Morals With a Side of Herring

Morals With a Side Of Herring - Chapter One

Chapter One – of Rotting Fruits and Herrings

Mr. Charlie Sepongo did not suspect lilies.

His eyes had slipped effortlessly down from their scrutinising of the sometimes-elusive bridge, and somehow alighted upon those peculiar pepperings of pale purity. His eyes, quick and trained though they were, could not figure out these puzzling plants. He squinted and strained as he combed vigorously through his brain, like a hen through dust, for answers. 'This whole blasted painting just keeps on asking,' he thought to himself, 'the Political Men (they usually were still men) would not like this, not one bit.' Mr. Charlie Sepongo truly felt as if he were a gullible fool, like some sly trickster of a person had hidden this, and only this, piece of this jigsaw of gentle greens and subtle blues from him. He did not like snake-like people such as these; they were as slippery as the herrings that swam in schools and shoals around the coastlines of his country, as dangerous as the deep black droplets of oil that those men most likely sought.

For a man of his mid-forties, his poor brain was certainly not what it used to be, like those herrings, things just kept slipping away, as if they were rocks falling of a steep cliff, cascading into the abyss of oblivion below, never to be recalled. Today, it was clearly not amused be teaching, or at least trying to teach, a collection of what surely were one of the Lord's most terrifying creations. The teenager. After stumbling through the Far East, and then explaining that, though they do share the suffix of '–land', Thailand and Finland do not have much else in common, and were located on completely different continents, and being bombarded by that all-too-familiar smell of chalk and sawdust, enfused with a sliver of sweat, Mr. Sepongo's brain was not fit to create excuses.

Especially to the, simply unavoidable and incredibly patronizing, Madame Brouillard; who, sadly, happened to be the school's only resident French teacher, seeing as France had had a heavy involvement in the affairs of the Comoros, somewhat confusing.

He had once again been invited to one of her wine-sampling sessions, which usually ended in chaos, and several moderately drunk teachers. After stammering out some drivel about test papers (tests never really occurred that often there, so it certainly must have sounded like drivel), his brain was not in a state to wade through the rigors of adult life. Hopefully without drowning.

It was nearly the end of June, as well as the school year, so Mr. Sepongo's concentration was not as sharp as it should have been, and he was constantly distracting himself, The painting kept serenely lying on his desk, unassuming, but also so questioning, calm, but in ways, so vibrant. It was a bit like these islands he had lived on for so many years. If you looked at the beautiful crest and horn of Africa, if you ran your finger on a map from the arid North, to the Pseudo-European South, he would bet you ten chickens that you would not see these islands. Yet, if you had eyes sharper than a gutting-knife, and a brain faster than a 10-year-old to a plate of fresh Papayas, these gems of the Mozambique Channel would reveal all their secrets to you. 'It is a great shame amongst the people of the Comoros that this should happen,' he thought to himself, 'We have so much to give, but none who wish to take it. We are like a rotting fruit, in this way; not a soul thanks us for our love of our land, or the seeds of our hope.' He shook his head, at this point veiled by a thin layer of sweat.

After all that condemning and accusing of public ignorance, though he was not one to talk about ignorance, Mr. Charlie's brain had really had enough. Luckily, it was just nearing the end of the day, so he was sure that he would not be missed, especially seeing as his group of 5-year-olds, who certainly were not his favorite class, had all been taken to the beach today. Sure enough, as he fled the school premises, mostly for fear of Madame Brouillard, not even the, usually attentive, chickens just outside the walls of the school seemed to notice, or care enough to make the racket they usually did. Maybe it was the sun's intense gaze? For some reason, those chickens had had an instant dislike of him, the moment they laid eyes on their victim. Mr. Sepongo had once heard that they were related to dinosaurs, and this flock certainly proved that theory.

