Short stories – nature7blog

My lady returns

(Flora De Pota)

Did you miss me, my dear?
It is hard to say, whether miff or bliss, your correction reveals no favor, though it has been eight long years and my frailty has become apparent – even so, you replinish me. I’d almost forgotten how beautifully brutal you are but you remind me with every expulsion, that true peace and freedom is not without sacrifice. Through pain, you resolve my pain. You restore my vision, that I may marvel at your glory. My breath moves without obstruction and I chase your aroma once more.

My love, did you miss me? Your abode was not as before. Was it mercy or apathy? With pure heart you purify all who partake. I see you have aged as well, a wrinkle in form, your manners remain the same. You humble me and I am weakened.

Just as I am about to fold, you subside.

Shall we ever meet again? “If there is need – but know, time does not favor your weakness. My nature is not gentle. You must keep my words.”

I have missed you, my fettle.

I must rest now, you leave me exhausted. Tomorrow I shall be exalted as before

by K. Osei

The Smile

FI-HANKRA

Black humid nights sticking to my skin, street lights illuminate the hazy air, a pot hole I didn’t see. Black art – graffiti decorate the steel gray curtains that protect the trinkets in the corner store at 4th and Rhode Island.

The little Arab man sits the sealed glass booth across the street, pushing petro beneath the British sun—quietly he sells the assistance they need to roll and blow.

Ambient noise surrounded by silence, glazed eyes, like deer, like zombies pierce the window of every passing vehicle—focused. Empty space full of plight, of black, of despair. A war on hope, on hugs, ambition on drugs. Peeking through the blinds from above, observing, listening to the street babble, seeing but not seen, like leery prey perched in the jungle trees shielded by darkness. A scream, a moan, a flashing light, there’s blood in the street—on my hands, my shirt—oozing from her nostrils, draining from her ears. A bleeding stone on the pavement next to her head, and a small dent, a breach, just above the left temple. A glazed gaze, a desperate stare, her eyes fixed upon my face as I push—quietly chanting the rescue mantra, 1 and 2 and 3…, unconcious-ly, we both know it’s time, a fading frown greets the other side. I continue pushing protocol against the obvious, the odds, against the reality of blackness, 329 and counting. So young—whose daughter, sister, mother—who’s next? They lift her body into the red and white box with the spinning light and asclepius fades into the night.

The street sweeper comes just before dawn, just before work. Traffic flows and never they know, how humid was the night.

Twenty-three calls — fire in the sky, struggling to breath, black smoke choking my thoughts, I can’t see, temperature’s rising, got-damnit, somebody please vent the fucking roof!

Stripped down, trying to remove the carbon residue and grime that clogs my pores—thick soot tinged mucus, mixed with a hint of gore, erupts from my lungs when I cough on to the shower floor and oozes down the trough. I manipulate the shower head in a circular motion, have to wash it down, have to get clean. Close my eyes as the lukewarm water sanitize my mind, envisioning the water falls of Trinidad—I was there once, standing on the black shiny rocks under the cliff, the waters of heaven flowed down upon my head — mmm, it felt good, I was clean then.

Fatigued — sitting in the dark, slumped over and dripping. Dark spaces, black faces between my thoughts. So many images etched in my mind but this one, her face, had an eerie familiarity.

Dried and dressed, my gear bag slung over the right shoulder. A silent morning. Talking seems out of place — quietly moving through the station. I nod, good morning, to Dave as I walk through the parking lot, to my car, thinking, I’ve got to get home. He nods back, no words are exchanged — none are needed.

It’s 6:00 am, moving against traffic on my way home, the people are rising with the sun—with hope.

Pulling into my driveway I notice how green the cone shaped Leland cypress in the front yard are, grass perfectly edged, the ancient twisted limbs of the Japanese maple. The colorful arrangement of the flower bed. A moment to gather myself and listen to the morning birds converse. Slowly placing my key in the door, I enter and behold—the smile, the face of angels — but never a word about how humid was the night.

by K. Osei

Prelude To Africa

For many years I pondered the Continent of Africa and the people who resided there.

Most of the images I’d seen through mainstream media were negative. The story lines covered by traditional media outlets spoke of either poverty, political, economic or social oppression and unrest. These descriptions contrasted greatly from the information that I had received from friends who made the journey to Africa – at least, as it pertained to the nature and character of the people. I had also read many books on the subject that gave a different perspective.

Not knowing what to expect, in March of 1999, I made my first trip To Ghana.

I was attending a small social gathering at a friend’s home one evening in February of 1999. I was well acquainted with some of the people there, particularly a small organization dedicated to the practice of traditional African culture and religion/spirituality.

