Sunday, May 10, 2020

When world unite, Sehloho Piet Rampai

Hatred will lose its humongous value
Selfishness will die in striking solitude

Our night will be addressed as daylight
For gloom never will cause us doom

Heaven will cast upon us, stares of jealousy
Celestial bodies will wish to resign their duties

Mama will roll her wrapper peacefully
While offering her offspring's mirthful smiles

Papa will crown his cap unperturbed
Walking the heart of town undisturbed

No room will be allocated for chaos
No space, be given for weighing woes

We, in safety sip our sultry soup
And lay our heads in serene tranquillity

Ears shall cease to hear smearing sounds
Sounds so strange that strangle souls

When world unite…if world unite

Sehloho Piet Rampai @Rampai80544953 is a South African Poet, writer and author of various poetry books namely The Words, Poetic justice, Poetry o clock and Mabinabine. The Poet was born in 1985 in Ngwathe, Edenville and grew up in Odendaalsrus Province of the Free State.

there is only sky, Gitan Djeli

there is only sky

deep into the whole of being,

the outer-ring overwhelmed by depth,
ridges on the edge stretch reach out.

there is only deep,

staggering smooth depth

a universe,
a dome of light,

         knowing, being, floating

shapes wave immensity obscured.

in a hole, in a well.

if it overwhelms, well…

        followers, converters suffocate,
        like train delays,
        empathetic voices without empathy

the well sits still solid, on its own,
wild scape,
(is)land of the land,

         come who may come,

not inviting,
open indefinite,
find relief in earth waters if you may


            we pause, we tend, always negotiated

in formed spaces
with/within/outside/inside other spheres.

invite the sky in

          without shapes, without break, waver the circle of light

blurs of distance,
symmetry is irrelevant

there is only sky.

Gitan Djeli @gitandjeli is a London-based Mauritian writer and researcher in cultural studies. Her latest poems appear in Poetry, Adda, Amberflora and Parentheses Journal.

Post-Mortem for the Revolution, ML Kejera

The war?
Our cause,
The dictator?
Two million bloodless holes.

Our alliance?
The river?
Our scattered?
The sea,
unforgiving, unrepentant.

The horizon,
The children,
Our martyrs?
Our voice,
Our stick?

Our father,
The old,


What is left, but to turn the wheel?
On 21st January 2017, The Gambia’s Dictator, Yahya Jammeh, ultimately agreed to step down from power after being democratically ousted. His initial refusal caused an exodus of refugees into neighboring Senegal.

ML Kejera is a Chicago based writer of Gambian origin. His work has previously been published in Strange Horizons, The Outline, and Cafe Irreal. He was recently shortlisted for the 2020 Commonwealth Short Story Prize and nominated for the Caine Prize for African Writing, both of which he hopes to win. He is at work on a collection of short stories about the fictional nation of The G, for which he is seeking representation.

SEQUENCE, Tọ́pẹ́ Salaudeen-Adégòkè


Like a bee full of dreams
Buzzing past the scent of memories,
The treasures of history:
Gold, topaz, stone, steel…
            - Resolution.


A half-gnawed apple
Browned by oxidation,
A half of a setting sun
Gulped by throat of the sky,
The tmesis of resolve
            - June 15.


The river of dreams
Is the mirror of déjà vu
That reflects jamais vu
And ripples of colours
In 365 degrees
            - Mutatis Mutandis.

Tọ́pẹ́ Salaudeen-Adégòkè is an editor, literary theorist, critic and writer from Ibadan, Nigeria. 15/6, as he sometimes likes to be called, has been working on the connectedness of poetry and mathematics. He is the co-founder of Fortunate Traveller, a journal of travel literature. Also, he is the author of Transacting Stories, a chapbook of his travels across Africa, which was published by Invisible Borders Trans-African Photographers Organisation and was part of their exhibition ‘A Volatile Negotiation Between the Past and Present’ at the 2019 AfriCologne Festival, Germany and the12th Bamako Encounters - African Biennale of Photography, Mali. @LiteraryGansta is his alter ego on Twitter. 

Three Poems, Petero Kalulé



–– for Carson

my foot steps
        your foot steps
step, standing
        on the hollows of

but sand song s-
       where our feet
             sink, s-
tipling hollows full, sof-
          heeled over


– for Tim

in attempting to enter the meanings of this word, i break it down, into 2 small words ka & funda

i start w/ ka, a diminutive, to mean miniature, small, tittle, pocket-like. w/ diminutives, inferring the affection and intimacy of cracks
            small things ...

i move on to funda, which comes from o’kufundikira/ kufunika to mean the tucked in, the secret, the mesh shrunked in, or out, the enveloped, the shawl, the wrapped, the pouched, the folded, the shrouded, the tender smalls w/in smalls, the open-out ––fungua

meaning engulfs in the kafunda, meaning in the kafunda is multiple … a kafunda thus unalterably becomes bufunda, inferring a multitude of kafunda.

the kafunda is many but one, petalled, ––origami. english doesn’t do the kafunda’s plurals justice, english won’t do the contours of these folds justice; the grafting of grammars is wrong–– for english is exterior, superficial

i can only describe the kafunda imperceptibly as one would describe the folds of lovers, their strange familiar open-out places. perhaps, one shouldn’t even (have to) describe another’s folds? Which is to say, one should only experience them amorously in relation, abutting, rubbing, scraping, ruffling w/, into, and beside them

a lover’s or a friend’s folds needn’t say much either …not much initiation is necessary. they simply relate. they fold out. they hold out, teaching one how to avow unconditionally, in a tangling without presuppositions
                                      like ears, they “gap” & pull one’s unmouthable secrets, quietly, with-in. The folds of those we love never ‘straightforwardly’ emerge, no; they are lightly waiting, wavering, faltering, always lightly waiting patiently, ––ka. like a likkle smile. all folds arc into the emergent, waiting open-out for relation (i.e., an involvement from within/without) revealing crannies of hospitality, kindly on, from the very beginning

the potentiality for this relation is always there, silent, inward, in the cracks of pockets already there, priorly welcome, already there, defying time, always here, exigent, errant, playful, defying boundaries, supplely passing & returning, passively yet intently, never without delay, creeping
                                 insurgently also

in this sense, the kafunda (un)folds itself flexibly, paring space, orbiting, as its own parabola, past, present and futural, up, down & sideways s w inging sweetly also

bodies (un)fold within the kafunda in similar motions. bodies become bufunda … in similar ways, they crease, past, present&futural-up, down and sideways, all so yieldingly. they s offly flounce, emplaced, through small parallel-surface divisions of selves, flexibly, receptively, never without delay, stealthily, always there, haptic

when pushed to a far edge, we find comfort in the fragile crests of the kafunda, where we open-out, negotiating entrapments, boundaries, rims, dents, partitions, considering all the different skeins of the kafunda’s-bufunda that embed us. at the same time, we shrink (calibrating the gaps of death - exhaling breath, its rhythmic quaver for shrinking/funda also implies the gap, the crevice, the aperture of kufa/closure/the crypt/the-ultimate-leap) considering the ever-changing open-out space that the kafunda’s-bufunda occupies (yet gives/ closes away/ & RESISTS) when its forms cling, when its skins gently touch

this open-out-&- shrink space involves some kind of intervallic folding, it involves a double unveiling, a balletic bind … a stitching of an enveloped body to its flaps of emerging enveloping selves. It is a pliable secret inflected gesture of sharing [for the texture of sharing  which is a texture of kindness - is a topology of flapped folds – perhaps, this is why one ‘wraps’ a gift? -] that owes an interconnectedness to other body-non-body-spirits in their peculiar dispositions, contortions, & (non)formations …

                       i flutter, you flutter, we flutter

in the open-out-&-shrink, bodies move, bodies weft, mesh mosh, enmarsh, rift, raft, bodies collapse, bodies scaffold, bodies enjoy-n-in their super-imposed multitudes upside-bottom to top. bodies break; their hearts-nerve, their ii’s-unlid, their lip-hips-lop, slippery, their straight-thighs-curve, their front-behinds-clasp, their pleats-frock-&-prong (jolting, all in the pocket) rub-a-dub-dub 2gether

all manner of social-elasticities unfold together in the open-out-&-shrink of the kafunda: consummations, contemplations, confessions, exploitations, frolics, evections, contaminations, waverings, deaths, debts, mournings, wreckings, worries, langourings, ablutions, absences, silences, lapses, perhapses, songs, arrivals, departures, dances:

over & over,
in crossing over, i take-all-off and in-
              fold ;
  né ––

perhaps, in attempting to describe the recursive open-out, i’ve crinkled this fold way too far, and revealed way too much incomprehensibly

ach, the fold always shrinks !

and so, i must remember the kafunda’s microscopic smalls. i must remember its ability to entice, pouch & gather me into the oblique unknown, into the elsewhere of the open-out-&-shrink

but perhaps most importantly, i must always remember that i (shan’t) fold alone, that i can(’t) fold alone; [in-2 my own interiority]

& i say yes, i must remember that to kufunda is to wholeheartedly embrace the never subsumable open-out-&-shrink



having things is talk is having things talking
about is to talk having things about is to partake in
things having talk is things to talk about having

Petero Kalulé @nkoyenkoyenkoye is a composer, poet, and multi-instrumentalist. Their collection of poems Kalimba was published by Guillemot Press in May 2019.

Love Is A Neglected Thing (or, Corinthians), Rémy Ngamije

The way love felt last night was too familiar. The same steady rhythms, the same motions, the regular and replicated highs. The same sighing conclusion. Love closed its eyes for a bit, catching its breath, and then it fell asleep. You, however, remained awake, alert into the late hours of the night, thinking about what you were going to do, how you were going to do it, and when you’d do it.

Today? Tomorrow? On Thursday? How about now?

No! Not now.

Love lies there in the morning when the day is new. It rolls over as you look at it. It stretches, resplendent. “How d'you sleep?”

You shuffle quickly to the bathroom to brush your teeth. “Fine,” you say.

Love is there in the memes that used to make you laugh but irk you now. It’s there in the email with the links to writing competitions and residencies you don’t click on. It keeps insisting you should give them a try: You have the talent, at least you have a voice. That’s more than most.

You never go beyond reading the submission requirements:

12pt Times New Roman
2.0 line spacing
Microsoft Word format
Each submission will be read blindly.

That's how you read its messages: blindly—without bias to past feelings or moments, or the things you used to do together, all the plans you made. All of Love’s words wind up on the slush pile.

You close Love's messages and turn back to your English class with fresh energy in your voice. Some kid asks why they have to read The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn. To be fair, it’s boring and not right for their reading level. But the wrinkled copies are all the language department can afford right now. It’s all that it could afford last year and the year before that as well.

At lunch, Love is there in the sandwiches which have been cut more cleanly than a mirror’s edge, stuffed with pastrami, tomato slices redder than passion, a thick white cheddar slice, and fresh watercress leaves. One of the other guys, Mr Petersen, the maths teacher, says you must be putting in the midnight work if you’re getting lunch like that. Another one, Mr Loubser, the geography teacher, ruefully looks at two brown slices mortared by peanut butter and says, “Love, don’t let go of it, my young apprentice.”

When your phone buzzes in your pocket you ignore it until your thigh stops quivering.

—Hey, how’s your day going?

Love is kind.

When you show up at Franco’s flat that evening his face registers surprise for an instant before he nods you over to the couch. You flicker between channels, undecided. Champions League commercials. A mumble rap video. Catastrophic Brexit negotiations. Nature documentaries—you ask him to pause on the leopard dismembering the impala.

“All good?” Franco asks.


You finish the documentary and get the updates on your boy’s philandering.

Back home you mention you stopped off at Franco’s for a bit. Love just smiles and says, “Cool. Hope you boys had fun.”

Love is not jealous.

You almost wish it was.

The way Love holds your hand when you walk to the shop, or when you go for a stroll in the sighing dusk, just so, with the slightest bit of moisture greasing your palms. You want to let go of the hand you thought you’d hold onto forever.

“Is everything okay?”

You give Love a wan smile. “Yeah. Of course.”

You lengthen your stride. The hands pull apart.

