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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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