The Beast and the Boy Who Lives Close to my House

VIEW THROUGH A DIM GLASS

Late Afternoon

I was at the café when I first saw him,

the boy who lives close to my house.

I did not know then what I know now,

that he lived on the street just adjacent to mine,

that he would awaken the sleeping beast.

I was with a girl, a beautiful girl that I was fond of,

a girl that I had hoped to make my own.

Two tables away, his was an unflinching gaze.

At repose in the arms of his chair,

the boy unleashed a prophetic smile,

 of its prophecies, I did not yet understand.

The ground yet to be walked upon,

inside me something shifted,

behind the ribbed walls, the beast turned.

THE SCORE (A MINIMALIST’S INTERPRETATION)

Evening

The chorus is discordant. Of the rain, of the wind, of the frogs, of the crickets, it gives me great pleasure to listen to it. It truly is deserving of my record, even in its discord. The frogs, echoing their vibratos in the ugly halls of each others’ mouths, easily steal the show. The composition is air-tight, woven from the tufts of an angel’s wing, it haunts, it lilts, it soars with beauty. Much like lightning, fear strikes. Images from the café,  ever fragmented, are played over and over, and from different angles, a film whose greatest spectator is itself. Behind the ribbed walls, the beast keeps turning.

A PERFECTLY ORDINARY DAY

Afternoon

Trimmed trousers. An oversized plain black T-shirt. A comfortable pair of black sneakers. Afro uncombed. Sunglasses. A canvas backpack, carries: a novel—maybe a couple, a journal, magazines, snacks, a wallet, a bottle of water, hand cream. A mobile. Headphones. A playlist comprised of lo-fi, dream-pop and Afro-pop. A stroll into town. Destination: a café, the same café. I filled my chest with the breezy afternoon air and gave myself to the streets. And the streets welcomed me. I was dressed for them. A groom to his concrete bride. In the distance, up ahead, but coming towards me, was a runner, tall and light-skinned. A flash of bare calves in the sunlight. I didn’t think much about the runner; I would have probably just given him a passing glance, looked once, and never looked again. The runner was running his own course, an exercise for his own good metabolism, the meanderings of his day I should not have cared for. He had also given himself to the streets; he and the streets had an understanding different from mine. I had my own goals; my own meanderings—a good coffee and to feed on the words of others through my novels. It was, for me, a perfectly ordinary day. I didn’t need to look, and yet, I did. The runner got closer and as he did, inside, the beast moved, huffed, turned on its side and kicked against the ribbed walls. I had seen the runner before—the boy from the café.

THE SONG OF PENITENCE

Late afternoon

Step away from the edge

Stand clear of the fall, a bite of the dust

This soil reeks of death, this would be your end

The beginning of decay, like metal bitten by rust

As you sow this seed remember what was written in the book

When you turn this soil consider what was spoken by the prophets

As you search with your hands know which land is forbidden

What of this fire, what of butterflies?

Its flames aren’t real, it’s not butterflies

Will you see it through to the end?

Your feet batter the African soil

Singled out for trial, the gods stand watch

Consider now, a feeling you must foil

Look the other way, stand back if you must

As the wheel turns remember what was decided of your worth

It was written in the letters, a line that you must never cross

As you search with your hands know which land is forbidden

What of this fire, what of butterflies?

Its flames aren’t real, it’s not butterflies

Will you see it through to the end?

What of these flames, what of these wings?

O son of the soil, you must see it through to the end

Will you see it through to the end?

A DREAM

Night

Im seventeen years old I walk alone on the wide open plains in the village away from the city theres black and white butterflies the grass is hissing the birds are singing I chase the black and white butterflies now the black and white butterflies flap their powdery wings they clump together into a ball and turn into sand get into my eyes and distort my vision I lie in the grass watching the cloudless sky the boy from the café climbs on top of me mother speaks where did she come from mother says stay away from this boy you must marry the girl down the road the prophets have prophesied you must fulfil their prophecies I lie in the grass again now the clouds have formed a giant penis hundreds of sheep circle around me the voice of abraham appears you must be sacrificed but now Im kneeling on a blanket of wild mint the boy from the café is pulling down his trousers and Im approaching his underbelly mother cries god why have you forsaken me Im in the city walking naked on the main street now Im chained to a prancing horse oh look in my room the bulb cracks and the light goes out

ABSENCE

Afternoon

I left the café where I’d sat for a coffee with my girl. She had complained about my absence. What’s the matter with you? She’d asked. But what do you mean? I’d responded.

