Monday, November 03, 2008

Liquid symphony


The rains have come and with it, a liquid symphony. Water waltzes down from the skies and then breaks into a fox trot on the metal roofing sheets that cover the decaying urban sprawl that is Ajegunle. Where it can, this water finds its way to the ground and roughly drags the earth down the hill in an electric slide. This is the best part: watching refuse, sand and discarded bits make valiant attempts to resist the pull of their watery master; pretending like they either do not hear its music or that they do not wish to dance. In the end, water wins and they all dance along to its tune. When it is all over, all has been washed clean or at least moved from one place to another. We forget that the stench of rot remains and that the ground is now a vomit of mud. No, we say to each other: the rains have cleansed the land.

Why then do they not cleanse me? I, who sit here patiently waiting for this symphony. My ticket has been purchased through my homelessness and I have front row seats to the magnificence of the rain's dance. No, it will not cleanse me. It's not meant to. I am to sit here, chilled, hungry and alone. All of my eight years, this is all I have ever known. Still I wait to be cleansed, ignoring the sores on my spindly legs; hunger having long receded and its definition forgotten as there has been no otherwise.

One day however, the rain brought something else. A hand. It reached through the crack in the wall I had made for myself from old doors and forgotten panels from the market place. It dragged my screaming form out and enveloped me in an embrace so tight that I was certain to squeeze the air out of my being. I fought and railed at the hand, cursing the rain because it had deserted me. The rain laughed and continued on its own way.

The rains have returned and with it, liquid majesty. It has never been so beautiful. I watch it from my new seat on the window. The window that is by my little bed. My bed in this huge house where the hand has brought me. Here, no one worries that I don't speak. Here there is no cold. The hand has changed many times. Now it belongs to an old man who smells like baby powder. I now smell like baby powder too. Some other hands gave us alot of it and I have my very own bottle of blue. It is a nice place, this house. He is a nice man too. There are nice children here. And here, the rain is nicer.

The rain sings and with it, liquid orchestra.

10 comments:

AlooFar said...

Reads like poetry. I like it.

bumight said...

no it doesn't read like poetry. it reads like prose and i like it better

Nefertiti said...

Wow, wow, Brava! I absolutely loved this. I was hoping, praying for it not to end. I just love literature that humanizes the abstract... Perfection!

InCogNaija said...

Brilliant piece!

Bibi said...

Beautiful.. Fluid... Thought evoking. Love Love Love!

Allied said...

Firstly - the picture got me. I don't think i have stared at one on blogville for the 15 minutes i stared at this. In it i found a story, in it, i also found peace.

Secondly - your story; 1 word - BEAUTIFUL! Sigh! I want to be like you when i grow up :)

Jaja said...

lyrical.

Am often afraid of lyrical, that it would be overdone, that it would be melodramatic...

I like your lines, the story in them

And are you still reading Dicken's Oliver twist???

princesa said...

Nice. Been a while girl...

Atutupoyoyo said...

Loved this Cat. Your writing improves constantly. Liquid orchestra.

I am getting close to settling in but will mail u this week so we can catch up.

Mwah

ibiluv said...

i like......i like........