the cheroot smouldered and
drifted a lazy thread of smoke up past his restless eye
it was fixed on a torch or what he determined was a
torch a flickering orange an yellow
phantom across from him
on a distance ridge
it didnt lay on the ground
in the fading daylight he could
see it hang between the backbone and the stand of autumnal trees feathering it
it was stationary
he watched to see if still life
was there trying not to betray itself
with its form against the trees and brush or flame
it hadnt been there
now it was
he didnt see it struck
he wasnt aware there were others so likely as with himself
he or they made sure they did not reveal themselves
leave telltale signs of their passings
at least
not until now
he sat crosslegged still on
the flat of a sheared rock slab that slipped down from the rock face above and
behind him
the only way to him was across
scattered stones before him from earlier slides
rented loose by water frozen and refrozen worked by time and to his left from where he had come to his
vantage point that overlooked the small vale between him and the distant
ridge
he sat downwind sniffing the air cupped his cigar in hand to cover its dull
lit-button end
he watched and waited
he was there first
hed been there long
eked a sustained existence
and not only was in no mood to
share but no mood he possessed did he
wish to share
he watched scrutinized
when he understood then his ghost would come
and vanquish the intruders
they could move on or die
0045, Monday,
2 1. 15
“I do not think we would ever conquer
this country unless we break the very backbone of this nation(Lord Macaulay’s February,
1835 address to Parliament)” Ngugi
wa Thiongo’s Decolonising the Mind