Love has inside jokes which no longer tickle your ribs. Now the humour punches like a sour left hook. Love winks at you at a dinner party and you backhand silence to it, swinging its emotions left and right, running it ragged. Its closeness seems too close. Its fragrance no longer sends you reeling. Its movements seem clumsy and careless. And there are crumbs everywhere on the kitchen counter. Like, everywhere.

All the time, Franco. How the fuck are there crumbs everywhere? Women are filthy creatures.

—You’re the only nigga I know bitching about that, dude.

You turn away from the phone. Franco’s no help at all.

“You’re awfully quiet,” Love says.


“I deserve more than that.” Love comes and wraps its hands around your waist and looks up at you.


“That’s better.” Love reaches up to kiss you. You hold out until the last second of rudeness before you bend your neck to meet its lips. Your mouth autopilots through the saliva exchange.

Love is patient.

You remember the first hello, a greeting of such power you couldn’t contemplate ever saying goodbye. You were calling to take out Love on what felt like the umpteenth date. (It was the third, thank you very much!)


“Hi,” Love said.


“I know who you are.” You both made small talk and then you asked if you could meet up. “Look,” Love said, “I already know who you are to everyone else. But who or what do you want to be to me?”

“Forever,” you said.

The pause. You could hear it breathing into the phone.

“Yours,” Love said shyly.

That night at the restaurant all it did was look at you. Long. With the gaze which could separate you into boy, man, flesh, words, lies, hopes, and fears. In the past you would’ve fidgeted and sweated. But you were cool. This is what you wanted. You were certain.

When the bill came you said you’d get it. Love said the two of you should split it and you said, nah, you could split the mortgage and the child-rearing duties when the time came. You said you’d start lobbying for longer paternal leave days. Love looked at you straight. You didn’t look away. It read you the Miranda Rights, “Careful, anything you say can and will be held against you.”

“I say you, then” you said.

Love laughed.

Back then.

Way, way back.

How the present fails to live up to memory. Now look how the laughter ebbs away, and the knowing silence gnaws away at the thing that could never die without either one of you first dying. Even though you’re both still alive, your love’s already left for the hereafter. You’re just sleep-kissing and sleep-loving through its wake.

Look how Love tries; how it puts in the time, time, time, time, and how it tries to burn, burn, burn but time does not catch a fire. Time flies instead.

Look how Hooke’s law applies here, how deliberately careless you are knowing if you pull it and stretch it, Love will come back to you again and again.

And again.

And again.

Love loses its lustre when you belittle it with your trial.

Love will always show up, always willingly.

A morning comes. The sun’s rays turn the burglar bars into jailhouse-shadows on the walls. Love rolls over and sits up. It sees you at the end of the bed. You have your back to it, but you can feel its hands stretching out to you, just about to make contact with your shoulders, then Love pulls back. You wish it had touched you. Maybe it would’ve changed things.

It did the first time way, way back when.

You sigh and straighten your back.

“Careful, anything you say can and will be used against you,” Love says before you can even say anything.

You turn to face her.

Look at her. How she bites and reigns in the pleading words. But the eyes, they adjure, they beseech. Nothing wants to die—everything fights to cling to life when the dark beyond starts blocking the light. You think about that impala at Franco’s house. The way it thrashed around madly even though its eyes knew the leopard’s jaws were as strong as finality.

You look at her. She looks back at you. She doesn’t say anything.

You wash your face in the bathroom. You brush your teeth. You comb your tough hair. When you come back into the bedroom she's sitting up in bed. You look at each other again.

You don’t have to say anything. She knows.

Love always knows.

Later that day you start moving your things out of the apartment. By the next day everything’s been cleared out. She’s not around when you finally turn the key in the lock for the last time. You leave it beneath the dead chilli plant and walk away.

An extract from your diary on the Last Day of Forever: Corinthians is a lie. Love isn’t even gravity. Love is a neglected thing.

