can’t, my adrenaline imprisons my life to prove you wrong someday, somehow, someplace. I don’t know what it is about me, on my altitude of play there’s no oxygen mask for impossible. My only enemy is time; time is all it takes for me to pull that one move that gets your jaw dropping. I don’t do things to prove anything to the world, the crazy things I do is for my own self-satisfaction; I prove to myself whatever I chose to touch is possible; soon as I’m done proving to myself, I lose interest. Like they say everything with a beginning has an end, I can’t predict exactly when or how this complex lifestyle of mine began or when it will end; fortunately for you though, I know where this story began.
It was Christmas, another holiday at home. I was lying down on my old bed, the very bed I used to jump around on when I was 6 years old, reminiscing about memories the walls had saved for me. For a minute it felt like a prodigal son listening to the story of his humble beginnings from an old man; but the thoughts of a girl I once knew walked me to my old metal trunk in my wardrobe in search of the love letters she used to send me. I had to ‘ganja’ my way into it, that’s an old high school term for a clean way to pick a padlock with fake keys. I couldn’t help smile at how long a criminal act can hide under your sleeve for so many years; but the sight of something in my trunk traded that smile for an anxious look that took my thoughts the rest of the day. I left home the week after; the devil in me had just worn his cunning suit in search of an adventure.
There was only one person to call, Jesse. I hate to call him a friend; I always call him a brother. I never discovered the full me till I met him. The world describes him a thousand bad ways, but to me he is a go getter and the boy who ushered me to surviving the streets with my mind and my talents. He never stopped believing in my full potential; anytime I come up with something big that amazes the people around me, he’ll just go like, “yeah, that’s my boy”; like he already saw it coming. I’ve always been more of an underground mastermind full of ideas and methods but Jesse, he’s the guy with the links the guy who will never make you rest till it’s done, the guy who will tell me, “I’m in!” even before I tell him my plan. As bad as he might look he’s the guy who stopped me from buying my first pistol.
Together we could pull anything off. We used to make money on the streets from buying things cheap from people, and selling them higher to others, and all it took was that sweet talk embedded with the words to convince. We could make you buy a pen at the price of gold if only you listen. This is a business you don’t invest in, you only earn. Hustling to us has never been a necessity, we come from good families money wasn’t a problem; to us hustling was all a street game we just played to be the best. I can’t say we were some rich kids, but at the age of fourteen, if you have an enviable wardrobe, walk with a walkman, wear big watches, and party on your own earned money without having to hustle on your school fees, your pocket money, or mummy’s purse, then you have every right not to respect us. Getting girls has never plugged a sweat from my face, tell me who and I’ll get her in two weeks; do you want to dare?
The plan was no arms, no traces and on the worst scenario if caught to be totally immune to the law, that’s where I needed her advice most, my girlfriend. For her safety and my privacy sake let me call her Bonnie so I will be her Clyde. She is a final year law school student. Good girl gone bad; even an angel is bound to possess some evil inside when she rolls with a guy like me. She’s my world and the reason I keep that 5 ct diamond ring in my wardrobe waiting for the right time. She told me she was tired of hearing my true life confessions; she wanted to be part of whatever I’m dishing so I made her a plate. She confessed she was scared and asked me to promise her I’ll be with her no matter what happens. Heaven knows I’ll drop the whole world flat before I let any harm near her; I promised her with a cross on my heart. She had what it takes to make me fall in love with her again and again; guess I’m used to the fall and was ever ready to take the fall for my team if anything went wrong.
We sent three letters out to the Bank of Ghana; all three where research proposals. A month later we got a feedback approval on one - my research proposal; a research to prove that dirty worn out money is the source of transmission of various forms of spiking communicable diseases. I had endorsement from the University of Ghana Medical School which might have facilitated their approval. We had a month to prepare to start. My research partners were Bonnie and Jesse; the two people I could trust, and two other final year biochemistry students from the university who had no idea what they were into. I would have kept Cyril on the move, but he was preparing to be a family man now and I wasn’t going to risk that.
The earlier plan was for the bank to give us millions of old worn out notes so we could take samples to culture and do other investigations but they insisted for our own safety, they’ll offer us a room in the bank to do the research; slight change of plans. Why didn’t I think of that? Of course they had a point, millions of Ghana Cedis old or not were still nectar for starving criminals. We had to come out with another plan, same objective but a different method. As hard as it came, we were set and ready to dance.
