How Does One Drink Soup with a Knife by Terveen Gill

I’m going to be sacrificed.

But that’s alright, I’ve been given four months to live anyway.

Might as well be of some use before that.

I’m hoping it’s not some stupid reason like appeasing a god or bringing copious rain.

Those excuses are so passe. Cliched. How about some originality?

Mummy always said – turn on that light bulb in your brain.

Mine went out years ago. Never bothered to change it.

Maybe that’s why I’m in this nasty situation.

I was minding my own business. Strolling about – enjoying a leisure walk through the jungle.

I was told it was safe.

Never trust a man who pairs a pink bow tie with khaki shorts. His words now seem ridiculous.

‘Oey! The jungle belongs to man. Not the animals. No? You go. Walk with cabbage.’

I think he meant courage.

So I – Mr. Stupid – stepped into a world that was neither mine nor the animals but supposedly belonged to the Uhutu, a tribe that lived in seclusion.

They abhorred trespassers. And before the afternoon sun had begun its descent, I had been taken captive.

More than fear, I was consumed by shame – they tied me up and tried to carry me, but my weight exceeded their expectations.

When their slim yet muscular shoulders gave in, they made me walk the rest of the way.

Their laughs and foreign jeers reddened my cheeks already flushed from the tortuous heat and never-ending stretch through thick underbrush.

Upon entering their village, I was thrown in a small pond of water, and scrubbed with leafy branches.

I can’t lie. It felt good, rekindled my withering spirit.

They then wrapped me in a thin, airy gauze that was smeared with an aromatic paste of herbs and spices that made my mouth water.

As I sit in the shade contemplating their purpose, a huge pot has been placed upon a fire. They are filling it with vegetables and water.

Some soup for their sacrificial lamb? Oh goody!

Who wants to die hungry? Not me.

Two men poke me with their sticks and make me get up.

They lead me to the pot, and we stop at its edge.

Rude hands pat my thighs and rub my belly. They sniff me like I’m a dog’s dinner.

I ask for a bowl, but they show me their knives.

They must be joking.

How does one drink soup with a knife?

Anuncio publicitario