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Avenue of Blood
By Dadier M. Abdalah
Stale fruits were on sale on beachcombers when a strange
crew in a ship was about to sail as tourists began to
fondle the appetite of voyage.
A little slumber, perhaps a nap but not so deep could, of
course, bring visitors to solace but nothing greater was so
disturbing than the noises that came with whirlwind towards
the south.
There was a mode by which sailors could regain their
liberty in the land; and to creep even through a common
sewer was better than to cruise in the sea all days.
The delight of watercolor was superb; magnificent and
awesome to those whose aspiration foresaw the whit danger
of a society without basic ethics. These were days of
hatred. Those days of xenophobia were too agitated to last
long; having eaten up the last green leaf upon the tree
where it has established itself, ended by tumbling down
from the top and killing mercilessly an offspring akin to
their colour.
There was an obstacle to strangers’ change of residence and
with heartfelt sympathy; one could look at them so
desperately the fact that their slender means could not
assist in that dire emergence of coldness on Atlantic
shores!
If indeed one was a mediator of peace, he could generously
answer some puzzling queries to inhabitants’ youth. He
could never shift the blame to asylum seekers in the
consequences of their residents’ own misfortune. Asylum
seekers were overtly slain when the world had already
whistled that they were too gurus among sons and daughters
of the universe. If one had a good look at them, they were
the height to which they would raise honour to their
families.
The inhabitants were mindful of the “outwardness” more than
anything else. They were still praised in the beauty of
their state but not in the uprightness that modern society
had so long acquired.
They were of fairly height and of regular attractive
features but could still escape the ache of a bite of a
mosquito at work. This was the nub of the cruelty,
the avenue of blood!
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