The Rising - Ennead 2

Scene 11.1 - Hunting for a Spider

I adds some musics, for your listening ears. The musics is nice, it goes with the words. Though the words is nice, cos they tickles the eyes, the musics, they brings the words to life (sorry, can't get over how much fun I had writing Scene 8.1)

Moving on...

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I have no problem with the Societies, they choose to have a problem with me. The difference between me and others like me, is that I don't encourage their cycle of fear.

...

You ask of my successor? Why do you seek to be rid of me so quickly? I was under the impression that your people had become fond of me. Ah well. My successor, if I ever need to choose one, will be the blood of my blood, but a soul with more potential than mine.

- Excerpt from "Interviews with the Eighth-born Spider Magus"

Focus: Kwame Annan

Study, for a moment, the scene before us, a tabloid shot of the Africa that we're taught to know. Three males share a bed made for two, sweaty with the uneasy sleep of debtors searching for a dream sold in glossy magazines and on MTV. 

 The bed isn't in the best condition. Three of it's four original legs are missing, gone with the wind, and replaced with, – in clockwise order- a sandcrete block, a stack of wooden planks and an old wooden speaker.

The humid cool of the outside air attempts, valiantly, to cool down the room on which we gaze. Unfortunately, for lack of appropriate ventilation it fails miserably and only seems to add to the malaise.

One half of a 'chamber and hall' unit tenement, the room is decorated with a kaleidoscope of knick-knacks and posters that speak of the vastly varying personalities of it's inhabitants (maybe): A few reggae posters featuring legends – Bob Marley, Culture and Lucky Dube; a framed picture of some popular Nigerian televangelist glorying in it's prized niche above a television that seems to only work when a major football match isn't on; then of course, there's the poster sized, brightly coloured, political propaganda calendar.

The males, as I may have mentioned earlier, are not exactly arranged in positions of maximum comfort. Let's not overlook the fact that one of them snores – not like a thunderstorm mind you, more like a lambretta being revved up repeatedly. 

Are we really surprised to see one of them roll off his feet off the edge of the bed and rub his bleary eyes to wakefulness?

The first man to wake seems to be the one most in need of sleep. Even on his roasted coffee-bean colored skin, the darkening under his eyes is obvious. Dark brown irises are surrounded by a spiderweb of red capillaries that colour the whites of his eyes. This is indeed a man who you might, with all good reason, find on the corner of a road begging for a good bed and some valium.

With a grunt of effort, he pushes himself of the edge of the bed. The strange calluses on the ends of his fingers add ten more indentations to the soft wooden frame of the bed. On silent feet, he moves to the other half of the shared tenement, another tiny room with a cot in the corner, which houses yet another two sleeping tenants, a mother and her teenage son.

The room is stacked with all manner of random daily tools; brooms; boxes; pots and pans; a pile of greasy, black, spare auto-parts et cetera. There is, however, a tight rectangle of open space, which is just enough for our subject to do what he has to.

Still as silent as a he can be, he begins a daily routine of pushups, curls, squats and stretches. The measured breaths, bursts of inhalation and exhalation are the only means of counting that he seems to use. The process is more meditative than exertive. As he goes through the daily motions, his thoughts travel backwards in time, to the events of a week past.

##

The simple room that they were to use as a holding room was rather beautiful, tall frosted glass panes and tile work on the floor that was laid out in a way that only the most astute initiated would notice as...

"Rather intricate binding lines..."

The wavering query of the pale skinned little girl sounded more frail in the Spartan sandstone confines of the room. Her voice almost softened his heart – not really, but almost. Her tousled strawberry blond her made her seem even more helpless than the rumors he'd heard.

As if she read his thoughts, she raked her fingers through the mess, managing to somehow make it look even more unruly.

"What are your names?", her voice still trembled as she asked the very random question.

Sebastian, the American, (or is it Canadian?) on the other side of the room shot him a warning glance. Message received and decoded, our subject rolled his shoulders and turned his attention towards the door of the small room and away from the single metal chair that was holding the accused.

"You already know my name. I think it would be rather unfair if neither of you told me yours."

She seemed to be becoming a little more brazen, until she dropped her voice mournfully and murmured, as wan as a wilting wallflower, "I'll be executed anyway."

He replied in High Latin, as best he could. 

"Kwame. Kwame Bekoe Annan. You shan't be killed... I don't think so"

"Kwame? You must come from... are you one of them then? His bloodline."

Kwame ground his teeth and shot eye-daggers at his fellow jailer, who couldn't help but to smirk in silent reply.

"Silence." He grunted.

The simple phone nestled in the pocket of his well-pressed, well-worn trousers vibrated once. He took it out and gave it a cursory glance, just to be sure that it was the signal that they'd been waiting for.

With an inward sigh he laid a hand on her shoulder and asked her to rise.

"Maker August Amanda Gaines. Your trial is about to begin. Come with us."

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Author's Note:

Many thanks to David Nevue, who performed a very wonderful version of Greensleeves/What Child is This (the youtube song). Thanks also to you, dear reader, for allowing me to assail your eyes with this drivel.

Kindly vote if you appreciate this drivel, and comment if you please.