6am Monday morning we arrived at the bank with our equipments and reagents in a van. The military guys helped us offload them to our assigned room; same room the old notes are kept for later destruction. I was starring at billions of worn out notes ready for my brain to tap in but on the other end I was looking at this gleam of beauty zooming out of my Bonnie in her white coat and cute shades; now I’m wondering why she didn’t chose to be a doctor. There were four security cameras but all four were for the hall where the money is kept not the office space we were assigned to; a perfect reason to wear a smile of success. We had breaks at 12pm and closed at 4pm. The money we were assigned to use were counted by the bank before and after every session; I’m talking millions of Ghana Cedis everyday and yes, they never skipped it. After every session we were searched by two military men before we left the bank but about a week later they stopped searching us; they claimed there was no need once all the money we used were accounted for by the end of the day. We could leave with only our laptops and books, the rest of our equipments where kept at the bank till the whole research was over.
Four months gone, and we had cultured enough specimens, gathered enough data to conclude on the research. It was time to leave; we gave the bank one more month to expect the outcome of the research on paper and so we said our goodbyes. One last look at the room and then I walked out; a satisfying feeling like that of a soldier informing his captain, ‘mission accomplished.’ A month later I led my team back to the bank to present a copy of the thesis in a closed door meeting with the university and the bank. For fear of public outcry and rejection of money as a legal tender the bank in agreement with the University of Ghana Medical School representatives refused to publish our findings till they found a more convenient way to carry money around. They appealed to my team to bear with them. That was not a problem to me; I walked out that day with a copy of the research findings and 3,650,000 GHS rich.
What you are missing out is what I saw in my metal trunk that Christmas. Some eight years ago I designed one of my best piece of art ever; a counterfeit. On sight, it looked so real but the paper quality just gave it away on touch. I tried effortlessly to make it better but I couldn’t so I let it go. What I saw that Christmas was two of those counterfeits in my trunk; they were contaminated with old age and most importantly something I kept in my trunk (I’ll keep that as a business secret). Even though I was nowhere close to the geniuses of De La Rue; the company that prints the Ghana Cedis currency, I found out I was one step closer to them when our works were weighed on a ‘worn out’ scale. I made millions of worn out counterfeits; fifty, twenty and ten Ghana Cedis notes. Two of the laptops we used for the research were dead weights; they were scooped out clean, leaving space to transport money in and out of the bank. We shipped in the counterfeits every morning on arrival and after every break time and shipped out the real money every break time and at the end of each day, for five times a week for four months. All the bank did was count how much money we were giving and how much we returned, not the quality of what we returned. After all, who cares the quality of worn out notes about to be destroyed anyways?
All we did was leave the bank with a room full of counterfeits to destroy and take the rejected notes back to circulation. It is a slow process to clean all these money on the streets; and that’s where Cyril comes in again. He worked his way up to register as a private businessman that takes worn out money from the streets to the banks for a cleanup. After what our research proved, the Bank of Ghana needed such businesses more and so we took advantage. Now we can give back what we took but for a change of clean real money. I have to say it’s still a slow process to clean out the money but I’m satisfied this way; for a guy as crazy as Jesse, I won’t be shocked to see him wreck a Bugatti over these high speed rumps just because he owns it. Giving him his share on these slow paces is a good way to play on a low key.
Today we all sat by bottles of champagne talking about life and how we pulled off this job when Bonnie dared me; she asked me if I think I’m that invincible I should tell the world how I robbed the bank. In her mind she just wanted to put me into this tight spot just to prove I can’t make everything happen, but here I am telling the world. I plan on giving my entire share to charity; like I said, once it’s done, I lose interest. I started from winning the hearts of girls but that’s a game even losers can play now, so I graduated to winning the heart of the world now even impossible gives in to my words. Like I always say; “Other guys train their biceps to dominate their girls, I train my brain cells to dominate the world.” My name is Ezer, a medical student of the University of Ghana. I robbed the Bank of Ghana and I have the nerve to say it. If you have any proof, come get me!
Beyond Illusions
I woke up this morning 12 million dollars rich. You must be thinking I created a new generation Microsoft or probably launched a cutthroat social media to hush twitter and mask Facebook. Unfortunately, I’m none of that; I’m just a link in a long chain of generations of chosen people, who just happened to be at the right place at the right time, for the next big act that will knock the world from its axis. I can’t tell you the role I played in this, but I can tell you I’m damn scared of what is about to happen and no one man can stop it, this is going be bigger than anything ever invented or created. The men pushing money around to make this happen are the most powerful people on earth; names I’ll willingly book my death-ticket before I utter. I don’t know where to start from, even though none of these is hidden. I only possess three jigsaw pieces made from the truth.
