Morals With a Side of Herring

Morals With a Side of Herring - Chapter Two

Chapter Two - The African Nightmare

Even for Ms. Massounde's usually sprightly plants, it seemed that the scorching heat of the day was proving too much. Ms. Massounde's house was also as extravagant as those dresses she liked to wear, if you could call them dresses, but today, like seemingly the whole of Moroni, it was struggling with the omnipresent haze of heat that seemed to reach every unseen corner and unclaimed shade. The simple beams of wood that held up her roof drooped slightly, probably from the weight of all the many vines and climbers that called Ms. Massounde's loft home. The previously elegant and serene painting that was concerning Mr. Sepongo, seemingly tired of the afternoon sun, had found itself resting on the leg of a table near the centre of Ms. Massounde's household, luckily shaded by a palm frond. Not much seemed to be in motion, apart from the occasional swaying of a emerald-hued companion. Even the, normally attentive, fruit flies buzzed with a slight tiredness that was impossible not to notice. The only sound carried through the musty and dense air was the inconspicuous whistling of Ms. Massounde's prized kettle, a sound which grew old as it repeated itself in what seemed to be a loop as bored of itself as Mr. Sepongo was beginning to become of it. It seemed that his neighbour was beginning to tire of this repetitive cycle of sounds, as she had begun to swing dangerously close to that familiar mood of hers, when everything possible would irk and anger her. Mr. Charlie, taking drastic action, leaned over a pile of shrubs, and turned on Ms. Massounde's battered but prized radio.

"Welcome one and all to the news at five-thirty-seven with me, Nupita Selasi on Radio Njazidja,' was the upbeat reply, 'First story today, our President, Ikililou Dohinine, announces major reform to our political system. Here are his thoughts on the matter, live from Moroni:

Well, Radio Njazidja, as any politician, I am always passionate about the future of our blossoming islands. We have an expanding economy, and one of the most rigourous political systems in the whole of our continent. As a people, we are striving to reform and refine our democracy. So, in the best interest of these islands, I hereby resign from office."

Silence.

Even the kettle seemed to halt its continuous whistle, in the other room, a plant pot shattered on the ground. It had been so sudden, like a bullet, it had pierced the sun-woven fabric of laziness that hung over Number 34. No doubt, Nupita Selasi was equally stunned.

"Ah - Um - Er, I have never been good in a crisis," she sounded as if she had been told of the death of a close family member, "This...is - um, intriguing?" she was still trying to recover the tatters of a news story that lay before her. Ms. Massounde and Mr. Sepongo could nearly see the look on her face, for it was the look that was surely plastered on the faces of anyone to hear this shocking truth. Outside, it seemed as if even the fruit flies had stopped their lazy hum. 'I resign' - just two words, but these two words could lead to whole a lot of trouble, a lot of betrayal, dismay, fear, oppression. 

It was all coming true. The African Nightmare. That stereotype that the Comoros had more or less escaped, even if narrowly. In this day and age? What was to become of them? Were they to be slaughtered like old, weakening chickens? Or were they to conspire against one another, in a vicious circle of hatred and greed? Would Moroni still exist 100 years from now?

Taking charge as usual, Ms. Massounde announced that they were to pack their bags immediately and leave for Mayotte. Unusually for her, she permitted Mr. Sepongo to ponder the idea for a while, and let the reality of the situation. He brought up the point that neither of them could speak French; or, at their age, learn it either. He was met with an unsatisfied stare with more steel in it than an assassin's bullet. It had the same effect as one, however. She then proceeded to gather up cuttings into a bag of 'essentials', and began running about her house like a crazed hen. Mr. Charlie just stood there. At this rate, it was to be a long time indeed until they reached Mayotte.

Around an hour later, Mr. Sepongo was informed that they were to walk into Moroni, and find out the situation that all of the many ferry services of the island were in. Before this, however, they, or rather Ms. Massounde, decided to take a walk up Mount Karthala, the volcano that made the island of Njazidja possible, as Mr. Charlie knew only too well. Ms. Massounde had decreed this activity of the utmost importance, so as to check Moroni's stability from further away. The Comoros had never been truly stable, and this information was another crushing blow in a series laid upon the islanders by the cruel path of fate. They had so much hope, so many aspirations, dreams, ideas, yet it seemed that, for the people of the Comoros, this blow could be fatal. 

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The comparative peace of Mount Karthala, scented with the rare Ylang Ylang flowers, and hued with the chlorophyll of the sprawling greenery, was a welcome change from the supposed calamity reported by Radio Njazidja. The ancient mountain was decked in a veil of shrubs and trees, which made it almost impossible to see the outside world. It felt like a sort of cocoon, which as a welcome thought at the time, what with all the potential for unrest. The beaten track, only sometimes referred to as a road, provided enough for Mr. Sepongo, who was his usual, ponderous, self, and Ms. Massounde, contrary to tradition, perfectly satisfied with all of the varied plant life that had sprung up on the hill. As they receded down the path, back to their houses,  they were still none the wiser as to any possible conflict in the area, but the mountain, draped in the sweet scent of Ylang Ylang, had cleared their previously congested minds, as steam might clear one's nose of a cold.

Continuing towards their houses, even the dogs and chickens by the roadside seemed a little less on edge. Previously, they had been pacing nervously around, as if they were convicts, awaitung their sentences. Mr. Charlie remarked that he had read somewhere of animals predicting natural disasters, but Ms. Massounde was having less of that idea than the Queen of England might have of a collection of chilli peppers. 

Eventually, they arrived back at the plant-laden Number 34, to find that the entire place was, luckily unscathed by any possible rebel faction, or otherwise. That was, until they found a single white water lily flower, lying in the centre of the room, next to that peculiar work of art that had brought Mr. Sepongo to Number 34 earlier that afternoon...