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.