Somewhere in 1995 this big game began, from the walls of the University of Massachusetts at Amherst. The first human clone was made even though the creators destroyed it when it reached the 32-cell stage; the biggest discovery in the history of mankind, but only a few newspapers revealed this. It might sound weird, but Dolly the sheep is a child of the success story of a human clone. Yet the world was greeted by Dolly with statements like, “this brings us a step closer to cloning human.” Deception of the greatest! The silence in which the human clone was enveloped was just a single string pulled from many more to come by people powerful than the ethics that govern human cloning itself, the very people who swiped my fortune a millionaire in the twist of a night. “The stone the builders rejected has become the cornerstone…” The world could not embrace the glory of science because we merged our heads in the baptism of ethics, but someone somewhere saw a light in the clouds of our fears. This is just a single jigsaw in the puzzle, the beginning of a merge between the two biggest theories of earth, science and religion.
Two years gone, and a master plan for one of the biggest robberies in the history of mankind was on the move. History labels ‘The Gardner Museum Art Heist’ as one of the most successful and mysterious robberies of all time; because no arrest has been made in connection to it. Where will history then place a robbery that is yet to be detected? A simple plan, no weapons involved for what might be the most important thing ever remaining on the surface of earth. The location was the Royal Palace of Turin, the plan was simply flames and the target was the Shroud of Turin. For a minute, it sounds like whatever that plan was must have failed since the shroud is still safe in its bulletproof climate-controlled case in the chapel of Turin’s cathedral. But that’s where the world is wrong and deceived again. The most important relic on the surface of earth is not the Shroud of Turin; it is the DNA of a God! As flames engulf the chapel dome and west wing of the royal palace, heroes where made from the rescue by breaking through the bulletproof glass with a sledge hammer; something that would have taken years of planning and billions of dollars to reach worse off to break through, but that was the master plan that brought the shroud one step closer to a simple robbery, a pluck of the DNA of a God. Every mistake was a calculation, every step was a move, every news was expected; this plan fed on the instincts of humanity leaving absolutely no trace.
Every performance needs a well-fitting stage, a perfect background; picture a camera sweeping a landscape of animals and trees to portray Africa, so were wars, disasters and unrest tailored for the face of the apocalypse. That is the last jigsaw of the unseen puzzle. From the world crisis; the attacks on America, the Syria crisis, use of chemical weapons, the conflicts in Africa, the bombings and serial killings in the Middle East, the tragedies in Egypt, the North Korea nuclear weapons. To the big top stories, the world controversies sweeping the headlines every day; gay rights, weapons of mass destruction, financial crisis of the top countries, natural disasters. All these make the perfect stage for this big act. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not saying these world chaos are being manipulated. Why would anyone invest in the destruction of the world when the greed in men will accomplish it for no fee? It is a curse already embedded in the genes of humanity. These are the babies conceived by our individual crave for power and the all-powerful hands of nature no man can counter. The perfect stage, predicted as the signs of the end times.
The Apocalypse is being created; the second coming of Christ is being acted not in Hollywood. Do not rush to the cinemas or wait for it on your TV screens, for it’s coming to you in real live in 3D. If you were waiting for a human clone, then embrace yourself for the clone of a God. If you are holding on fast for the Apocalypse, then embrace yourself for the trailer. If miracles can be borne on genes, then we are about fifteen years away from another miracle of water to wine. And yes, the God clone is already here with us; Jesus of America.
Kandapara
Born And Raised In The Slum, For The Slum
(BASED ON A TRUE LIFE EVENT)
The fact that you are reading my story today doesn’t mean I’m alive. I live a life I never asked for; my life chose me way before I was conceived. Maybe that’s what the world means when they say life is not fair, but from where I stand, not everybody deserves the mercy of this phrase. At least some had the chance to have a dream, the chance to decide at some point in life what to become.
Where I’m from, dreams are a one way bargain to a destiny that rides on a strapless horse. All we do is wait; only keep waiting till our destinies sneak up on us. I am just a small speck among a thousand other teenage girls whose bodies are worth a few tens of taka. Unlike the many other girls who are properties of this brothel, I wasn’t bought but born here. My mother was a prostitute too. They say she was the most adored and the favorite of the “sardarnis,” the women who own the brothels. She died before my memories could recall. The only pictures I have of her are the ones these shameless men paint about her every night in satisfaction to their lust in the brothel. They spoke about her to me with a passion of a heroic story reserved for an unseen future. I’d always listened with a pride of complete innocence till my own destiny finally poked me on the shoulder with a non-negotiable welcome.
