Friday, November 06, 2015

The Boulevard

By Amanda 'Maya Madumere

Hardly do those vehicles ply this road. The coal tar in partitions makes it so. So, we-- those who fancy the croaking of toads from a distance, the sound these mango leaves make when they drop on the tarred ground, the 'whoosh' of air on elephant grass, and a trifle putrid smell of rotten mangoes, mollified by the salubrious scent of Ixora-- walk this road.

There're three other kinds of people you could meet on this road; those who walked for physical fitness. These kinds are always accompanied by furred creatures. Dogs and felines. There're those who'd grown weary of haggling with commercial drivers at the junction. Then, there're those who'd often need to tend to an itching pubic region, away from the prying eyes of the townspeople.
Better still; the solitary, the courageous, the freshmen and the stupid.

They say something about this desolate road makes it daunting. But, by the end of this desolate boulevard, is my home.

The sun was setting. Rain, in the early hours of the day, had made the soil clammy. The sun, by noon, baked it into fine cake. No dust. No mud.

I was walking home from MiMi's. I gaited my usual route-- the boulevard.

It has always been my route. It saves me the stress of warding off cat-calls. This road offers the satisfaction of soliloquy. And when the music from my headset becomes invigorating, I could do a lone-waltz, not being timorous that I'd be perceived a nutcase.

My cell, propped up by my arm, was slouched against my chest-- an old habit of mine. I, using my palm and forefingers, tapped my thigh, mimicking the bass drum and snare drums, respectively. And grazed slightly, with my fingertips, my pant-pocket zipper-like seam, mimicking the acoustic violins. I snapped my fingers at intervals and waggled my head to Diplo. I was carried away.

The timbre had just died off. That was when I heard it; 'Poof' 'Poof' 'Poof'. It was a footfall, and it was getting louder. It must be a heavy footwear, I thought.

The sole of his boots were covered in mud. Fresh mud. He must have been to the woods recently. His black shoelaces hung loosely about his sole. He stepped on it frequently. They had garnered sufficient mud that'd make you think they were, originally, dyed 'mud'.

His hirsute legs were clasped by an Amafu fabric, sewn into a short. His torso, a like-patterned shirt clasped. But, he was drenched. Sweat or water, I couldn't make out which. His calf, and every part of him was spattered with mud. Where his sleeves died, bronzed skin was birthed. His was bald, it revealed an ugly scar that ran the whole length, to his left eyelid. It explained the bloodshot eyes. His veined muscles strained as he tottered. And, his nostrils flared. He bit down, with his off-white dreadful teeth-- that missed a front tooth-- on his black scaldy bottom lip. He held a black sack, which he was now unfolding, and approached with ferocity.

The looks of him loaded me with terror. Was he coming to gash my purity with that foul 'mezunga'? Was he coming to have my head, literally, on the platter. That sack. . . was that where he stored his gear?

As though IT read my thoughts, The Road let out a henious laugh, and began to whisper; "you'll die, Amanda. And I'll watch-- just like I've always watched"

1 comment:

  1. Very good writer indeed. And nice way of ending... Small suspense small completion.


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