Monday, June 29, 2009

Friday Night in Zimbabwe - published in Plebian Rag - http://theplebianrag.com\



The gastric juices prowled noisily in the caverns of his empty stomach, the acidic contents eating away, corroding the walls of his intestines, sounds emanating from within, like the thunderstorms in November.


He closed his eyes and tried in vain to wish the sounds away, but experience whispered softly in his conscience – such wishes were never granted it said, over and over again; experience told him that the grumbling would continue until he would stand up and gulp down a glass of water, whereby it would cease, and in its place would emerge that sickening, nauseating turning and churning of his insides, like a huge river of mud worming its way around and round, his heart presiding over the proceedings with a dull thud – thud – thud …….


Outside, the wind howled eerily sending clouds of spilt-filled dust into the gaping mouths of the township drunkards as they made their way to their homes, home to their sex-starved, frustrated wives, their malnourished children and their houses, constantly under threat of closure by the local council.


Their “beer-hall” wives staggered drunkenly next to them, making a last desperate reach for the almost empty wallets, proffering in exchange their miserably sunken sagging, breasts and the promises of pleasure from between their shriveled thighs.


Some among the drunkards, held on to their near–empty wallets their unsteady consciousness nagging at them about their nuptial duties – the wife, the kids, the house; whilst some falling head-on for the sagging breasts and the promises of pleasure in the nearby bushes; “quickies” from which they emerged minutes later, wallets empty, sex-drive stalled, hangovers assured and breaths stinking to high heaven of beer, cheap prostitute’s perfume, semen and whatever else cheap prostitutes wearing cheap perfume stink of…


And so it was that Friday night, the son waiting at home hunger threatening to drive him to oblivion, and the father, staggering home, dragging a staggering human piranha, a fisher of men hanging precariously onto his arm sucking away at all his humanity, his being, his dignity …

9 comments:

  1. jesus, mnewethu - your language is on fire; this is terrible and beautiful, and the way you sustain emotion...phew! thank you for writing.

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  2. I love this writing -I'd pare it back a bit but other than that it's as good as any African authors I've read (& believe me, there are MANY).

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  3. nice bro, brilliant short story!

    -mbotse

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