One night after my daily errands; distributing food and pills to the other girls, my sardarni sent for me. One of the girls was ordered to clean me up; dusted me in make-up and clothed me in a sari. At first it looked more like a childhood role play as an adult, little did I know the drama I was rolling in my thoughts in was not far from reality. She finally walked in with a man, a man I’d met before; one of the men who had told me stories about the sweet company of my mum. She told me the man was a good friend of my mother and had paid a lot to meet me. With a warning tone garnished with a tune of care, she asked me to do anything the familiar stranger wanted. Her last words sent chills right down my spine, “you remind me of your mum, make me proud!” With a final tap on my shoulder, the hinges of the door screeched a last goodbye to my virginity and innocence. I was only ten years, and had always known I’ll end up in the arms of prostitution someday but barely did I know I’ll be worth a man’s lust anytime soon.
Tears began to rinse my make-up and bare my sorrow. My knees on the ground, hand in hand pleading with my slave master to spare my innocence; but the more I begged, the more I seemed to turn him on. What happened that night is still a nightmare that haunts my nights. The little candles of hope that brightened my yearn for a better tomorrow were blown with every blood I shed, every tear I poured and every scream I roared from within me that night. Why was I born, if this is the only option life could offer me? For days I wouldn’t speak or eat. My days of being nursed were over. My body became my new mother; every man that found me attractive was the only manna my heavens would ever send me. A day without this, meant a day without food, my mistress made it clear; so I finally embraced my destiny with trembling hands and a smile of a masked joker because deep within this mask lived a helpless girl drowning in tears with every morning rise.
I was given my own room, a tiny structure you can say, but that has been my home, my school and my paradise. I started taking the very pill the other girls were given, Oradexon, a cow fattening drug that shaped our malnourished bodies into a perfect bid of attraction for men; our only source of living. Now I could serve over ten men a day; the memories of my mother were selling me more than my smile indebted face. Destiny!
But those were my ‘bright’ yesterday, today looks much darker and much sober. I live in a small shed just on the outskirts of these slums; my sardarni threw me out after a strange illness swooped my attraction and strength away. I’m almost eighteen now but my journey with destiny almost feels over. Maybe I should be glad, at least I’ll spend my final hours of life on a much descent job as a scavenger, but my anger only seeks one question from destiny. Will the heavens judge my wrongs; when the only blessing destiny cursed me with is a fatherless daughter whose own destiny is nothing worth wasting a prayer to hope for? A daughter I had in the brothels of Kandapara two years ago, and the only decent thing in my life. Perhaps I hold the same fear my mother had; what does the future hold for her, what destiny awaits to embrace her tender soul and what picture would she grow to have of me? I named her Kandapara, because she is the only good thing these slums gave me; my love, my joy, my paradise.
One Priceless Smile
The sun is high up, but the sky might cry anytime soon. Here we are, with our eyes drowned in tears. It should have been tears shed for a lost love, but our tears are more of shame than a loss. Today we are all gathered in black, I could wish it was just another black costume party but our glasses are filled with pain instead of beer. It’s Hannah’s funeral, yet one obvious thing can paint you a much perfect picture of this gathering; if shame were graves, we all would have willingly bury ourselves.
I only knew her like everyone else did; the girl always in a sweater, never wore a smile, head bowed low and walked briskly like she’s afraid the world might just catch up with her. Her hands always hugged her books in front, like that is the only savior she can’t let go; sincerely, the ‘A’ grades that always followed the strokes of her name can testify to that. I pet named her, the silent assassin. She chose to stay silent so she could hide in the shadows of the people around her, but something was never silent about her; anytime she walked passed, giggles and names trumpeted behind her and when she was alone, her hands were mostly wiping her face; it was so obvious she was hurting inside. But who cared? She didn't fit into our society of perfection and that qualified her as a perfect laughing stock in our world of uniqueness. I was no exception to the people that laughed at her; I’d always asked her in my mind, “can’t you just dress better?” and shake my head anytime she walked pass me.
