The Musings of an African Writer
Denyeko froze where she stood watching the shadow move beyond the threshold. The locked door had hardly fazed her before now. Like the manor, Lord Lanka’s study stood resting in pious vintage glory at the end of the corridor; the forbidden room. In spite of her rank and title, Lady Lanka was the only one …
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There once was a lion, so tall and grand, with glossy eyes and long ochre mane. Beloved he was, the golden king, with his thunderous roar and mighty claws. The king would rise to escort the sun. He beat the wind from right under his paws. His lapping tongue stirred the seas; they churned, erecting …
I lay sprawled out naked and languid, wrapped in the drunken stupor of euphoria glistening in mirrored reflections through his copper hew eyes. Watery and searching they blinked down at me, reiterating my thundering heart that roared untamed and free. It beat hard, screaming longingly for his arms; sweaty and brazen, to dalliance my wraith-like fantasies.
Mrs. Makaka boasted of being the cleanest head cook House Lanka had ever seen. Deep down in the dressed stone walls and spotless floors of the kitchen, she brooded over the greasy pots. Pascal, the second footman, was off nursing a terrible case of athlete’s foot and Miss Ng’ang’a was a no show as always. …
Inside were musty old rooms stripped of all but dusty old books, peeling paint, and treasures under stretching old iron roof sheets baking in the African sun. But it was home and it had been for ages. It kept me away from them, away from those that hung by the rafters, building their hollow nests …
When she woke up, everything was black. The faint dripping sound from the corner of the room would have worried her had she not known better now. As long as there was no movement then there was naught to lose sleep over. It was dead now, probably drooling into a pool of velvet smoky blood. …