what can i say? i'm an eccentric woman.

got more soul

than a sock

with a hole.

Sunday, November 4, 2007

Soldier's Story (continued)

They walked slowly towards the orphanage. Death was in their eyes. Their footsteps were getting louder and louder. Kofi was panicking. He ran to Akua at the other side of the room. He told her recklessly that the rebels were coming. He was crying uncontrollably, like a broken baby doll. It was yesterday night all over again. The kids were scattered and screaming. Kofi was as still as a windless night. He was a picture. The door was shot down. Angry looking boys and men stood at it. They paced towards the innocent as one.

“Which wan of jou arh workinn foh thee arhmee, ah?” A tall dark man exclaimed.
His right hand man lit a blunt.
“I am talking to you! Ansah me!”
The TV was blaring.

He fired his rifle. Two kids fell on the ground with holes in their foreheads. Blood swam through the room. The army officer walked over. The children and workers moved out of the way. He put his hand in the rich blood. He gazed at his red hand. He licked it.
“Mmm, the taste of arhmee blood.”A young boy soldier stepped forward.
“Let dat be a message to you fools. Arhmy men arh the enemy. If we find jou with dem, we will kill jou like we killed them.”

The boy laughed with his crew and walked away. It was no turning back for them. They stole the innocence of two young boys.The scents of blood and blunts mixed. Akua and Kwame, crying, lifted Nana’s pale body from the bloody floor. They carried him outside into the dark world. Two other boys carried the other lifeless body. Anger and despair were written all over their faces.

“Joanna has brought her African baby back to America today. She carried it to the airport while the paparazzi snapped pictures of her. She made a speech saying I quote: “There are people out there who need our help. Everyone has a job to do. There is a war going on right in front of us and we need to do something about it” She is doing her part, that’s for sure.In other news, Britney Spears has just lost her children…”


Kwame was shooting. The other boys were shooting. They were killing rebel men with clean hands on triggers. They were falling, one by one against the wall. He loved it. The rush was heightening his excitement. He was the BTK killer of Africa. The other boys were smiling.

“Now dat you ah experts, it is time to faze the real world. Those bastaahd rebels arh lurkin in dee woods. Dey arh breackan this country aparht. There will be a revohlution!” Joseph exclaimed.
“Yeah!” The soldiers hollered.
“You,” he pointed to Kwame, “You will be my little seargent.”

Kwame smiled and took a joint from another boy. He smoked it. He grabbed a bottle of gin off of the floor and drank some.

“Now get ready, the village in frohnt of us is filled with dee rebels. We will kill them all one by one,” Joseph smiled.

The soldiers got into position. They got onto the grass and started crawling quietly and bit by bit. They were crawling army style in army clothing. Branches were snapping and leaves were rustling. Their boots were dragging evil with them. As they approached the village, they got on their hands and knees. Kwame had the focus of a Jedi. He never blinked. He never swallowed. He was focused. The group waited. They waited.
They got up and started running like cheetahs. They were screaming and shooting everything in sight – newborns and mothers, fathers and sons. They stayed in packs like murders. The rebels fought back, shooting death at the army. It was a war.

“Kill dee rebels!” Kwame shouted.

The murders shouted in agreement. Kwame entered a house uninvited. He rummaged through drawers and fridges. He broke bottles and chairs. He shot the family portrait. The TV was blaring. He ran to a bedroom. He opened the closet and found a clothed family.

“Get out hereh and get on yoh knees. Face the wall and shut yoh mouts!” Kwame yelled.

He was bloodthirsty. The family of five was on their knees, praying to the heavens for help. Kwame shot them in the head, one person at a time. When he got to the mother, he thought of his own mother. He shot her dead.

