ABYSS

And I fall

Deeper,

Clutching at the shadows on the walls that

Come closer,

Closer,

Closing me in,

And I breathe the

Stench of forgotten fear; of

Scars that bleed in the dark,

And I seek the proverbial window – the light!

Further,

Further,

And all I see is my face in the mirror

And I fall

ENDLESS NIGHT

When the world hurts and I cry

He calls to me in the dark

No questions

No unspoken answers

Damned as I am, I lie

In his arms

For one eternal moment

I sleep

The pain locked deep in my heart

Charades

One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven. Eleven steps on the way down. And then twelve paces. I can do it in ten, though, if I try. Maybe even in eight.

And then, escape. I escape every morning at 10 am in a little red and white plastic cup half filled with murky brown bubbles. Nodding, smiling, the occasional hello. It’s kind of like My Cover. I am Jane Bond. I am Super Woman. I wear my underwear on the inside, of course.

Funny that as a kid you never say your ambition is to attain temporary salvation in a disposable cup of lukewarm instant coffee. Rinse and repeat. I remember I wanted to be a princess. I even drew a stick princess in a pink dress and purple high heels and stuck silver sequins on her crown. Most of my friends wanted to be teachers, nurses, doctors. A pilot or two, a fireman. A father. The type with kids, I think, not the Catholic priests.

And now my mission, my vision, my raison d’etre lies within the dregs of these endless cups of Nescafe. It all starts with a Nescafe, though I have never been quite sure what “it” means. It probably means that magic blend of coffee, milk and sugar that pours out when you slide in a coin and press the right buttons.

We get it for free over here.  

Twelve paces again, and then one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven. Eleven steps on the way up. The number never changes, but I count, just in case. Because you never know for sure, anyway. The frequency of deaths caused by slipping on the stairs is quite underwhelming, to say the least. Sad, because it looks SO cool in the movies.

I wear my purple high heels, just in case.

The Vultures

Two pairs of black eyes stare at me from behind the rock. As I look back, I see no escape. Miles and miles of golden sand, stretched as far as the imagination allowed and beyond. No wet, no green.

Hungry, desperate eyes. I look into their depths and read one message – survival.

Trapped. I have nowhere to run, nowhere to hide.

I relent. Holding out one hand with a smile that I hope will allay their fears I beckon them with the other, and wait patiently as they approach. They are hesitant, but hunger, youthful innocence and curiosity quickly overcome their initial apprehension at what to them must resemble an alien from outer space.

That was the last of my Cadburys. Melted, no doubt, but still chocolate. My only sustenance, my last link to comfort and security in this God-forsaken wilderness. As I walk towards the Land Rover I turn back and see a little girl, mouth full, giggle with pleasure as she offers a bite of the divine luxury to her tiny brother.

I feel comforted and saddened at the same time. Elated, yet depressed. It is our last day here and I am glad. I am glad because I know that we will win, because I know that our picture, my picture will be the best. I have followed my dreams, lived my dreams, I have won the biggest game of all.

Being the best in a man's world.

Chira says I look like hell. He does, too. Everyone does. Seeing it all with your own eyes, living here, even for a week...

It is not the same thing, seeing it in Newsweek, sipping morning tea and watching Ellen DeGeneres doling out cruise trips to Timbuktu. But it is impossible, I know, for even the stoniest hearts to refuse to melt at the image.

Stripped of embellishment, devoid of colour or drama, hauntingly transparent in its meaning.

 A little boy crouches in the sand, head down, hands clasped together in unintentional prayer, motionless.

But he is not dead, not yet. The vulture remains perched on the rock beside him, waiting patiently, hungrily, for the moment to arrive.

Sometimes, photography is like trying to catch lightning in your hands...if you miss the moment it is gone, forever. Every photographer gets one such chance in life, one such chance to capture true magic...

 And I did.

I told myself at the end of the first day, that I would never return...that success, awards, glory, fame- nothing was worth returning to see it all again...such desolation, such misery, such wretched beings that somehow seemed to me less than human.  

But now I know.

I will come back.

I feel a strange lightness, a feeling of otherworldliness as I realize and am humbled by the experience. It is my soul crying with the joy of liberation.

I look at my picture with a new sense of awareness...it is spiritual, almost an epiphany. I suddenly notice that it is the same rock where I saw the children hiding a short while ago. Perhaps it is the same boy...perhaps not.

I recall those eyes...

In this barren desert, with its wide open spaces I feel suffocated, claustrophobic. Life, as we know it, here is meaningless, empty, save for that one emotion I see, again and again, wherever I look...and yet it is not emotion, for isn't emotion experienced by humans alone?

Survival of the fittest.

The vultures have left but hunger- no, greed will bring them back again...

And again. And again, and again, and again...

And always, they will win.

 

Inspired by Kevin Carter’s photograph of “The Vulture And The Child”

 

LET GO

Searching for words in the waves that break

Sitting beside you

Holding your hand

I remember how it used to be

Back then when you didn’t let me run

Each time that I tried

Back then when you held me close

Each time that I cried

The pickles I loved

Now sour on my tongue as I chew

The world has shrunk

Shrivelled, somehow, along with you

I watch as you stare at the sea

Your face a blank

Your mind –

 

The salt stings my eyes

My heart aches and I wonder why

When you’re still here with me and there’s time

Time to walk hand in hand

Searching for shells in the warm golden sand

Mockingbird

Last night it was the electric iron. Tonight, it is the washing machine. You watch as he sets it on spin, and then listen to the screams that seem to echo from hell. Afterwards, you soothe the wounds as best you can. But the holes keep getting bigger. You work tirelessly, feverishly, sealing off one hole after the next, knowing you would give your life’s blood if you could but you only have ten fingers and they are not enough. Not nearly.

You recall the first night he kicked you down the stairs. You lay there, gasping like a beached whale, each breath slicing like a knife through your gut. Your distended belly blocked him from view as he screamed, whore, I will kill that devil’s child, and then he left you, lying there with the blood soaking through your jeans down to the beautiful cashmere carpet below.

The carpet’s been replaced and the staircase polished many times since, and you tread with care, afraid of slipping as you softly sing – 

 

Hush, little baby, don’t say a word

Papa’s gonna buy you a mockingbird…

 

The nights go on and the methods vary but the result is always the same. The Devil’s Child, they say He cannot be killed.

Tomorrow night, it will be the gas oven. And the night after, the television.

Heavy hearts and light pockets

In a darkened corner of the club he pushed her against the wall, kissed her. “You believe in love at first sight?”

“Yes,” she whispered. “Just not for me.”

Thank goodness he had left his wallet at home. His brand new iPhone was a different matter altogether.