There was an indescribable regal and divine stealth to his movement. There was an inimitable fearlessness in his swagger. There was a calmness, yet grim purposefulness to his chiselled countenance. There was serenity, yet seething fury in his yellowed, narrowed eyes. There was the bulging and menacing throb of scarcely concealed rage in his jaw bones. And around him was the unruffled air of one who had finally convinced himself of the rightness of his actions and had already resigned himself to whatever fate presented. He was clad in a recently and meticulously dry-cleaned raven-black tight-fitting suit that stopped a couple of inches from his wrists, revealing the cuffs of his shirt that exuded celestial brightness and impeccable whiteness. The black, little glass-like buttons fitted tightly into their holes and ran all the way to the top save for the two uppermost ones. His shoes were slate-flat, swordfish-pointed and deep tar-black. He had prepared for this day and nothing, absolutely nothing would make it any less than he planned it. He sauntered up the tiled steps of the podium in slow, deliberate steps, his back turned on the mumbling crowd. Then, with his back still turned, adjusted his suit at the sleeves, inhaled deeply, exhaled and turned slowly to face the crowd. There was an immediate, spontaneous hush. So immediate and spontaneous that one wouldve thought it was rehearsed. The silence was electric. Thick. Charged. His presence seemed to have suspended life and motion. He had rudely awaken their curiousity- What he stood there for, what he had to say, wanted to say...or do. That was his intended effect. His chest rose in a puff, he raised his head an inch upward and cast a stare that, in it was both the enviable superiority of land-owners to serfs and the fatherly passion of benevolent gods to mere mortals. There was a grumble. One shouted, rather impulsively, Wetin you dey find for dia?, and the crowd mumbled in agreement. He began in a voice so low, that nearly everyone stretched inadvertently forward. He..., he said, raising an index finger and paused a little. ...who makes... His finger was still raised and he paused once more. ...pEAceful revolution... He dragged the ee in peaceful and slightly raised his voice at revolution, ...impossible... A longer pause. Makes...VIOLENT REVOLUTION...IN-E-VI-TA-BLE. His index finger rolled in and his fist tightened into a ball. He paused and let it sink in. A suppressed murmur of agreement swept through the crowd. Someone stood up and shouted, Aaaaahhhh!. Another- a girl known for her madness and who had no GPA banged her desk and screamed, Chaiiiii! Word! It wasnt the words that made the impression. It was the true conviction with which he had said it. That, he knew. He said it again, He...who makes pEAceful REVOLUTION impossible...makes VIOLENT REVOLUTION IN-E-VI-TA-BLE This time, more people shouted. They already knew the direction he was going towards. He said it for the third time...and he pulled his coat. He said it very slowly and with much more conviction and people had started to feel agitated. Some guys had started pulling their coats and standing on their desks. Some ladies had started removing their shoes and shoving them into their bags. There was a certain spirit that preceded riots and the speaker had not only invoked one of such spirits, but a legion. A few scared ones simply remained sitting, not wanting anything to do with their revolution. The speaker calmed the agitated ones. He wasnt even started yet. His voice was hoarse and stentorian. We have begged. We have complained. We have suffered enough... Every We have... came with an agitated affirmative response of Ahhh We have pleaded... Ahhhh Three blocks away, the Dean of the faculty, an old doddering man, sat doing some work, totally oblivious that a riot was brewing, that he had less than thirty minutes to spend on earth... (An excerpt from my story, Two15) KJA
Posted on: Sun, 21 Sep 2014 21:00:50 +0000
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