“A Fashion Show will be held in New York City tomorrow, right in front of the history museum. Many celebrities will be attending the event – including Tony, the latest celebrity to become a humanitarian and adopt a black looking baby. He is bringing the baby with him. The title of the event is “Accessory Chic”. The theme is of course accessories. Some include necklaces, purses, and small handbags shaped like babies. We will be on top of the event. It’s going to be a war over there…”

Yesterday, after burying his friend, Kofi could not take it. He was restless. Nightmares were haunting him like ghosts. Blood, bodies, and tears were chasing him. He sat up on his bed, panting. He looked beyond the window. The moonlight was still gleaming. It was the early morning. Kofi was miserable. His heart was hurting more than a brain tumor. He wanted to go away. He wanted to run away. These emotions were building skyscrapers inside of him. He looked around the room. Silence was roaming around. The rest of the boys were sleeping. Kofi said a prayer to himself. He wanted the Lord to help him overcome this pain. But he couldn’t wait. He ate some bread from the kitchen and put on a shirt. He left the orphanage and entered a world of loneliness.

He walked along the dirt road/sidewalk, hanging his head. No one was around. Shooting guns ceased for now.

“Where am I goin?” he asked himself.

He walked slowly towards his home village. It took him an hour. The village was run down – fallen trees, broken houses, cracked lights, and dead bodies. The air smelled like demise. He entered his old house. He felt a chill enter his body. The blood of his mother was still there, dark and dry. He walked further down the bullet infested hallway. Her naked body still lay there. Her eyes were still wide open. Kofi was staring at them, waiting for them to move. He would be waiting forever. He went beside his dead mother. He put her arm around him and lay on her bare body. He whimpered to sleep.

The day was young. Kwame was woken up at his camp by Joseph. The gun was still in his now dirty hands.

“I want to kill dem by surprise,” Joseph wickedly whispered.
“Me too; let us go,” Kwame whispered.

He lit a joint and drank some tonic. A murder of them ran hastily from their camp in the middle of the forest, to the front of it. From there, they could see houses and rebel camps behind them. They were ready for combat. They snuck their way into the village. They were quieter than a pin drop. Some of them went into the houses and others went behind. They got their knives ready. Kwame took his out from his pocket. He and Joseph snuck behind the houses. They stayed close to the wall. One foot in front of the other, they approached the camp like carnivores. They attacked. Kwame slit the throats of three rebels. He licked his knife clean. Joseph stabbed the young boy soldier in the chest. Both of them ran back to the front of the house. They split up. The sun was now rising to life. They acted quickly.Kwame opened the creaky door.

Kofi was woken up by a noise. He sprang to his feet, observing his bloody shirt. He bent back down and kissed life into his dead mother. He was alert. He looked both ways before crossing the hallway. He walked slowly to approach the living room. The TV was blaring. He did not know why but he had an aching feeling. He tip toed towards it with his hands curled into fists. Those were his only weapons. If God took him right now, he wanted to see his mother – his dear, loving mother. He turned the corner. He came face to face with a soldier. It was him.

“Ah, a rebel you ah, arhn’t you!” the soldier exclaimed.
“Kwame, it is me, Kofi, yoh brotha,” Kofi said with tears in his eyes.

His reflection stood clueless in front of him.

“Jew ah not my brotha! The arhmy is my brotha! You ah the enemy!” the soldier said in a stern tone.
“Kwame, please, let me talk to jew,” Kofi pleaded.

The soldier said nothing. He just watched Kofi like a clock. Time was running out.He aimed.

“Kwame, do not do dis!”He put his finger on the killer.“Kwame!”

He fired. Kofi was a victim of a soldier of war. His body fell in one motion. It made a thud. Blood splattered from Kofi to Kwame. Kwame stared at himself lying on the floor. He loomed over his brother. He spat on him. He walked over his body and out of the door.

“The fashion show was a success. The proceeds will be going to the items of Africa – children, who are living horrible lives in their war stricken countries. Singer Joanna looked gorgeous with her baby black boy on her side. Actress Rayne has an African baby too. But she was sitting in the audience with it. A war was definitely going on in the world – the world of fashion! Skinny models: Are they good or bad? You decide.”

No comments: