THE WATCHER’S PROLOGUE

I speak of beauty; the dance of life, the sweet taste of perverse delight, the hungry urge of quiet nights, the silent look, the desperate wish, the bright colours of daylight flowering into the chirping dark of the white moon.

I speak of love; the eye of innocence, the first flowering, the shy smile, the brutal lust and the stink of betrayal.

I speak of a shooting; the blink of tears, the pooling blood, the path of death, the sudden escape of breath, the darkness and the end of all things.

I sit here, watcher, me, spinning a tale in prose; liberating sequence of events; line after line intertwines, cruelly and loosely bind.

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OF BEAUTY AND ATTRACTION

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When I first spied her swaying those seductive hips giggling her round, bubbling buttocks down the noon sun streaked street, the world’s twisted ways still stuck me in a maze. My world was simple, my thoughts were shallow and my heart was deep. I had few crushes but none as unhealthy as this. Beauty, I had beheld and I burnt in lustful want. She saw me looking, smiled a dimple and I found a job.

An ill wind did blow her come. My universe did she occupy with her dad, mum, her child and, perhaps a stray married man or more. She was supposedly occupied as a tailor, but her true occupation was a mystery. With her work, talk and shop, she shop talked with the talkers and talk shopped with the shoppers. I outworked all the workers and out gawked all the gawkers.

She had beautiful doe-like eyes, with lashes shaped crescent. She had beautiful, unending and shapely legs; Dark, ebony black, her skin was. Her nose was, as if carved by the pyramid builders of ancient Nile’s ancient country.

She was the perfect figure; the sands of time itself did her figure emulate. Her beauty was the ravishing of a victim. Her breast was the long, nodding length of the green papaya; Her waist, the undulating restlessness of the snake dancers; Her buttocks was the roundness of the rosy red apples, sold by Mama Caro at the T-junction; bouncy, soft to the trembling eyes. She trapped some parts in tight fitting jeans and draped more with chiffon tops that peeped her half cup bra to us all.

Oh! What a sight to cure a priest, fall a god and end a world!

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OF THOUGHTS AND HOPEFUL IMAGININGS

I had few words and many thoughts; few assets and lots of credits. I was diligent enough to be patient enough to wait, to let time tick for something that was never mine. I struggled everyday with the song in my soul, to play a tune, to tug her heart and spill her soul on the flowering heat of my torturous manhood.

Of pen to tether my thoughts to paper, I had enough. Of ink to dribble my flowing heated thoughts to life, I had aplenty. Of saliva to garnish words to spill on the soil of her fertile heart, I could claim a river. Of words, children of my thoughts, to give meaning to her brain, I was replete. But of guts, that source of greatness proven, I supremely lacked. Painfully, an aroused strumpet she, in my waking dreams, became.

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OF LUST AND HELPLESS WANT

She strolled in every morning just on the clock, took stock and last night’s take, walked to the windows and viewed the traffic of the day, while we danced waltzes with brooms, mops, buckets and dustbins; Spick and span was the word.

As the day began, we blended into the monotony of the industrial revolution, our identities changing slowly as the work slipped into us and as serfs, we became. Break was by twelve and food was what mother and wives had given. We slaved till eight. What? The pay was great, thus our state.

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Sometimes I was early, sometimes I was late. Her disinterest did plant a certain romance in my distended brain; a hope easily crushed.
She was good, she was kind; she was stern, she was light; she had spirit, she had strength; what she lacked, she kept to herself.

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Songs sang strike me dumb each time I heard them sung; reminding me of a voice of a siren; a witch, an angel, a muse, a devious ruse for the fool. She slinked away when she heard a proposal but swayed in with spry steps, dancing to a tune only she heard when she saw a ring, a wife and a baby picture.

She was the unconquered vision of Pester John’s golden Africa. She was my dream, the heat of cold, dripping nights; bed sheets entangled in sweaty repose, tossing and turning, moaning and drowning in want; depressed manhood lying placid beside spilled seed staring at stolen still photos, dreamt alive.

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OF MEN THAT DALLY AND SHE WHO TOOK

We were female costumiers but a lot of men costumed. They came in different costumes: sometimes as husbands, sometimes as sweethearts; sometimes the driver, sometimes the politician on a national mission.

She shopped in Dubai, lodged in Hilton; wore Ferragamo to church; Timberlands to club. She was expensively clothed and cashiered; her bank manager did pray her name.

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OF THE WORLD AND FAILED BRAVERY

This tiny world, this stretched skin on a talking drum, reverberating every tremor and sound, could not hide this for long. The event, the occasion that gives birth to notoriety or fame comes in a single action, a single flicker of eyelashes, toss of hair, swing of winding hips and then your song stops, mid-beat.

Twice I grew nuts to approach my thoughts, polish them into words and accept the rebuff. Twice my heart I betrayed, dropped my bleeding pen, got to my bike and rode into the rain.

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Once, by eight pm, I, alone with her, just alone, did set to tackle my thoughts and gift wrap them into a word, a poem, a well crafted essay. That day I cleaned, she accounted; I cleaned, she checked; I cleaned, she balanced; I cleaned, she said good night. I cleaned and I was alone…..alone…..and clean; cleaned of the urge to tie the ribbons of my feelings on penciled sheets.