He left the pastel colored walls of his, possibly, beloved workplace, and trudged through the less than bustling streets of Moroni. Even the, usually devout Mosques looked tired and in need of a rest, the neon signs outside 'Comoros Express – EASY FOODS' were comparatively dull when one even glimpsed the fiery, sweltering sun. The sole inhabitants of the Rue De La Corniche at this hour were some wizened old men, playing cards under a makeshift umbrella shade, and Ms. Hope Deleone, selling her husband's pumpkins by the side of the road. Even for Moroni, there was a severe lack of people. Not that it mattered much to Mr.Charlie, he had important matters to attend to in the form of the painting that he was bearing under his right arm. He walked on, past the relatively run down airport, and towards the more rural suburbs of Moroni. That is, if he could avoid a rather menacing pack of dogs loitering by the roadside, squaring him up.

Harbor Bay could become rather hot in the daytime, especially at this time of year, you could see this in lot of different ways, the most obvious being that most sensible people had decided to take cover in their respective houses, but there were lots of other subtle hints that you pick up on, if you looked closely enough. For example, most of the boats that had been in the harbor for long enough were clearly being affected by the sun's piercing rays, but it was also evident that any animal, human or otherwise, was clearly wilting like an incredibly under-watered plant. Mr. Sepongo knew about plants mainly because of his neighbour, and friend, Martine Massounde.

Ms. Massounde was an impressive, and somewhat intimidating botanist. She lived in Number 34, on Rue de Mayotte, with an impressive view out to sea and her jungle of plants to keep her company. Mr. Sepongo lived at Number 35, which he protected with his life, for fear of it being overridden with Ms. Massounde's specimens, a constant threat and menace to the surrounding area, especially those Hydrangeas, with their roots of iron. Like her companions, Ms. Massounde was not to be compromised, cheated or avoided under any circumstances. Notwithstanding, she could be compassionate and, dare he say, thoughtful, at times. Many people, himself included, found her manner to be intimidating, somewhat like that of an elephant with a tree up its bottom (not that he had ever encountered an elephant in these worrying circumstances). Many commented that she could be rather irking and that she had no sense of dignity, almost unaware of her fellow subjects, as you might compare them. There was one thing Mr. Sepongo was certain of, however: she was incredibly 'forceful with her voice', to put it in the words of a lucky survivor.

Today, as with most days, Ms. Massounde had shut her shop, the rather extravagantly named 'Cape To Cairo Emporium', and was exposing herself to the sprawling seascape that neighbored number 34 and 35. Though she was of a similar age to Mr. Charlie, she had still managed to retain beautiful, rounded eyes and a mind as well exercised as a marathon runner. She was displaying her plumage-like style of dressing to the world from her creaking, well used rocking-chair, but, as per usual, had only mildly captivated the audience of two chickens and a dog, all of whom seemed more interested in the pile of home grown pumpkins that lay behind her on a threshold of seeds. As Mr. Sepongo sweated down the beaten, but intact, road, she rose to greet him in all her red and purple glory, looking rather like a traditionally-sized and as yet undiscovered species of roller bird, though he didn't expect her to ever move with grace and elegance through the sapphire skies.

"Ah, Mr. Sepongo, it is such a pleasure to have encountered you here this fine afternoon, would you care for a slice of pumpkin pie," she announced with a friendly tone, "Or, is this about those cuttings I gave you?"

Mr. Charlie explained that he was, regretfully, engaged in a matter of the utmost importance, and could not possibly assist her in her consumption of pies at this precise moment. Ms. Massounde was having none of it.

"Are you very sure you're full, I would not want you growing thin on those morsels that they claim are herrings at that school of yours. Speaking of herring, could I entice you with some spares I received at the market today, I could not stand them rotting, it would be a terrible waste."

Mr. Charlie tried to get across the fact that even a herring could not entice him. It was not successful. Finally, he managed to explain that he was in the possession of a piece of artwork that particularly interested him, but was in need of some assistance, not various foodstuffs. Ms. Massounde gave him a look that Mr. Sepongo was not at all unfamiliar to him.

"I shall get my kettle, and we shall see what becomes of this very fine afternoon indeed."