Category Archives: Slice of Creativity
Smooth hazelnut with a splash of vanilla – beneath me I could feel her strength and the direction in which she pricked her ears told me when I had wronged her.
She took me, yet I remained in control; I guided despite her being in the lead. I moved to her rhythm until we were comfortable to dance in time to the same beat.
In the great expanse of golden grains and rocks; amongst the load men of old had placed one upon the other; within the vicinity of the chambers of men who thought they’d never die, we ran and laughed with the winds competing against us in the opposite direction.
In a moment of stillness we touched, the melted chocolate of her gaze swirled within the darkness of mine and a tear fell. My apology had hastened itself despite me not releasing it from the entrapment of my throat. I placed a hand on her head, gently pushing aside the strands that had fallen between her eyes and rested lazily along the length of her nose.
She told me of how she’d been whipped, made to perform above the ability God had bestowed upon her, and kicked when her underbelly was plump with the swelling of a new life-form. She once resisted against me, thinking we were all the same: takers who gave nothing in return. But I stroked her, whispered to her, and refused to use the lash.
Standing unshaded in an expanse of nothingness, I professed my love for her, and she said for the final time, ‘Come, my love, hold my reins – let’s ride’.
– The Londoner
The two camps were quite obvious: ‘them‘ and ‘us‘.
Them consisted of children playing bare-footed, clothes slightly grubby, young girls wearing over-sized earrings and handmade necklaces that reached down way past their flat chest. Dirt-stained faces and brown-stained teeth, with guys strutting around in ship-ships (flip-flops).
Us consisted of tweezer-perfected eyebrows, designer shades, degree-holders and bright smiles. Name-branded attire, some sort of grasp of the English language, and refusal for the kids to play with their’s.
The feast was amazing; it was an ensemble of rice, pastries, pizza, samboosa, cannelloni and shipsi. They looked on, as they knew they couldn’t get a share, and we didn’t even think to share. Their necks were stretched for a better view as they watched us eating from afar – just a few yards away, in reality.
Maybe that’s the way things are. Maybe that’s the way things have to be. Or is it?
The food was in abundance, and there were only 30 of us. There was more than enough to go around for them too; in actual fact, the leftovers could have been given to them, even if it was nothing but an afterthought. I’m sure it would’ve been accepted. But who am I to speak? I am the outsider, and what right does an outsider have to question the way of the people?
Nevertheless, the park isn’t for us alone, nor for them exclusively – it is for all: us, them, the birds and the insects too. Yet, right there, by the Nile that unites so much more than people, there was a clear sight of the two groups, each firm in their camp – on their side.
I guess… that’s the way things are and will be.
– The Londoner
This might read like fiction, but it really did happen. I’ve stylised it a little (I secretly miss writing fiction!), so you’ll need to work out who is doing the talking. Enjoy! – The Londoner.
I was positive that she was running from trouble; the huge black rucksack mounted on her back bobbed onto the metro as she jumped on when the beeps announced the closing of the doors.
She whisked around with an expectant smile on her face. A smile of success; of victory. A smile that exploded with pride that screamed, ‘I did it! I’ve out-run them. Ha!’ But it dissolved into a knotted frown, and she pressed herself against the glass of the now-closed doors.
At that point, I wished to have a stethoscope of her thoughts, of her knowledge and of her fears. Why were her twizzer-arched eyebrows pressed together so tightly that one’s fingers would be squeezed if placed between them? Why were her eyes darting from left to right, scouring the station platform as the train slowly pulled away from the station? And why – dear God – did she shake her head, crying, “Oh no!” at the sight of a commotion of men gathered around a heap of beige and brown on the platform?
What was this woman’s story? And why did it seem as though she had so much to tell?
We had a clear goal: run! Well, actually, it was clearer than that, but I braced myself to sprint as fast and as hard as my now ‘well-toned’ legs could carry me.
As soon as the doors slid open we made a dash for it, her bag bobbed from side-to-side as her slim legs moved faster than I ever imagined they could. I spotted our destination, where we desperately needed to reach. The large blue ‘Ladies’ sign a clear indication of the carriages we wanted to get to, and I could see the path, the gaps that we had to interweave through to get there.
She was off and my legs were thrown into gear. I was shocked. Since when could I run so fast? I did a mini ‘you go girl‘ cheer in my mind, lowered my head a little and made a dash for it.
And then it happened. I should’ve known it would; should’ve had a Plan B for when it occurred. I was too close to the sign – the station sign. Its two poles holding up the white sign that read ‘El Zahra’. He had stepped into the path that I’d had all worked out. He’d closed the gap so I couldn’t run through it without knocking him to the side. I thought I could fit behind the sign instead – we had a carriage to jump on. And so I whizzed behind the sign, but it was too close a call. Images of sepia, dust, concrete and beige-out shoes became the sight before my eyes as I fell to the ground, hands first.
I caught a glimpse of her; her bag continued to bounce along as she continued running, oblivious to what had happened behind her.
“Hay! Ya Haga!” They called, but she didn’t hear a thing. So I simply laid there amongst the sepia, dust, beiged-out shoes and concrete.
‘I’ve missed the train.’ My thoughts were immediately confirmed by the beeps as the doors of the metro drew to a sharp close.
‘Ive missed the train.’