Life on the other hand knew her differently; a truth we had to learn the hard way. On the day of our graduation, an incident happened that led to this story that changed our lives forever. A woman stood at the gate and screamed out her pain in our ears, by the time she left everything was dead mute. She was Hannah’s mother. The single mum whose toil we've trampled over with every look, every giggle and every name we've ever called Hannah. She was bitter but humble; she was begging us rather than accusing us. She started with how she had to save her salary and cut down on their food for two years so she could buy her the dress she wore for the graduation, yet we stared and laughed at it. Her final words still echoes in my ears, “… I've tolerated every pain, every single hurt you gave my daughter and I for four heartless years, couldn't you tolerate us for just today? An hour was all we needed, just an hour without your judgment.” Then she closed the door behind her and was gone.
This whole life changing story took less than ten minutes to unfold. It began the moment Hannah’s name was mentioned for her first class honor. The whole room was thrown into a stare and voices that made her turn and run out of the room in tears. Her mum got up to chase after her but turned around to let us know the contributions we've each made in their lives. We barely managed to drag the rest of the graduation through, just to wake up the next day to the news that restored the humanity in us; Hannah was found dead. She drowned herself still wearing the dress for her graduation. The police called it suicide but in our hearts today it’s obvious to all of us who really killed her.
I wrote this story, because there is one truth that was never told; maybe we were afraid nobody will believe us or it was too late to change the damages we've already caused. The truth is; that final stare and those final voices that threw Hannah out of the room that day had nothing to do with neither her dress nor her personality. Her dress was perfect, but what we saw was something we've never seen, something we never thought we’ll ever see, and that was simply because for the first time in four years we saw Hannah wearing a smile. A unique admiration that made us look and stare, but she misunderstood us for what she knew us best for doing.
HARK! A LOVE STORY
The Story With A Heart
In my arms I hold her; close like the priceless sight of a mother’s first touch on her firstborn baby. In her eyes I watch the morning's sun rise. We dance to her heartbeat in the thunder touches of the rain; with our bodies covered only by the cloudy skies. She stands on my feet anytime we dance, so she never loses the rhythm of her heartbeat, the very sound I dance to. She buries her head in my chest like a scared turtle seeking refuge in her shell but all she seeks to hide is her smile; the smile capable of making the incredible Hulk calm from his anger. She sounds amazing right? Well, I think so too, but the truth is, she is not from this earth! A story she might never know, but I’m about to tell you. Somewhere beyond our skies spans a river of miracles, a place where angels learn to fly. For there our story began.
Near the river of miracles, she sat quietly with her glowing hands kissing the waters, leaving the colorful ripples dancing in a fashion on the surface, a sight every angel always stop to catch a stare in applause. Yet in the mist of that glorious achievement, her blooming eyes took interest in something that seemed to wander far off the surface of the earth. She was a young angel named as Heart; for she was made from the creator’s power of loving and everything she touched could be loved.
Every young angel had a mission that they chose to accomplish soon after they learned to fly; a fascinating festival named only after its celebration; it bared the name of the angel with the most heartwarming mission. For that festival on that bright day was named, The Festival of Heart.
She chose a mission that scared the heavens more than amaze them, a mission that dragged the heavens into a total cloud of silence as she stood in their mist with her head held low. She chose a mission to a loner on earth named by many as heartless. The reason to the silence was that, missions to earth came with a price; to forget you were ever an angel and to be born to the pain of the earth.
Today I stood with this angel, and danced with her. As to how I knew her story? That will remain my little secret maybe forever. But tonight I wished to ask her a question, the very question the mother of angels asked her that day? Why would the most gifted and special angel choose to let go an enviable life and place to be with a guy like me?
A Prayer From Fairyland
Earth doesn’t believe in fairies. They call us a tale. Anytime a pure-heart gives up their believe in our existence, a life is lost; for the bearer of that prayer dies by cremation into a shooting star that fades into the skies. Yet again, earth finds our death a beautiful sight; it is so unfair! But such is the life that chose us, the life of a fairy.
Grandfairy keeps telling us, earth is innocent of their actions against us, and one day a miracle will be born so earth will be filled with many pure-hearts. But then again, I’m almost four hundred years old and I’m yet to see this paradise unfold. All we do is hope, because we are forbidden to pray.
We love what we do! We gather each prayer and each wish from every pure-heart and brew spells out of them. Does earth know what a pure-heart is? Throughout my days as a fairy, they have mostly been the youngest of mankind. Those creatures that believe in everything they are told without a spec of doubt; from fairies, to guardian angels, and even Santa. We call them the pure-hearts, for they never lose their faith in us even though they never get to see us. They are the virgins of hearts, and the only ones whose prayers reach us. We were made to serve them alone, for in their faith our life taps its source. Awwwww! Sometimes I wish the earth was a big blooming flower of only pure-hearts; but again, we are forbidden to make wishes, so my wishes can only burn away with my shooting star when my clock finally stops ticking.
