Fiction

Blessings Hara: We

ghosts
Photo by Milo Weiler on Unsplash

We will dash forever, farther and farther away from this world, painfully, like losing a warm and comforting hand, a delicate and sweet consolation — a mother’s touch. We are sitting in this cruel night with its oily darkness, it’s ruthless friend. We are conversing within this same darkness, kissing it constantly with wisps of our warm breath that flutter into the air as tiny and brief clouds due to the night’s cold — its other ruthless friend.

The animal’s flesh we are pulling with our teeth is not pink, warm and bloody. It is instead shimmering a heavy brown like an eclipsing sun, with the oil it has been deep fried in. It is way less fragrant than the pink jasmines that are singing their wondrous scent into the night’s air. Their glorious petals are gaping open in the tree above us as if to swallow the moon lying above us as well. As we chatter, our teeth occasionally flash a searing white into the darkness when they collide with the moonlight. We consume the darkness with our eyes, the chicken’s flesh with our teeth, the pink jasmines with our nostrils, the coldness with our skin.

We laugh about the way we used to dance in rains when we were younger. Rains strongly fragrant with the dense, silky soil that they wetted to an earthy porridge below us, making it cling to the soles of our pattering feet. Rains that brought with them raindrops too plump, too cheerful and healthy like glass drops to have fallen from sad clouds. We knew instead that they fell as God’s tears of joy while he watched us play.

We brag about how we have trekked between worlds, between continents just with the snap of our plump fingers. The way we have transcended the rest of our kind and are now able to see and not be seen, hear and not be heard, tell and not be told, touch and not be touched, eat and not be eaten. But we have never feared, they have always feared us instead.

We cry about the times our loved ones loved us and polished our hearts with a rich blend of affection and thoughtfulness. None of which we have been able to find anymore anywhere for centuries now, even from amongst ourselves. We cry about how gaining our present form only made us lose our entire selves and we are now nothing left but noiseless shells. We cry about how this transcendence we have made has equally been a curse as much as a blessing, the way it has made us lonelier together though no longer endangered forever.

We lament about the way time moves faster for us, rushing us towards our inexistent end like the way blood – that red, warm water we once harbored within us, dashed oxygen towards our hearts. Oh how we miss oxygen. Oh how we miss the warmth of blood and body. Oh how we miss the time we had an end.

We lament about the way, even past the end of a world like this one, with its oceanic blue sky by day and a royal blue one by night, its foundation made of finely ground stone through which seeds sprout from, we will still exist.

Except there will no longer be night or day. Neither any fragrant, elegant pink jasmines to acknowledge with our nostrils nor flesh to tear from bones with our teeth. No benches to burden with our weightlessness.

We will only linger here and there, hovering in an emptiness, a void just like we are, and we will do nothing except hope for a new world to form. Maybe even a new body for us to transcend out of once again. A body to destroy.

We lift from the rough benches we have been burdening with no weight under the pink jasmine tree. We penetrate out of the darkness, walking into the warmth and light of our house. A house that might be too small for others but is perfect for us, just like our body.

 

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Photo by Milo Weiler on Unsplash

About the author

Blessings Hara

Blessings Hara is a Zambian writer who is currently an A-level student in Johannesburg, South Africa. He likes to classify himself as a multipotentialite as he loves to learn many things.

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