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PURGATORIO Ten Years of Truthspeak 1996-2006 AMERICAN DREAMS BRAD BERNER, United States DAY ONE AJ, Kenya JOIN OUR MAILING LIST. It contains more jokes than not. G21 FICTION CLARIUS UGWUOHA, Nigeria GLOBAL*BEAT ROD AMIS, G21 HQ HOT LINKS RAHEEM, United States RECOMMENDED DAILY REQUIREMENT ROBIN MILLER, United States SMOKE & MIRRORS ROD AMIS, G21 World HQ THE PREVIOUS EDITION MEET THE G-CREW! These are the people behind this jam-band every week. HOME TABLE OF CONTENTS & BACK ISSUES BECOME A SPONSOR OF THE WORLD'S MAGAZINE.WHY should you advertise here? We'll tell you. We know you're lazy. Here's a button for a quick translation of this page. Just click on the flag for your country. You're welcome! OR TRY THIS GOOGLE TRANSLATION SERVICE. |
G21 FICTION - CLARIUS UGWUOHA, this year's Caine Prize for Africa Writing nominee from your World's Magazine provides the first entry for our new Special Section.
Nanka, NIGERIA - PROLOGUE
Clarius Ugwuoha
I shall tell you this story that goes by the title: A LEAP IN THE DARK! It stretches from the time I have just grown out of my mother's snug and could tell my right from my left, to the time my hair begins to shine grey as with age.
Father has the devil of a temper. He sits there, right in the shade of the orange tree by our thatch hut, smoke from his pipe playing in the air, his face drawn to a form != another face.
I remember my mother with the eye of a child. She stands tall, isn't rough of the tongue or about hard, just comely enough to make life under her one thing of joy. She wakes of a morning and sweats through her chores, toils and moils until the day has drawn in.
Not father. Dark-complexioned and heavy-bearded personality of the rude tongue; austere devotee of the silvery mine, sits late into the night, shouting and singing in his hard, old voice.
Memories invade me in jerks. Duke town. A nest of bungalows and thatch huts. The pathway used to get heavy the year round and we, the children, revel in rooting among the laterite so that our bodies are thickly caked with dirt. The rain... Sepulchral clouds dot the sky and begin to stretch. Harsh booms of thunder... Mercurial streaks of lightning... Rain hit the roo f and ran off in jets. Ebb and flow. Ebb and flow. I stand in the eaves, flashes of heat and bafflement. The air is dead, Duke Town another place. It all happened; yes, I cannot be mistaken about that. But the memories != the memories of those events too are dying!
I shall mention Messrs Manta, Big-Joe and John Bull the action man here. I shall tell you of Mr. Black Devil of the short temper, of Mr. Arthur the Lion-heart and men of the sort.
Joe KofoCHAPTER ONE
About noon, I made a neat bundle of my possessions and swung it over my shoulders. With all quietude, I picked my way through the wooded land. Here at last lost among the towering trees, I began to think differently of my decision to leave Manta. I began to think if I were not wiser giving up the whole idea for, now I was alone, my courage deserted me and all the horror stories told about the Layan woods != of murder and of other cruel deeds that took place in it != played back to my memory and haunted me. I tried all I could to keep control of my nerves, but every rustle in the surrounding trees invariably gave me cause for fear.
At length, I turned a corner and came to a track. It ran thin across a hill and led to a place, I knew not where. Here the world was a shade calmer. Lush trees shot far and wide in the air, and the sun had hardly a space in which to pierce through. If anything made me much afraid here, it was these trees that grew thick about and enveloped me. It was also the dark, monotonous calling of the birds that would flush at my sight and get lost among a range of hills. By now the sun had sunk low in the forest belt and darkness was creeping in. My idea was getting to the seas to set sail for home. Now, it came clear to me, that this was not to be and the biting reality stung tears out of my eyes.
I thought I heard a whistle. In close sequence, a pistol shot rang clear in the nearby bush.
I was rocked backwards as there ran a trembling through the grasses hard by. Startled birds rose high and scattered in the air. Wild rodents rushed into the thicker wood.
In the distance, a lanky man rose out from among the grass. My spirit sank as I gaped, terror-struck, at him. I needed no oracle to tell me this was Manta, the fear of whom had so much haunted me.
Manta fitted your idea of a cruel man. A six-footer with a guyish carriage, thick pale lips and thick, set eyes. A tuft of shaggy hair grew about his chin and his voice was one of thunder. He had on him a ragged item of clothing and a weather-beaten cap, which he pulled roughly over his face. On his arms, close by the shoulders, a neat red band stretched round.
"One step and you are gone!"?shouted he in that voice of thunder and he made as though he were advancing, the echo of his words ringing in repeated waves that ran acold chill through my spine.
I needed nothing more to lend me wings. I set to as fast as my luggage could allow, while behind me came the 'man-beast' and his cohort, cursing and swearing, shooting aimlessly, his cracked ruffian voice ringing high intermingled with the boom of gunshots. Rounds behind rounds of echo rose and rent the air. I couldn't have been more startled. I ran until I was out of breath and gave up hope.
Into a clearing, I branched. On the pale sand I lay low and waited for what seemed an endless age. I waited to see what Manta would not do. I had no sooner settled into this alcove by the track than I noticed that the echoes took longer and had lost their pitch.
TO BE CONTINUED
© 2006, GENERATOR 21.
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