Locust Season

The man in the world was lost in his own words. Time after time, he always looked out from the outside, but finally he decided it was right or left that he ventured inside life’s own mechanical wheel. The next phase to this episode was moving from this deep deep ditch he found himself in. This wheel made a different kind of screech and scream whenever it turned and whined. The man’s ears could not contain its crying discontent. Finally, but not soon enough, the man understood he had to drop his baggage of self loathe. To understand the journey, one must understand the beginning. Though the end is abrupt, the path was always treacherously long. All along he had not put any thought into the way he had been living his life, but after that day, he now had a clear vision of how he needed to put down his own stamp. He was his own sent messiah. His tired but inexpert hands held the answers to his many questions. To be fair, he had a reason for this journey; he wanted to find gold. Even though he already had treasures, the earthly gold was needed to preserve on his quest. Alas! The premise to this wish had already taken off.

The calabash sat on the ground empty and without point. The potter of this very traditional vase had been very wise to leave it with a face, so that whenever one looked at the calabash, a sad face was seen; it was a vessel reflecting its creator’s very own soul. The man stared hard at the mystical object, he saw something peculiar. The calabash reminded him of his earlier years, those years when he scavenged the plain roads of Kaduna looking for food for his brain. He remembered those days he was filled with a raw desire to explore all the missing explanations to human beings ability of discontent. Then, he understood the very core that made us tick or rather click, but he couldn’t grasp our ever surfacing pile of green and thirst for greed. Those days were behind and past; he was older, in a broad societal term; matured. The man lifted his drink closer to his face hoping the glass would rid him of his old memories. Those vintage memories always felt soar and a bit too rough for his guts. With much haste and distaste he closed his eyes and hoped to see the woman who hated flowers. Into nothing but void, he fell.
The man in the pale red suit sat with proper etiquette, crossing his legs, and placing his hands carefully on his dry drink. As he blazed on, amidst the smoke screen, the woman in the beautiful dress danced moved her body slowly. She danced and teased all that looked upon her. She controlled her body with such ease and delicacy. When her eyes finally met his, she set her dreamy lock on him. With her lips licked, she willingly tranced and enticed her new onlooker. The man was now in her spell, and with each gulp, he fell much harder.

“What kind of black juju was this?” he thought.

Another puff, and all this would clear.

Still, still.

He was trapped, bound to the beauty before him. In land not his own, he had found a Queen.
She was his hook, the beginning was clear, the middle was coming forth, and the end, well that was in the making. The woman seemed to see his mind, so she used her shape as her defense.
So was she just another good one?
Were his days of singular thinking gone?
More fog from his smoke, still she tempted and drew in for the kill. Her eyes burned into him and wrote him a new tale; one he had to discover. He was forever stuck. She was only too real, not just another dream he had closed his eyes to. Her eyes said it all. And she knew this, so with music free-flowing, she swayed her hips and smiled. Now, all he needed to do was call on her.

“Time is up sir, she is gone,” the really tall man said standing over the man in red.
“You need to leave or to be more primitive, you need to get the hell out of my premises.”
“Alright, no need to show your other ugly side.”
“I found her.”
And with that out of his open mind, the man stood, with a half-haggardly stance, he left the room holding onto his face of content.

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