|
       
|
 |
Voice in the Gutters by Cosmas Mairosi 2007-10-22 10:21:14 |
Print - Comment - Send to a Friend - More from this Author |
It was an eerie dawn, when owls hooted for daybreak and cockcrows crooned for sunshine. Mazvi, alone in an out of the way gutter, wallowed amid mounds of urban waste, the stink from the city’s garbage harassing her bowels. Then the last of the agonizing seizures possessed her for one final moment, forcing her to relinquish the booty she had carried in her womb for nine months. After eons of agonizing pain, bloodied and still nursing her groans, she planted her child’s umbilical cord in the sun-battered sand – for stray dogs to munch later- and bequeathed the product of her labour pains to the open wind to nurse his howls and the morning dew to give him a welcome bath. Then she rose and never looked back- leaving behind her the crying infant to be nursed by the gutters. Mazvi melted into the city’s slums, taking her place once again in the plastic palaces by the Mukuvisi River, amid her filthy and bedraggled kinsfolk. At night she played hostess to gargantuan gentlemen in seedy backyard brothels. Then she would play the radio loud, in a bid to forget that, just like someone who drops a mound of stool in the open veld, she had left an unweaned voice crying in the gutters. What shall we do for him then, a pauper child, dumped for dead in the city’s slums and choking gutters? An unwelcome traveller. Does it mean then that when finally he dies, the gutters shall chew his muscles and cremate his soul? Still his voice rings in the gutters, crying for a warm welcome that will never be. At least the baby Christ had the horses’ neighing grunts for company. In the manger He waddled in swaddling clothes. What then of this motherless infant, greeted with the stench of the city’s stinking garbage haranguing his nostrils? What shall we say when mangy dogs were the first to sniff his buttocks? And the sun’s scorching haze beat down to smother him. Is the howling of jackals and the yelping of hyenas the kindest of all receptions? Unwelcome traveller, I wonder why there were n angels to attend to you. For even ghoulads have goblins as their attendants. There are a thousand childless phantoms here that would have given a rousing welcome for someone like you, were it not that the one who bore you placed you beyond human reception. But, then, this is Eart, my brother, home to billions of humanoid creatures. They no longer know how to welcome toddlers here. Your howling will pass with the wind, till gloom places a cold finger on your lips, to silence your voice crying in the gutters. Then your voice will become one with the gutters’ scattered debris. Is it fair, then, that jackals should relish in tango over your fresh carcass? Is it fair, still, that vultures should keep your funeral vigil and the gutter rats to chew your precious bones? No farewell hymns ever sung for your departing shadow save the hungry anthems of demented flies hurrying to their feast and screaming scavengers slobbering over your decomposing remnants. The malodorous echo of their munching grunts, and the crunch of breaking bones, why don’t they rend the virgin’s nightmares? Humanity should be held to blame over your demise. There are millions of unslept beds, any one of which would have given you comfort. Not these gutters which have turned into your bedroom, where you clutch at sharp discarded objects as your toys, and hug broken glass for a bedtime souvenir. Look at how they have marred and distended your princely flesh! What if the rains were to unleash their fury full-throttle on thy naked soul? Unlucky shadow, whither shall you go- Purgatory or Paradise- guiltless soul much wronged? Perhaps you should have come another time when your parents were ready to receive you and the world a much friendlier place to live. I have no words to pacify your grieving spirit but I will tell your Mamma that you survived three full days under the scorching sun and three full nights under the shining moon. I will tell her that I tried to feed you from gutter- picked crumbs of food. Being a gutter fellow, born and bred in the gutters, I couldn’t afford a decent meal for you. I could not give you a decent shelter but you bode with me under a tree. I will tell her that you soiled yourself several times and your stale vomit stank. That the ired ants stung your belly and buttocks. I will tell her that in the dark hour nearest dawn the nightjars screeched your departure. But, certainly, I won’t tell her that the mongrels fought over you and wrenched your bowels. That you died battered and bruised, tattooed by the slum’s dirt- a true ghetto soldier, though you never fired a single bullet save your angry howl for survival- barren and thirsty as the Sahara. How can I tell her that you had no peace of mind, which the roaming dogs tore to pieces and lapped at with glee? Perhaps it should suffice if I tell you that your mother cared nothing in your death. By your birth do you know that you soiled her last panties? You see, your Mom has to occasionally sell her body for a lunchtime meal and a pat on the buttocks from an interested gentleman often brought her supper.
Read the other chapters
<--Previous 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59 60 61 62 63 64 65 66 67 68 69 70 71 72 73 74 75 76 77 78 79 80 81 82 83 84 85 86 87 88 89 90 Next--> |
Print - Comment - Send to a Friend - More from this Author |
|
|
|