These days you’re never here

Sorry I’m not following

You’re somewhere else

But I’m right here. I’m always here

Not with your entire being

My entire being?

Right

You’re referring to both the body and the spirit

That’s a more dramatic expression, but yes

I must argue that both my body and my spirit are

always here engaging with you

Only the physical frame but the rest of your being

is somewhere else

A TICKET TO THE SKIES

Late Afternoon

I made a trip to the supermarket. I needed to buy bread before I could walk back to my house. With the shopping basket on my left arm, I headed for the bakery section. The walk, to my surprise, seemed to be taking longer than usual. The vast floor of the supermarket became uncertain ground. The aisles extended for miles and miles. The harsh florescent lights, with their unpleasant, bluish light, flickered and buzzed away. And then deep within, the beast roared, jumped, turned, kicked, pulled the chains and rattled the cage. At the bakery section, the boy from the café was there picking his baked goods. The beast huffed and puffed, pulled wildly on its chains and sent me straight to the dull supermarket floor. The fall was one that happened in spite of my standing physical frame. The boy—oblivious to my state, with my painful convulsions right there on the floor—came right over and said: Ah, the city must be dictating that we become friends. Wiggling out of my contorted body, I responded: Sorry, I’m afraid I don’t understand. The boy told me his name and then unleashed that prophetic smile of his, of its prophecies, I was now beginning to understand, as opposed to when I saw him for the first time. The city is asking that we become friends, you say? I said after a while. The city is not asking, he said.

I’m not following, I said.

This city is small

It is

It’s forcing us into this corner

Hmm

We don’t have a choice

It’d appear so

We’re seeing a lot of each other lately

We are

We’ll probably continue to

That’s quite possible

I should be on my way

Of course

The boy left his number—a ticket. Call or text, he said, in case you’re bored one of these days and you’d like to go for a drink, or coffee.

CONSIDERING THE TICKET

Night

The fire burned. The heat from its

flames provoked the beast in its sleep.

Or perhaps for days now, the beast

awoke and has never gone back to sleep.

The fire burned. The heat from its

flames got even stronger and so the beast

moved. The beast kicked and the kicking

was like the sound of drums. I pulled out

the ticket.

Me

Hullo

Him

--

Me

We met earlier at the

supermarket

Him

--

Me

Well, thought I should text

say hello and also that

you have my number as

well

Him

Oh hey there

Me

--

The flames lengthened their tongues. The beast rolled and rolled behind the ribbed walls.

Him

Lovely hearing from you. What

are you up to

?

Me

Not much. I’ll probably watch

something or read something.

You?

Him

Ah, nice.

I’m going for a walk

in a few. It’ll be

 nice and quiet

Me

Coolsome. Whereabouts?

Him

Kokobela St.

Me

Oh shit!!!

Him

Something wrong?

Me

My street is second down

Him

This city is small

Me

True

Him

Wanna join?

Me

--

Him

Ah, you’ll watch something or

read something, sorry

Me

I’ll come

A VOICE OF REASON

Night

What is to become of you now? You have sowed

the seed and you shall reap from its growth. What

happens to the heart when the sweet fruit

turns tart or bitter?

What message should we deliver to the gods? A woman

in the village is waiting to meet her son’s bride. What

happens to the heart when songs of praise turn

into hymns of lamentation?

THE WALK

Night

A lazy stroll in the night. A long walk. Distant sounds of traffic. Whispers from the wind. A shy smile. A giggle. A brush of the shoulder. Hands accidentally touching. And now an arm around the waist. Talk about this and that.

Oh you also listen to Foreign Fields I love

that band

Beautiful music

Particularly that song Names and Races—

reminds me of my brother

Where is your brother

 Died a few years ago

Oh I’m sorry

Don’t mention it

The streets say nothing; they listen quietly. Like witnesses, they watch without any engagement.

BLACKNESS

Midnight

His mouth came down on mine. Thick blackness wrapped itself around my large eyeballs, a force from the unknown must’ve pulled down my eyelids. I wasn’t granted a moment of introspection but, instead, dove deeper into the blackness. The beast—with its hoofs, horns and loud roars—wildly assaulted my ribcage, but there existed a reconciliation between my fears and my excitement. His mouth, it was there, it was present. I refused to hear a reprise of the song of penitence and I told the voice of reason to be quiet. Who wrote the song and where did the voice come from?

