I eye her twice in awe. By God, she is limpid with beauty. She has a facial del Angelo. Her eyes are shapely sullen and sparkle with colossal blue figments of light like sunshine on the ocean. They enthrall as stars and shimmer like moon in the night.
She has a high cheekbone on her face. Her nose is artfully, mindfully and with tenderness place on her serene and dignified face by her creator. Her eye lashes bloom as alga.
Her lips are fresh, medium and ruddy. Her smile is heavenly and has lasting effect as morning dew. Her teeth are white as flour. Has a fascinating gap between them that befuddled every organism that has life in them. She has shiny and long black hair that melts in the night streetlights.
Her chest is extensive and grasps her rigid breasts in brassiere. Her girdle is gargantuan and supports her large backside and her convex hipbone.
Her legs are long and spindy like crane and are graced with body hairs like those of a horse’s mane.
Her neck, O my God, it is long and stick out her collar bones like tree branch.
Terms Owe Me an Elucidation
I roll elegantly in my village where I was nurtured. The homeland of colossal rocks, naked soil and extensive copses. I feel haggard like an old granny. The was long and tedious.
I need something to freshen me up. I settle for a book. Writers are a soul mechanics. They know what body part need what phrase, sentence, or word. Writers know how to mend broken hearts, massage painful body parts, soothe the crying hearts and speak hope to hopeless hearts.
I need to ‘chew’ some chapters from two or three books. What I am certain of is that the fictitious earth has a way to the soul. And in a way, it has power to peel off boredom, weariness and hopelessness.
I stagger to my room. A half-bread like room. Many years back, it was my home. This is where everything I owned found homage. A well decorated room – with this and that picture of the legendary Bob Marley, Didier Drogba and the Chelsea team, pictures of God knows what music celebs whom I knew not about their existence and a bored photo of our retired president Mwai Kibaki.
I slam the door open. I roll my eyes from this and that corner of the house. The house look like an abandoned city or delosate house in the middle of nowhere. I scan it thoroughly and my eyes settle on my long forgotten library.
Shock, malice and frustration boil in my heart. I bellow in anger and insanity like a donkey on heat. The only ‘readers’ I can see passionately, enthusiastically and seriously reading my books are termites.
“Oh, my good Lord!” I sigh. Their number is prodigious. The manner in which they are moving their pendulous jaws ‘dinning’ my books makes my abdomen corrode in anger. I hop out and slam the door shut behind me.