Saturday, June 04, 2005

The wooded comb..part 1 (short story )

In the early morning before nature wakes, that interval before the owl hoot and a cuckoo alarm, when men still longs for their women, we start out at twilight

The clouds in its blanket of blues hangs over our head, a red glow shows were the sun was hidden, and as we walk we can hear the lone some howl of a dog across the field.

The unending ritual, the endless rows of Quakers marching to the plots, young maidens strolling to the stream or the men to factory, stumbling into one another testing the mist,

In the familiar early morning scent and breeze, I could hear curses and snatches of conversation, the science of tongues at its best along the village wood

The trees stands out like accuses, the weeds seems to bow as we walk by, the wind have its own voice, applauded by the clapping leaves, I feel the chill from the contact of the cold air and low branches along the narrow parts, the flesh against nature green

There were fewer of us in today expenditure; for security reasons we walked in a group, ever since we heard about the missing individuals in the Okija forest,

There is a woman near me, the perfect figure of a working nomad outlines in the morning mist, she is wearing a patchwork of a gown, that did not conceal her small breast

I look at the dozen plaits fanning out on her head, the afro-style decorated by cowries, and I imagined my hands on them…kneading

There is someone behind me, he seems to want to walk in front of me, and trying to block the view I am having of the maiden hips in sway for me, but I am a weed too, blocking every opening in the narrow lane,

We have finally made it into the wood, the area at the edge of the hills; I took my machete of its sling and went through the tall grass, making a part through the new working site

Something is moving on the bush to the left, murmurs from the group lead to hurried footfalls, and the instant a pheasant screeched most were in panic

A snake I suppose, but I am certain there are worse dangers in such parts; the stories of lost kinsmen along this area are no joke.

I saw a ten-foot-long black mamba the instance the others shrunk back. I cut off its head the exact moment it strikes; I cut the writhing body into sections. The action were born into me, the instinct on a nomad, the knowingness that man is above all animals

The sun is rising as we finally made it to the farmland, the maiden and children went along the moat to the stream, and we the men went uphill,

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