The benevolent moon and I.
Amadi Sesay's StoryThe original Zimbabwean meaning of my first name is ‘free man’, though a free man is something that I have not always been.
2nd August 2005
The sharpness of the sunbeams glazed the city like a spectacle of glistening stars and the smog from the
motor cars filled the air with thick black murkiness. My heart pounded rambunctiously as the queue to vote casting grew shorter and shorter. The people of my country;
farmers, labourers, factory workers and carpenters walked silently towards the
ballot box, circled their choice of prime minister and sped back into the
hidden sanctuaries of their business stalls. The armed officers stood besides
us like valiant statues, reminding us of acclaimed Dictator Robert Mugabe
and his auspicious duty to our Country.
I was about to make the biggest
decision of my life; I had grew tired of the unruly government that seemed to control
my life, enough of the continuous corruption, the mismanagement of the economy,
and the injustice of the poor.
The life I was leading offered no
opportunities to develop; I was forever sinking further into debt, and if not debt
then surely, an undeserved punishment. It was those moments of infringement that lead me to making the decision of a lifetime.
As I advanced forward to the
ballot table, I proceeded to pick up the paper and pen, without a moment of
hesitancy and with the anger burning deep inside my gut. I slipped the paper into
the opposing ballot box, knowing that my fate will be changed forever.
Without a second to spare, a
number of officers rushed towards me; a sudden punch to the face and I was
knocked to the floor; kicked, pushed and shoved until eventually I managed to
curl into a ball; able to partially protect myself from the pain of the dreadful
stabbing that sunk deep into my skin. I was dragged into the back of a white Jeep, a concoction of blood, sweat and tears exuded from my head into my rims
of my mouth.
I squinted; the blur of my tears
blocked my sight, the howling of my name “Amadi! Amadi!” faint-like in the distant unnerved me.
A black figure wailed in the crowds. I blinked again in the hope that the
debris would unmask my view. I squinted once more. It was my mother. Our eyes locked together in an enchantment of childhood memories and I simply gazed into her tear filled eyes
with fear and bewilderment.
I was detained by the police and
locked up in a filthy and unhygienic prison cell. I was systematically beaten
by officers and tortured until I passed out; waking up in a pool of my own
urine and blood. I was fed little or no food over the course of my imprisonment
and left out in the darkness with only the silkiness of the moon's company.
After what felt like months, I
was transferred to another cell. I overheard that the officers could no longer
stand the smell of my congealed blood. Soon they began to unravel the shackles around
my feet and lead me to cell number 315.
Eleven days had passed when I
was suddenly awoken with a bucket of cold water. I happened to become familiar
with the nights, as the benevolent Moon and I became alliances during my time
held as a captive. As the moon sparkled through the barricades of the prison window,
I was approached by a menacing officer who stuck a bar of molten plastic into
my limbs. One after the other, until eventually I passed out.
The silkiness of the moon diminished
and the sparkle of the stars that usually glowed had faded; begrudgingly the moon
evaded into the corner of the world and daylight took over.
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