The gathering was very lively, yet warm and easy.

The guest roamed the room freely, moving from one huddle to the next, engaging one another. The ambient sound of light-hearted laughter and conversation could be heard just below the African-Caribbean music being played.

The spicy aroma of West African cuisine permeated the atmosphere. Many were culturally dressed in bright colorful garments with exquisite detail and everyone seemed at ease and connected. Suddenly, there was the sound of drums, “boom bop bop boom…,” we all began to migrate towards this sound coming from another room. As I reached the thumbing rhythmic beat, I saw three meticulously hand carved wooden drums engraved with African adinkra symbols being played in unison. These were no ordinary drums, each one had a very distinct sound and look. The fontomfrom, dundun, and the djembe, each drum called out to the guest in melodious accord. Everyone began to gather around; the drummers appeared almost oblivious to the small crowd – tuned in to a rhythm and sound of their own making. A circle was formed and a beautiful barefooted woman dressed in shimmering waist beads, head wrap and flowing colorful garb, began her enchanted dance in sync with the cadence of the drums.

Her rhythmic dance was accompanied by the most lyrical piano-like sound. I panned the room to locate its origin and saw a short well defined man holding a small square shaped piece of wood with both hands. The instrument had staggered metal prongs layered across the top. As he plucked it with his thumbs, a wonderful high quality sound reverberated throughout the room, resonating with perfect pitch (this instrument is known as the mbira, or thumb piano). As the dancer performed, she smiled, gracefully bowing and gesturing with her hand, as an invitation to others into her sacred circle of dance. The energy of the evening was jubilant, yet sublime and serene.

The purpose of this small gathering was to discuss the recent passing of Otumfo Poku Ware II, the Asantehene (King) of the Asante/Akan people of West Africa. Otumfo Opoku Ware II

220px-Ashantehene

As the evening progressed people were mingling about the home enjoying the food, music and conversation. I was off to the side conversing with one of the leaders of the organization, when another member, a tall attractive brown skin young woman joined us. With a subtle smile on her face, she placed her hand on the man’s shoulder that I had been speaking with and said, “Did you tell him?” The young man, also tall, was a charming fella; paused briefly, smiled back and said, “I was just getting to that.” Although I didn’t know exactly what they were referring to, the smile on their faces gave me a bit of comfort. He looked at me and said, “You know, we’ve decided to take a small delegation to Ghana on behalf of the organization, to pay respect to the Asantehene.” I listened, and he went on to say, “We would like for you to be a part of that delegation.” This came as a complete surprise. We spent the next forty-five minutes or so discussing some of the particulars of the trip. I felt an immense gratitude and excitement, mixed with slight caution.

Over the years my mind had been plagued by negative media images of Africa. Like the animated shoulder-demon depicted in old cartoons, the stories of Africa’s disease, crime and poverty had been reported with such consistent fervor that I had to pause. The image of Africa had been vilified. On my other shoulder stood years of research and personal stories from friends I knew and trusted – and of course, the overwhelming desire to experience Africa for myself. The fact that I would be traveling with folks that had made numerous trips to the continent was comforting and the opportunity to experience a royal funeral was both humbling and exhilarating. In addition, a few of the members in the delegation were recognized chiefs in Ghana. The things (private ceremonies) that I would be privy to on this journey was not available to everyone. After considering and consulting with my family, it didn’t take long for me to decide – maybe a day or two. Out of all the thoughts and emotions swirling around in my head, the most prominent was gratitude. I had not been a part of the organization for very long. I felt honored to have been selected. The members that made up the organization were some of the most genuine people I knew. It was indeed an honored.

Over the next few weeks I brushed up on my twi (twi is a dialect spoken by the Akan/Asante people of Ghana). I was asked if I would mind functioning as an okyeame (An okyeame is a master of oral expression, one who relays the words of the chief in a more artistic and diplomatic way without losing the essence of what is said). Okyeame

DT5040

This made me more than little nervous. As long as they were speaking English I was fine. My twi was non-existent and I had literally no hope of improving it in such a short time. I studied feverishly up until a day or so prior to departure. Finally, just accepted what I had—nothing. As it turned out my services as an okyeame was not necessary, at least not as a speaker of the language. This gracious brother and his wife were really looking to introduce me to the culture in a hands on fashion (for which I am forever indebted). With that, I was able to relax and focus my attention on the experience and the majestic scenery of Africa. The ceremonies and celebration, the people, and culture, were all that I imagined it to be.

by K. Osei