African Empire

"What do you want to be when you grow up?," the teacher asked, leaning back into his almost rotten, broken black chair in which he always sat carefully, supported by the deteriorating, dirty classroom walls. His voice could be heard by anyone who could pass near by his classroom. All students were attentive and eager to hear the response from this slim, miserable and unhealthy Hakuzari. Few students from his village knew that both his parents had died after succumbing to the ravages of unknown terrible disease, which children were not allowed to mention except the elders. His father was the first to die, followed by his mother few months later, leaving Hakuzari in the guidance of his very old maternal grandmother. He loved his grandmother. She had been everything he had. Every day, early in the morning, she cooked corn porridge for him." Children of these days are too much fragile like eggs, that’s why they like eating eggs and bread at breakfast. Eat porridge,...

As I let my fingers slithering around each goose bump of your firm, succulent breasts, I feel like the bed we are lying on is on top of unbearable ice, letting my body going numb, feeling absolutely nothing from this violent and cruel outer world. Your glittering watery soft lips melt like mysterious, unfinishable chocolate bars in my mouth. The tantalizing smell of your cozy, scintillating dark black hair makes me to forget all terrestrial troubles, I have each day. My humble body trembles convulsively from unexplainable pleasure when you whisper slowly and silently in my ears that you love me. I am not such forgetful of not remembering the strength of your dovelike eyes, small, blackened and whitened, which let all the truth out of me whenever I think of lying to you. Your hairy beautiful and incomparable legs of chocolate-like nature make my tongue dry that it needs rescue of juice-like water which flows down provocatively and slowly from between your African bow sh...

As the sun’s irradiation permeates the little Tchakalala’s oily, sudoriferous dark skin, his pallid cracked hard lips were slightly opened, to help his breath from the overcrowded multitude. The weary, brown t- shirt he wore was bigger than his small, malnourished body. No one could ever agree with the fact that the t- shirt had been pure white once, the day his uncle Tongi received it as a governmental special gift, after he had restlessly participated in the previous presidential elections campaign. Tchakalala could feel the insufferable heat from the uneven, rocky ground, perforating tardily through his filthy granitic cracked barefooted heels. He had waited with the crowd since morning and now was noon, clapping hands, singing and cheering up to the eloquence of the governor’s words, he could hardly decipher. This was another first day of presidential campaign in his village. The only words, he gasped and cheered at the most, were the ones the governor ha...