THE FALL AND THE TRIAL

Day

The flames of attraction, with their tongues now lengthening with each day that passes, are licking every dark corner of my heart. I have fallen for the boy who lives close to my house. He knows it. It’s an ensuing plunge. He has fallen quite hard as well. The feeling is fun, different, and even new. But the gods are looking—watching from a distance. They do not approve. Society sends its army of judges, the judges open their books of judgement, they read from the ancient-old prophecies. They speak of the rain of sulphur and fire, of striking us with eternal blindness.

THE SONG OF PENITENCE: A REPRISE

Anytime

Don’t go in headstrong

Leave a padding for the fall, no broken bones

A chance lies in the details, you might be wrong

Sing a lullaby to the beast, it’s for your good

Now the seed sprouts and receives a sparkle of light

This soil has nurtured, a fruit loathed by the prophets

As you search with your hands know which land is forbidden

What of this fire, what of butterflies?

Kill the flame, cast away the moths

Will you see it through to the end?

APPROACHING A STRANGE LANDSCAPE

Night

I’m sleeping in his bed. We’ve met not long ago. He lives close to my house. He has a beautiful smile. An amazing smile. He is a beautiful man with a beautiful soul. He is troubled like I am but our troubles stem from vastly different landscapes.

I’m sleeping in his bed. This is not happening for the first time but I’m only saying it now. Who am I saying this to? I am saying this to myself. I am saying it out loud but again to myself.

I’m sleeping in his bed. His mouth comes down on mine. My eyes are pulled shut and I watch from the inside. I am approaching strange avenues and alleyways that spread like tentacles of an octopus. There is fire. There are tolling bells. There are voices in the distance. A thousand tongues. Languages I can’t comprehend.

I’m sleeping in his bed. I have no expectations. Or maybe I do have them and I just don’t know it yet. The tentacles of an octopus keep extending. I keep entering even stranger corners. Some are engulfed in thick darkness, and the blackness is whispering cryptic words full of abstractions. I am probably not alone. I am probably entering with him but I can only speak for myself. There’s a rush of the most thrilling of tingles throughout my body, from which there is moaning and groaning.

I’m sleeping in his bed. And now I will enter him, and our bodies will become one. Outside, the wind wraps its thick fingers around trees, clutching as hard as it can. Like I clutch his shoulders when I am inside him. Inside him is a church that demands my full devotion, body and soul. I will pray his name forever. In the distance there is the crashing of the oceans followed by a lasting state of calmness.  And then a sweet release.

FANNING THE FLAMES

Early Morning

I’ve certainly lost my guard. My armaments, which I’d convinced myself to have had at the ready, are of no use. The flames of attraction, which have been lazily licking me on the inside, have morphed into a roaring fire, consuming every chamber of my heart, reducing it to mere rubble. The beast has broken free from its chains.

IMPRESSIONS TAKEN FROM ANOTHER PERSPECTIVE

Night

My friends, all of them men, sat in a semi-circle in my sitting room to share a drink and a conversation, a good conversation—hopefully. But today they were baffled, like a cat by its own shadow. On their faces, questions and questions flared. As the rest remained with their gaping mouths, and yet pretending to understand, one of them asked, Speak in plain language, what do you mean you have also been with a man?  Are you currently with a man or a woman?  I was quickly shoved into a witness box but my testimony was one that carried with it, not necessarily elements of a defence, but instead, strove towards a point of clarity that remained elusive. Humans are humans, I heard myself say in a somewhat pretentious philosophical ramble of reason: when the flames of attraction lick me on the inside, they tell me not the distinction between a man and a woman, the blind or the seeing, the young or the old, the black or the white. Humans are humans. I love humans, I fall in love with a human, not a man or a woman, just a human. With impressions from this perspective, the confusion could only get worse, So explain, what are you? The curious friend fired more questions, Just a human, a not-so-normal human if we are to regard impressions embedded in our social edifice, I continued wrapping myself up with more impressions from my own perspective, that would never make sense to them.

TIME PASSES

Anytime

The hours roll on top

of each other. This hour

is never like the last. Days

bear unique names. What

happens today will not

happen again tomorrow.

