Becky Davies - DE1113 - Mmiensa Publication

The hard press of car horns complements the hustle and bustle of a busy and scintillating street. Crowds canter across roads as if traffic were non-existent in their weekday morning.

Words amongst many are exchanged as the sun beats down on the reflective steel roofing that shelters the more privileged of stalls.

The market place is amidst of a beautiful chaos, filled to its entirety of bargain hunters and other such negotiables. Sour sales pitches go amiss to wandering customers from retailers fatigued of repetition. Today, no one appears to be interested in a fantastic fuchsia flip-flop in a size forty-four. Conversion is key for the dependence of life within the market.

Potential consumers must be persuaded to purchase quickly before next door’s rampant yet vivacious stall owner distracts them with her guilty promises of a non-existent guarantee.

Sales assistants are always the most callous of creatures with bartering seeming like a forgotten manner of the past. Too wise and too insistent on a specified price to meet at a compromise is the woman with the knowing smile. She has witnessed the best and worst in which the market place has to offer and therefore will not be defeated without some brutality along the haggle line.

Amongst the speculated atrocities of raised voices and unimpressed glances there are glimmers of a better place. The vibrancy of colour and precision of patterns manifesting into a vivid illustration of heritage. Rough amid the smooth textures of layers upon layers of fabric, gathered abruptly together on one wooden table. The cuts never straight nor perfect but viewed as characteristic instead, the textile choices are incomprehensible in quantifiable terms.

Jagged lines and angular peculiarity is what consists of many aztec prints. Fluctuating shades of reds, oranges and yellows intertwine to mimic an African sunset. Tribal and national patterns correlate relationships between the continent and its inhabitants as the fabric pieces know none the wiser. Cloth so original and specific in the market place in which it is sold yet it is passed day after day by glazed over eyes in which have seen it too many times before.

There is no shortage of glimmers attracting the eye as beads can be heard falling from a desk to the uneven concrete floors. All once neatly and tightly packed together on a piece of string have dispersed rapidly in their differentiating spectrum of colours.

As dawn turns to dusk the brisk air that fills the market place decreases with the patter of footsteps coming to a halt. Once clean cotton drapes over tables and benches as the cease fire is depicted from the exasperated mouths of their owners. The rich and gaudy fabric and jewelry choices rest for their chance in the hurriedly merchandised light of tomorrow.

He sits still, as if stranded in time. The insistent chirping of creatures unknown echo against the earth. A light breeze does not send a shiver nor does a drop of rain break his gaze. His knowledge appears greater than any other and it is this profound gift that does not allow Anansi to concentrate on anything else.

Formerly considered deceitful and deviant; the trickster... Anansi would be the name that the future would remember as the main character, director and narrator of their favourite tales. Being cunning was his specialty and thus others’ demise. To obstruct the written and foretold word would be his prize.

To assert himself as the most prominent of storytellers he was to inspire strategies of persistence to obtain his only desire. Anansi was delivered a challenge to capture a group of four. The ability to complete such an obstacle would illustrate the trickster’s determination, skill and therefore worth of his pined for stories. First came the python, scaly by appearance and nature; but still even the most slithery of creatures could not compete with Anansi’s snake-like eye for opportunist gain.

Next, the leopard - gracefully agile - taken by chicanery tactics. Following her, the group of hornets, terrified by the prospect of rain. All that was left was a dwarf, ironically positioned at the Tree of Life. Underneath its embracing arms of greenery Anansi placed a doll, covered to the entirety of the stickiest gum. With an offering of yam, the doll appeared as the deceiver, enclosing the dwarf ’s hungry hands upon it’s forceful hold. With all souls in grasp Anansi could fulfill his trade - he would finally become the most notorious of narrators.

Surpassing story after story Anansi grew to engage himself in every chapter. He had accessed a world of wisdom in which he held sacred. The knowledge and wisdom became so profound and important to him that he decided that it would be kept safest at the highest point, out of reach but still in sight. Despite all of the wisdom that he had amounted; Anansi could not bound up toward his goal. Ultimately it fell to his son Ntikuma to announce that all of the knowledge should rest upon one’s back not his chest and then also subsequently a realisation for Anansi struck...

The memory of the journey to power stays with him. Eyes fixated on not just a point in the open yet deep forestry terrain but also to a moment in time. The occasion to when Anansi recognised and understood the importance of distributing knowledge and wisdom through the medium of storytelling. The earth moves beneath him as he is placed underneath the Odum in which he had previously acted both for good and for bad. The Tree of Life’s branches wave a sign of approval for the juxtaposition of the two stories told and since Anansi’s dispersing of all wisdom his past cunning tales have become mythical in once upon a time.

The rustle of leaves and snapping of branches answers every footstep, On a path so long and a hill so steep.

As the notion of confused eyes set into place, The wondering continues of being awake or in a paradoxical sleep.

Up, up, up and up, On a trail so long.

One thing keeping up a soft and steady pace, Is the rhythm from the child’s song.

As if they are locked onto your every moment, There are glances from everywhere.

Fixated on why you are here but they will not ask, Instead just continue to stare.

A new terrain is entered, Welcoming hands to greet this place.

Across the way is Martha, Finally a recognisable face.

Following the submergence into the recluse, Anyone’s guess would be that the faces would soon become absent.

Hesitating and speculating, Not as many but still a significant fragment.

Tall and broad, A willing and keen asset to her peers.

She approaches with a beaming smile, Although this can not disguise her tears.

Suddenly a roar of claps and cheers, Smiles seen like never before.

Children, With no apprehension which they feel no need to look for.

Wearing a purple dress with mustard-yellow flowers, Questionable attire for someone so strong.

The hardest worker of the family, Yet to rid her of her femininity would be wrong.

A young hand is placed neatly inside, Tightly grasping as if someone were to let go.

Eager to lead the way, Indefinitely so.

She introduces her mother, A woman with a greater mind.

Removing herself and sitting her guests down, Yet she thanks them for being so kind.

Next the grandmother, Often considered the most strict yet wise.

She is complete with warmth and laughter, A definite surprise.

Father and son stood still, As if time has come to a halt.

They cannot control her agony, To feel as if it were their fault.

The father with grey whistled hair, Appears a frail old man.

Quieter than the rest, Accordingly so as this was never part of his plan.

Days on, Martha is smiling again.

She speaks with excitement of school and future prospects, Notions to mask her pain.

Gifts are exchanged, In return for sheer delight.

Opposite responses to the day before, Where no-one could have enforced such a fright.

She remembers everything, But does not wish to state too much.

Instead she reveals something surprising, With one gentle touch.

In dark hallways, Screams and hysterical weeps.

A memory full of a complexity of hurt, Yet one they will all keep.

She smiles and says, “God took my son from me that day.

Then he gave me two new sons in the form of friends, That he must believe that that was his debt to repay”.

As others orders are ignored, Fists pound at the earth.

The only question from her is why, Regrettably her only birth.

There is an everlasting and replaying image, As if it doesn’t want to be forgotten.

Eyes too young to be closed, With a body so small covered by cotton.

As she says goodbye, Martha exchanges one last embrace.

In memory of Emmanuel, “God is with us” and thus is his face.