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OF OMENS AND PORTENTS

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On a starless, pregnant evening, windswept clouds dancing in the upper reaches, the sky reaching down in angry rumble as Sango threw bolts at a corner, where ants, antennae weaving in defiance, struggled stolen pieces of pie crusts; someone’s leftover, through a hole, I, amending a pudgy, petulant lady for her blouse, did prick my little finger.

Oh, the shivers that jerked me forward. My blood came pouring, pouring red, deep red like the wine of the River Rhine as the rain pounded with savage delight, the roof, the windows and the car across the street.

I stopped to suck my finger, staring at the dumb window. The car door banged the droning rain and I jerked again, nerves afire. The lady complained that her blouse, white, was stained. I apologized in a daze and she grudgingly murmured her hate.

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OF HIS COMING

He walked in at exactly twenty past eight, with the elements raging all around him. The background a superb painting; surrealism or magical realism, I think. I turned and muttered “no…”

He walked in and crafted a pose. The effect was a silent pause in the room, as the droplets of rain paused mid dribble on the window pane; my mind playing special effects for an ignorant audience.

He strode towards me and I directed him to the reception. The receptionist shivering from the cold, staring with glazed eyes and trembling lips, turned and directed him to her office. Various ill dressed thoughts raced a marathon through my brain. He wanted to see Ejiro. I burned and sweated. I got up and went out to ease the pressure that had built up in my bladder.

I saw him smile his thanks as I passed, with long-legged strides got into the office in no time. There was a knock, a “come in” and a scream; a fearful scream that jerked me forward again.

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OF THE INVESTIGATION

Staring at the scratched, warped table, I pondered the meaning of life. All I wanted was a chance, a dance, a kiss, a cuddle, maybe sex.

“Officer, I cannot explain it. There was no electric power by this time. The scream was a torture, it was a fear made flesh, sir, like an old pain being abused.” I said

“Who screamed?” a voice asked. I raised bloodshot eyes to a blue tie and wrinkled suit sitting in front of me. I am seeing him for the first time.

The room was small and airless. No windows; just a lazy dust abused fan, taking its time in its revolution as it pondered the dimly lit room, then a door, two chairs and a table.

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“I asked you a question?” the policeman repeated.

“Ejiro” I replied.

“What happened next?” The policeman asked.

He dyed his hair. He must be older than he seems. All these civil servants… My thoughts wandered, searching, groping.

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A SCENE OF DYING

I entered the office and a terrible scene gripped my eyes. The man knees bent, was caressing and whispering to Ejiro’s head; a rusty coloured liquid pooling under her stomach. She turned to see me, then she smiled;Jesus! She smiled in the pain.

“Voke” she whispered.

I don’t know if it was a question or a statement but I rushed to her and stopped short. The muzzle of a gun was pointed at my lungs. My heart tapped a frantic ill scored beat.

“No, no…” Ejiro said. “It is not his fault. Voke would never hurt me” She added

Oh! How I have hated him then. The man smiled his sad smile at me, then she coughed, and he turned quickly to her. She coughed again, and I too rush forward to her side.

“Ah Voke, love is fatal. Love is cruel, Voke, cruel.” She said when she found air again.

She touched my hand and smiled as a dribble of blood dripped down her red cold lips. A sigh escaped her and then silence. I watch her eyes dim to darkness.

“She’s dead.” The man said, sadly.

The office door burst open and people from outside the shop and the street rushed in, shouting questions, pointing at the blood; the blood on my shirt, my hands… How did it get there? I look at the man but his eyes are far away. Then your people come in.

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“So who shot her then?” The policeman asked

I stared at the depths of the steaming cup of coffee sitting in front of me like it was the depth of man’s soul.

“I have no idea. Can I go now?” i replied.

“No, you will be remanded in our custody until we conclude investigations.” The policeman replied.

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EPILOGUE: THREE FINAL THOUGHTS

First Thought

So here I am, here I stand as I watch the dregs of my society. I have been slapped, beaten, spitted upon androbbed; I still stand.

As the mosquitoes bite, I ponder. She was beautiful, too good to die. Why was she so stubborn? I said I was sorry, didn’t I? Too stubborn! Jesus! Why? Bandying a gun about... Was she really going to use it? What of this Voke guy? I saw his eyes, he wanted her; they all wanted her. Someone fired a shot through the window. Who did it? What is he saying now? Hmmn…Death has cheated me. Oh… Ejiro…oh…Ejiro…

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Second Thought

Ah! Death did come. Cold, this cell; very cold. Mosquitoes are feeding. The man, I didn’t get his name, killed her. I am sure of it. But for what reason? This policeman should let me go now. My wife will be worried by now. Oh God! What a mess!

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Third Thought

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I have to hide it somewhere. The bitch! Always going about chasing what was no concern of hers. She got what she deserved. Let her go and chase husbands in hell! How do i get this stain off my blouse? That stupid boy! Can’t sew shit.

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THE END

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This story was first written as a lengthy poem. I have tried to keep some of the poetry. I had a little difficulty with the ending. I hope the story falls for you and maybe you will be able to share with my your thoughts. I am still a poet first. 😂

Thanks for stopping by; Peace!

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STAY STEEMING

© @warpedpoetic.