Well! The moment the spells are ready, we take a journey to earth to seek a perfect bearer for the spells. It’s a tedious task; the right bearer is an answer, but a wrong bearer is a waste of spells no matter how powerful and great that spell is. I remember the last spell I took to a bearer on earth. She was the mother of a pure-heart. My spell saved her from her death that night; but again, she’ll never know me. I don’t think I should care about that, because this is our job and the only reason we exist. We’ll never get the chance to get married, bear young ones and… well it is ok! We are created, and then we are taken. It’s not like I can ask for more!
Our spells are the little voices that speak to you inside. The tiny voice that tells you to help somebody, that tiny voice that says, “don’t go there!” that tiny voice that tells you to do that and don’t do that, don’t pick that bus and all those tiny voices you chose to listen or ignore. Those who listen and obey are the right bearers and of course those who hear and don’t obey are the wrong bearers; the hardened hearts that waste the power of our precious spells and the prayer of the caring pure- hearts. I've always despised those, but we never give up on a pure-heart, we keep searching till we find a right bearer; sometimes it takes years and decades.
Maybe earth doesn't need us; maybe they only enjoy our death, so they can gaze at shooting stars. All they know is Tinker Bell! But they killed her long before she could serve her glorious one thousandth years of fairylife. A beautiful shooting star I’m sure many in mankind watched her fading with joy as we mourned; each one for herself, for our shooting star may cross the skies anytime soon. She was such a genius; she made most of the greatest spells that brought lovers together, and saved many lives.
Tears are starting to fog my eyes. It is for the sake of grandfairy’s words of earth’s innocence, I offer this prayer even though it is forbidden in fairyland. I’ll brew one of my best spells out of this, and hope I find a right bearer to listen to this little voice inside. Long live Fairyland, long live pure-hearts!
FEAR
THE SUSPENSE
Tonight is a full moon. A typical night when the bats fill the skies as the fierce vampires surf on the terrifying winds that sweep these lonely streets. These mark times when men hide their families; the temple gets chocked with men drowned in fear and mothers trade the trembling hands of their innocent children to hold on to holy water without hesitation. Nothing! I mean nothing, feels safe enough.
What is fear? Fear to us is every day; as soon as our souls survive this night, we spend the tick-tocks between now and the next full moon seeking endless solutions to stay safe enough. But enough to us, has never been enough.
Every virgin has been a priest or priestess; the makers of our holy water. Many men and women became sorcerers, but their spells are yet to stand the lustful smell of these bloodsuckers. We are the prey, yet we are outnumbered against nature’s will. Many, including me, gave up our cross long ago; our predators found a cure to that protection long before I was born.
But tonight is different! Something terrible is about to happen. Here we sit in the temple of our forefathers, crowded like mosses on a rock entangled to each other as if we are saving ourselves from a high tide. Yet all I see is silence, all I hear is the strokes of my pencil, and all I feel is fear! Not just my fear, but the fear embedded in every prayer enchanted by each soul in this temple; not because it’s another full moon? No! No! No! Tonight, might just be the climax of all fears!
A myth walks amongst us, told from generation to generation as to what drove the vampires from their home to our land. The few people who believed this myth were called psychopaths; but for tonight, this temple might as well bear the name of an asylum, for the myth we laughed at yesterday, just crawled to our doorstep.
For the first time in our lives, we saw the vampires; all of them! They came out of the graves right after sunset, a weird contrast to their midnight hunting time. A time too early for any of us to run and seek refuge in the temple. But that is not necessary now, they didn't come out for us at all; else I wouldn't be here writing. Behold, for this is our fear! They looked scared, and seemed to be in a hurry to pace away from something they are very very scared of. Whether the full moon's unusually red shade tonight, is the sign that red carpet the path of our predators’ predator, or the flight of the bats earlier this afternoon, I don’t know; but what I do know is, whatever scared our predators away is not far from the myth and is our unknown, yet greatest fear tonight. How I wish the vampires were rather here!
I can feel my fears converging now as the hourglass drains slowly to midnight. My heart seems to be leaping out of my chest, and my handwriting seems to be fleeing away from my pencil. If the myth was carved in truth; then our greatest fear is almost here.
