19th may 2005

Time flows slowly, a river of stones.

He sits in purple on a palanquin, watching the birds fly through the court.

Chief of his village: chief of many villages. He looks out over flat roofs to flat country, which is his country. In the heat of the day the yard is empty. Red dust lies still; not even a dog. He waits in the shade of the fig tree that his ancestors planted, the first of men.
Now someone is coming, there are voices beyond the walls. A man appears, stands on the threshold of the court waiting admittance. He beckons and the messenger bows, comes forward and begins to speak.
Praise of his greatness, the greatness of his fathers. The beauty of his mothers. He waits.
Now the man speaks of his journey downriver, far into other lands. Where another king rules.
The chief leans forward; it was he who gave the messenger this commission.
The other king is building up his empire. With soldiers and ambassadors, he broadens out his territory. Takes tribute from a village here, a province there. He looks to found himself a dynasty, seeks fame and future riches, wants to rule the continent. And go beyond.
The chief sits back, relaxed. He smiles, relieved. He hands the messenger some coins; sends him to choose a sheep to take back to his family.
It is as he had hoped: his rival wastes his time in politics. A fool it is who spends his hours conducting intrigues and amassing wealth. Who stretches out the boundaries of his lands with foppish diplomats, with armoured men.

The afternoon is quiet, golden yellow. He drinks a little from a calabash, beneath the branches of the fig.

He sits in purple on a palanquin, watching the birds fly through the court.

Time flows slowly, a river of stones.

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