PULLING AWAY

Morning

The boy who lives close to my house is, I think, becoming distant. I have seen very little of him lately. There are many unanswered calls and text messages. Of the texts that do get a response, the answers are brief and uninteresting, some very cold and less exciting. For almost a month now, I have not held him in my arms, and we have not taken our very long late-night walks. But now I really feel something. I have begun my descent, a forceful plunge. The fall is real, and I watch, helplessly, as my entire frame, though not necessarily in the physical form, goes for the creaky floorboards. I must leave a message for the boy, a message which might go unanswered, but I should let the boy know that I’m approaching yet another strange landscape. I should tell him just for sake of telling him, but I should be careful not to expect a lot in return—something I’ve failed dismally at. There was an element of truth in that song of penitence after all. But how could I have taken the song to heart if its message of rebuke was layered, from line to line, with words full of judgement and prejudice?

THE BEAST

Timeless

What do we know of it, this beast? Is it for us or against us? Why is it shackled and kept in a cage? Why does it sometimes prance like a warhorse hidden behind the ribbed walls threatening an escape? Its escape would be our death. Its repeated kicking on the walls makes a sound like that of rhythmic drums. Now it has broken loose and runs free, wild and mad. It can hardly be contained. To be kept calm and steady. To be sent back to sleep. To lessen its beating. It rattles the cage. It tears on the ribbed walls. I have fanned the flames. It feels the fire. It moves and stomps. I pay the price.

A WALK IN A LONELY ALLEY

Night

In a text message, I wrote to the boy who lives close to my house. It was through a strange feeling that I wrote a little less than I had intended to—a fragment of the message I would have liked to deliver. It was when I tapped and tapped on the tiny buttons of my screen that I was struck by a great fear coming from who knows where.

Me

Here, the day closes or it begins,

seeing that it’s way past midnight.

I’m yet to plunge. To fall beneath

the current of my bedsheets. As usual,

sleep has deserted me, and insomnia,

looks me straight in the eye, his is

an unflinching gaze, a gaze similar

to the one you had that

first day at the café. I feel something.

Despite everything, I feel something.

Something bigger. This is what I feel—

that I miss you quite a lot, that I find

myself, sometimes unaware, thinking

about you quite a lot. There was also a

photograph of you that I saw, wearing

that prophetic smile of yours. I should

tell you this, and you can do with it, as

you please. Now I should go back to

wrestling with insomnia, the

son-of-a-bitch, he’s trying to kiss me,

he’s wrapping his unwanted arms

around me.

Him

--

THE GODS HAVE LOOKED THE OTHER WAY

Midnight

I summoned again, Hypnos, son of Nyx and Erebus, but he was nowhere to be seen. So my mind was desperate for tangible thought, blackness all around me as I lay wide-eyed on my uncomfortable bed, with its noisy springs—those buried deep within the mattress—prodding my back, and I remembered again, my brother, waiting in line for his turn, and then again, the gods looking the other way. Names and Races, that fitting song by Foreign Fields, which the band stole from a page in our book, me and my brother’s, started to play again:

I asked you if you’d leave me

You said you’d never go

But you lie there still

In your dying body

Down…

The song had now found a new meaning. Its worth had grown to not only speak of the story of me and my brother, but that of me and the boy. How we waited in line for our turn. How the gods looked the other way.

THE CALL

Afternoon

I called the boy.

The boy said nothing.

The boy had nothing to say.

APPROACHING UNEVEN GROUND

Night

It’s too late. The glass is already broken. The hard-soled shoe has already stepped on the cockroach. The dagger is already in. The dry leaf has fallen from the tree. The nonbeliever sings his blasphemies. The jackals howl during the day, and in plain view. The flames of attraction have already reduced the heart to rubble. This narrator did not see this coming. This narrator had plans and measures in place, or so he thought. This time he has completely lost his guard. His mind even. Now he has no choice but to walk backwards until he disappears into his cave, into—again— the sunken place, with blackness all around him, to face the beast with its fuming rage.

HE RESPONDS

Late Night

Him

Hey,

You must think that I’m a flake.

That I’m a complete toad. That

I lit your fire and quickly stomped

and pissed on it. Far from the truth.

I, too, feel something. Something

bigger. I’ll say plainly that I’m

in love with you. Every day the

beast is gnawing away at me. But

you see, we won’t survive. It’s invalid.

Even before we began, the dogs had

already laughed at it. Of course the fire

was too hot, so we had to give it a run

but you see, the gods are watching. The

gods don’t approve. I’ve left the city.

I’m back in my village. There’s a duty

I must fulfil, a prophecy that must

come to pass. I don’t know if I’m

coming back. I don’t know that I’ll

ever see you again.