Rémy Ngamije is a Rwandan-born Namibian writer and photographer. His debut novel, The Eternal Audience Of One, is forthcoming from Scout Press (S&S). He writes for, a writing collective based in South Africa. He is the editor-in-chief of Doek!, Namibia’s first literary magazine. His short stories have appeared in Litro Magazine, AFREADA, The Johannesburg Review of Books, The Amistad, The Kalahari Review, American Chordata, Doek!, Azure, Sultan's Seal, Columbia Journal, and New Contrast. He has been longlisted for the 2020 Afritondo Short Story Prize and shortlisted for Best Original Fiction by Stack Magazines in 2019. More of his writing can be read on his website:

fearfight, Kristian Proud

you have to realize that it's not really a fight at all. you are making it a fight.
it is more like... a sudden victory, where nothing real is harmed or threatened...
because nothing real is ever harmed or threatened.
to realize one is not really afraid of the darkness... but what lurks beneath.
i admired this darkness for being so wise and so sleek.
i was only ever afraid of not being able to see.
but what is there, real to see,
when the feeling sets you free?
the only darkness is the light, which i call darkness because it is not wholly understood and addressed.
with a higher, deeper, broader, and more focused point of view,
I see now that the only one worthy of worship is the Nu.
now, the monsters of whom we are faced may be hard to understand at first, 
but in remembrance of the truth that we all are of the same essence,
we are saved.
saved by ourselves,
the only one who ever could.
the only one who could perceive the broken parts as something good.
all beings are bound to the very same web of life.
you are your demons and your angels,
and as they multiply,
your dragons too, shall fortify
your very truth.
how can we fear what and who we know as ourselves?
this is why self-love is the root to the world’s troubles.
when we identify with it all,
we love from bedrock through the rubble,
up and into the sky.
redefining deep, 
realigning high.

Kristian Proud is an independent eclectic all-around artist and renaissance man based around Rochester, NY. His first book Majesty & Travesty is now available on Amazon, and he is currently working on more poetry as well as a series of sci-fi fantasy stories.

The Fable of O'ne, JustBarry Mawonga

There once was a man. The assumption that man has always been holds truth in our most basic view of time. We don’t know why but we know that there has always once been a man. This particular man lived in a time when stories and fables were nothing more than yesterday’s happenings. This man’s name was O’ne he was the son of Baree who was the son of Ah’me who was a direct descendant of the great and most feared warrior Ma’tu who fought the great eagle of the sea and won with the aid of Oa’s blessing.

O’ne lived outside of the village, near the forest of Truths with his two sons, Ma’tu Ru and Ma’tu Nu and the mother of his two sons El’na. Ma’tu Ru was the oldest and the strongest but both sons were built very big with muscles and had long locks of black hair that reached their backs. They lived outside the village and close to the forest because they were hunters. In the land of Zamu taking the life of an animal was taboo but not against any law. In fact there were only but three Laws in Zamu.

Do not kill, without just cause.

Do not lie, to cause harm.

And the most important law of all three the one that all follow and none break.

Do not steal.

O’ne became a hunter when he was but a boy. He killed a serpent that swallowed his mother as they slept for the night. When they awoke and found the serpent lying there, having had its fill, O’ne’s father did nothing. He said Oa knew what they were doing. O’ne boiled with fury and rage and grabbed his father’s wood cutting stone and chopped the head off the beast. His mother’s limp body fell out of the dead serpent. O’ne cried out in pain because it was too late his mother was dead. In anguish and pain he let out seven shouts of pain and on the seventh shout lightning struck O’ne and his mother. It is said that the lightning struck O’ne because he had committed a taboo by killing an animal but even worse by killing one of the many faces that Oa wears the ‘serpent’.

And in the epicenter of the lighting strike something happened to O’ne, what that something is no spirit or person can actually say.

As the smoldering embers around O’ne and his mother died out the woman took a deep breath and for the first time since the birth of O’ne, his father showed real emotion and started to roll on in the dirt tearing off his clothes. When the dust settle Baree carried his other into their bed leaving O’ne to burn the serpent and to throw away the ashes deep inside the Innocent forest, named so because man rarely ventured there. 

And for those that do they are never to return and for those that do only to be stuck with madness. O’ne took the serpent and carried it on his back with his stone axe in his hand and water in his coconut container.

O’ne travelled for five days and four nights before he reached a large clearing deep in the Innocent forest, he placed the serpent’s body down and went to gather dead wood for the fire just beyond the clearing.

