I flick my tail, once, twice, thrice. I’m preparing
for action. I should have done this long ago, but I’m here, nonetheless, at
this verge. I begin to move my considerable limbs, on one spot, like I’m an
athlete limbering, on the verge of glory. Yes, I’ve once spied a television. Rasheed
notices my sudden activity. He pulls at the bit. This time, I don’t respond in
the way he’s used to. I don’t snap into submission, ready to obey the master’s
will, ready to let some hapless, cowardly beach-goer, who can’t bear to stay on
me without help for a mere thirty seconds mount me, like the white men mount
the dirty sluts of Taqwa Bay, as he poses for pictures. Instead, as Rasheed
pulls lightly on the bit, I shake my head vigorously, my diminished brown mane
fluttering in the cool ocean breeze. Rasheed wasn’t holding on to the bit tight
enough.
I have been a loyal servant for years, and he repays me by being a little bit more trusting of me than he should normally be. The bit slips through his fingers, and I trot forward a few steps to escape Rasheed’s lunging attempt to get me back under control. He flails and hits the beach sand, his black shirt, blue jeans and wild, dreadlocked hair instantly taking on a layer of fine white sand. Now, I lift my forelimbs in the air, stand on my hind ones and do that famous one-two-three mid-air kick. I’m not very erect otherwise I’d be standing like Rasheed stands when he isn’t rolling in the sand. I kneigh. The entire beach takes notice. Even the calm waves of Taqwa Bay hold their roiling for one small, tiny moment. I’ve not done the Pesade in a while and I feel energized now. The onlookers are bemused and shuffle backwards out of what I will assume is respect. This is the most I’ve run in years. Rasheed is content to let the tourists and revelers mount me, like some men mount the dirty whores of Taqwa Bay, and use me for pictorial purposes. The best I’ve done is walk a few steps with the slightly more adventurous ones. Rasheed always held me for fear that I might dislodge my strange occupant. The days of plentiful grass and bountiful hay are almost erased from my memory now, like they never happened. Rasheed gives me just enough to keep me alive. The jutting veins on my lean flesh tell the observant all they need to know about my nutrition, not that they care.
I break out into a trot again picking up pace gradually, before Rasheed can gather his wits and come after me. I was made to fly, so I break out into a canter. The beach sand caresses my hooves, one instant before my hooves send it flying. The breeze tickles my ears. Memories begin to flash. First I’m a lovely brown colt out on the rolling flat plains of the Savannah, nibbling at grass, kneighing, trotting around, getting into races with other horses out in the open. As night chased day into bed, I’d be back in my mother’s stable, with bales of hay awaiting our return. I remember being transported in a lumbering truck across lands. My legs had been secured and all I could do was lift them up occasionally till they numbed. I remember the forlorn glances of the other horses in the truck as it became clear we would never see our rolling Savannah and our other brethren again. It became clear that we were the undesirables, sold off into whatever awaited us wherever we were going. I break out into a gallop now.
My forelegs encounter it first. It is wet sand, where the ocean frequently licks land. Now, my hindlegs feel the wetness of the sand. My hooves leave impressions in the sand. These are not the sands of time; the marks I’ve made in these sands will not last; the ocean will lick the signs of my trespass off these sands soon. Soon, the water is mid-knee. The water is cold under and warm on top. Movement is getting slower now. But the gallop keeps me going still. The people who have been playing in the tamed waters of Taqwa Bay are scurrying as fast as the water can let them to get out of the way of the apparently crazed horse approaching fast. I understand their plight. The water splashes around me. Some of it gets in my mouth. The water is salty. This is what freedom tastes like. This is what freedom feels like. The water is at my knee now, the waves pushing me back at first and then pulling after they crashed behind me. I will not stop. I will not look back. To look back is to look upon slavery and shackles again. Forward is freedom.
Kayode Faniyi writes shorter nonsense as @Il__Duce on Twitter.
I have been a loyal servant for years, and he repays me by being a little bit more trusting of me than he should normally be. The bit slips through his fingers, and I trot forward a few steps to escape Rasheed’s lunging attempt to get me back under control. He flails and hits the beach sand, his black shirt, blue jeans and wild, dreadlocked hair instantly taking on a layer of fine white sand. Now, I lift my forelimbs in the air, stand on my hind ones and do that famous one-two-three mid-air kick. I’m not very erect otherwise I’d be standing like Rasheed stands when he isn’t rolling in the sand. I kneigh. The entire beach takes notice. Even the calm waves of Taqwa Bay hold their roiling for one small, tiny moment. I’ve not done the Pesade in a while and I feel energized now. The onlookers are bemused and shuffle backwards out of what I will assume is respect. This is the most I’ve run in years. Rasheed is content to let the tourists and revelers mount me, like some men mount the dirty whores of Taqwa Bay, and use me for pictorial purposes. The best I’ve done is walk a few steps with the slightly more adventurous ones. Rasheed always held me for fear that I might dislodge my strange occupant. The days of plentiful grass and bountiful hay are almost erased from my memory now, like they never happened. Rasheed gives me just enough to keep me alive. The jutting veins on my lean flesh tell the observant all they need to know about my nutrition, not that they care.
I break out into a trot again picking up pace gradually, before Rasheed can gather his wits and come after me. I was made to fly, so I break out into a canter. The beach sand caresses my hooves, one instant before my hooves send it flying. The breeze tickles my ears. Memories begin to flash. First I’m a lovely brown colt out on the rolling flat plains of the Savannah, nibbling at grass, kneighing, trotting around, getting into races with other horses out in the open. As night chased day into bed, I’d be back in my mother’s stable, with bales of hay awaiting our return. I remember being transported in a lumbering truck across lands. My legs had been secured and all I could do was lift them up occasionally till they numbed. I remember the forlorn glances of the other horses in the truck as it became clear we would never see our rolling Savannah and our other brethren again. It became clear that we were the undesirables, sold off into whatever awaited us wherever we were going. I break out into a gallop now.
My forelegs encounter it first. It is wet sand, where the ocean frequently licks land. Now, my hindlegs feel the wetness of the sand. My hooves leave impressions in the sand. These are not the sands of time; the marks I’ve made in these sands will not last; the ocean will lick the signs of my trespass off these sands soon. Soon, the water is mid-knee. The water is cold under and warm on top. Movement is getting slower now. But the gallop keeps me going still. The people who have been playing in the tamed waters of Taqwa Bay are scurrying as fast as the water can let them to get out of the way of the apparently crazed horse approaching fast. I understand their plight. The water splashes around me. Some of it gets in my mouth. The water is salty. This is what freedom tastes like. This is what freedom feels like. The water is at my knee now, the waves pushing me back at first and then pulling after they crashed behind me. I will not stop. I will not look back. To look back is to look upon slavery and shackles again. Forward is freedom.
Kayode Faniyi writes shorter nonsense as @Il__Duce on Twitter.
Tobacco-leading preventable cause of premature death. More than 80% lung cancer cases are accounted by tobacco. It's obvious that prostitution, whether legal or not, is going to occur.
ReplyDeleteCheck out my site; Vaporizer