Just as O’ne stepped out of the clearing a big cat creature pounced on him had it not been for the shrubbery in the cats path the cat would have liberated O’ne’s head form his body. O’ne tumbled back into the clearing the cat followed with a slow stalk. O’ne was still on the ground clenching his stone axe and still inching back to where he laid the serpents body. The cat did not follow, it stop when O’ne reached the serpents body. He didn’t understand why the cat did not kill him on the spot. 

The cat just stared at him and O’ne stared back, eventually the cat felt that this was tedious and curled up into a ball and fell asleep. O’ne was shocked here was an opportunity to kill a threat to his life. His enemy was asleep. All he had to do was, was to pick up his father’s stone axe and bring its head down on his sleeping enemy, but was the cat really asleep? O’ne could not with full certainty know so he stared at the sleeping cat.

But before long O’ne himself was beset upon by his own deep weariness and sleep over took and consumed him. He had restless dreams that night. Dreams of being chased by flying serpents, dreams of meeting a man with a golden face a face so bright that if you looked at the man your face would melt and without knowing how he knew he tried his best not to look at the man.

O’ne’s resolve was wearing thin and the temptation to look at the man was just too great to ignore for much longer and just as he was about to look he was pulled back out of his dream and into life with a terror so strong. He for a second forgot how to breathe. After a small examination O'ne realized that nothing was a miss.

The cat was awake now and staring amused at him.

O’ne released a sigh of relief, and started to chuckle to himself in that moment he was happy to be alive. He forgot all his worries and smiled as he looked at the roof of the forest canopy there was a tiny bit of moonlight penetrating the top, he couldn't see the stars dancing in the sky, but he could hear them dancing their twinkling rhythm.

But just than he heard movement from the cat in front of him. O'ne quickly looked down into the clearing and saw nothing different at first, he almost sighed of relief again but then he saw it. The big cat had moved closer, not by much but it indeed had moved.


O’ne stared at the cat. Its big green eyes stared back, it looked like it knew something that O’ne did in fact know but for some reason could not recall on command. The cat’s breathing started to pick up pace. It was as if the cat was inhaling air to make itself appear even bigger than it already was. The green of its eyes started to glow. The glow was intense jade. O’ne was captivated by the glow. He was unaware, maybe uncaring to the fact that the cat was moving closer to him.

O’ne dropped his stone axe.

The light was beautiful. The light was the truth. The light was Oa. It was all the faces of Oa.
O’ne embraced his destiny and surrendered wholly and holy to the jade light. The boy was at peace.
Somewhere in the conscious part of his brain he saw the cat leap for him but O’ne had given into his sub-conscious.

The light was filling his entire body with a freedom no man before him had ever experienced and very few since.

The serpent.

The serpent hissed so loud. The trees in the forest of Innocence started to tremble at the terrifying echoes that came from the dead serpent.

The mesmerizing spell of the jade glow was broken. O’ne was back to his scared self. He picked the stone axe up and without forethought, without reflection he charged the now leaping cat. This sudden burst of randomness stunned the cat perhaps more than the hissing of the dead snake.
For the first time since the glowing started O’ne had control of his own consciousness.

The eyes. The eyes, go for the eyes.

O’ne leapt into the sky with a power and a will he did not know he possessed.


This was pure freedom. Being able to be conscious and still see outside of oneself.
O’ne plunged the stone axe in the right eye of the cat while holding on to its right ear with his left hand.

There was a connection between the two as he clung on top the cat's ear. Their roles were now and forever reversed. O’ne was the hunter, O’ne was the cat. He felt the cat’s fear surging through his left hand.

The cat groaned and moaned and shook its head so violently and so hard that O’ne was flung high in the air. He had some of the cats whiskers in his left hand and as he plunged back to the hard earth. O’ne saw the cat run back into the forest of Innocence. Somehow O’ne landed on his feet.

Gentle, graceful and unhurt.

O’ne was still holding the cat’s whiskers in his left hand and the now bloody stone axe in his right. The blood on the axe burnt hot. So hot that the stone axe was scorched black and turned into a black crystal and so were the parts of his right hand. But he felt no pain. He felt strength from both the burn on his right hand and the whiskers in his left hand.

O’ne dropped the stone axe not because it was heavy or that it was too difficult to hold but because he had no use for the weapon anymore. He knew without knowing that no animal in this forest would dare to attack him.

O’ne stood in the dark clearing. It felt brighter to him now than it had when he woke from his dream. Yet there was no light source. Except for the faint glow of the now displace jade eye of the cat and the penetrating moonlight. He walked to the jade eye and he picked it up.

O’ne stared into the eye and he could see Oa as they stared back at him. O’ne ate the eye as if it were an apple. It was his final rebellion against Oa. Still chewing and eating the eye, O'ne walked to the dead serpent and stood infront of it. O’ne finished his jade eye apple and tied the whiskers around his waist like a belt. He sat down in front of the serpent.

‘Speak’ O’ne insisted without reason to the dead serpent. Moments had passed without him moving or without the serpent speaking.

 How many moments?

 Only Oa knew.

O’ne got up from his seated position and went a few steps back to pick up his stone axe. This time he looked at the transformed stone axe it wasn’t stone anymore it was crystal like and so sharp that it cut O’ne’s finger as he ran it across the crystal blade.

O’ne was amazed.

He went back to the headless serpent and started to skin the serpent. He knew what he was doing even though he did not know.

O’ne consumed the serpents body for seven days and for seven night. Each time he would prepare a meal he would say these words-

‘I consume you to make me stronger’

Once O’ne’s feasting came to an end. He put out his fires and collected his serpent skin in a bundle and headed back to his village.

The trip back only took him a day this time because he had no dead serpent to weigh him down. When he reached the homestead of his father O’ne was met with fright because they thought him to be dead in the forest of Innocence never to return.

Instead here stood a boy who now resembled a fierce and powerful man. O’ne’s clothes did not fit him anymore it is as if he had grown years in a matter of weeks.

Baree tried to stop O’ne from entering the house but the man O'ne had grown up to fear and respect seemed like a bothersome fly to him now. O’ne found his mother sleeping and he woke her and at first she did not recognize him to be her son for a moment she thought that it was her father that came to wake her up but after a few silent moments she realized that it was O’ne her son.

‘How long was I asleep?’ She asked trying to understand why the boy looked like a man.

‘I do not know the answer to that question mother.’ O’ne could see the confusion dancing in her eyes, but he was unsympathetic to it.

‘You, woman you owe me your life.’ There was silence.

O’ne unwrapped the bundle of serpents skin that he had tied with one of the seven whiskers from the cat he had and gave it to his confused mother with all the whiskers and said ‘Make me new clothes with these, and make them fast. I do not want to be here when the sunsets.’

The woman looked at the skins in awe and said ‘This will be the finest clothe my hands shall ever make.’

O’ne stayed in the room as his mother made the clothes. He stared at his hand, his now blacken right hand. It felt heavy like stone and it was a shiny black the kind of black that light dance off of, he clenched and unclenched his right fist. All the while his mother worked and sang songs of mourning as if her son had just died.

The new clothes fit O’ne like a glove. She had made him shoes, trousers, two leathery shirts, a hat and even a quiver. Exactly what O’ne wanted she knew this without knowing it. There was even enough left to make him a water skin and a knapsack and some leftover that he put into the knapsack.

That was the last time he saw either of his parents.

He went back into the forest of Innocence and would only return many years after the death of his parents to seek out a wife. No one knows what O’ne went to do in the forest for so many years but all they knew is that since he killed the serpent life has never been the same.

Boys and girls all around Zamu upon hearing his tale started to explore more.

They started to question more.

It was a new age and O’ne was directly responsible for it. They tried calling him O’ne the heretic, O’ne the destroyer, O’ne the unholy and even O’ne the coward but the only name that fell through the annals of history without being added to or subtracted from was O’ne the bringer of knowledge.

JustBarry Mawonga, @JustBarryWild.

I am a writer with a dream of just writing. I am currently in the process of writing an epic that may or may not involve space pirates, mind bending witchcraft, teenagers filled with angst, malevolent forces, rebellions, world wars and some immortal vampires but above all the gimmicks there will be people in my stories. People that, hopefully, any well-adjusted human being will be able to relate to on an emotional level.