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COLORS by issac melchisedek

You have no intention of denying it. Your neighbours are disgusted at you; you, too, are disgusted at them. You both claim the constitution is to blame.
The usual evening breeze that’s blowing shows that the time is around 6:30pm. Your lover is on his way. He will come with all the ingredients needed to cook your desire, and make your neighbours disgusted the more. But you smell of worries and anticipations. Last night, you dreamt that you had a dream where someone tipped off the police about the absurdities committed in your room, and wakes up to find yourself in jail.
As you spread your bed and tidy up your room, you think of running away, far away to a land where there is no government. Although you did not believe such a place exist. You remember arguing with one of your lecturers back in the university, Prof. Dauda. He has told the class that more than 15% of humans living in your country have no link with the outside world. You had planned to agree with the class for the first time that day, but you could not agree on that matter. It is not your fault; it is in your blood. The professor had called you to his office; and gave you the talking of your life. He had baptised you with grammars and histories, but you had thought that you did not care and left his office with an attitude of a born-again police offered the national cake. He noticed your stubbornness, and failed you twice; two years passed and you wrote an article for the campus magazine on Fifteen Undiscovered Ethnic Groups That Thinks They Are Alone: A Critical Study into the Ghanaian Hinterlands.
That day was the most enlightening day of your life. He invited you to his library and gave you some beautiful books to study. You loved those books and he invited you again. The next week –you think you enjoyed his company. Five months later, you’ve become the Prof’s boy. His countenance has risen to the level of a supernatural. There are times you would mistaken him for a god; you, for the first time, noticed the grace and elegance with which he walked and talked. He soon became your everything. And over the course of a year, you discovered that he never lie. He has no such luxury. But, that was in the past, when you were surrounded with real people, and not some lower species of Homo sapiens that your neighbours are.
You are sitting on your blue plastic chair after cleaning the room and examining one of the books you just bought, the book smells nice. Its cover has virtually all the colours that interest you. You have no intention of reading it. Professor has told you to rely on your brain for knowledge and not on books. He has leaked the secret to you and others in his small ‘Club of the Enlightened’ - how knowledge is actually gained. “The brain is a powerful bank,” you remember how he has said it, word for word the day he was eating tangerine in his study with you and a few others. “If you want to learn something new you just have to discover what works for you. Medicate, my friend; meditation is the key to unleashing the genius in you. But to do that, you will need the power of colours. Absorb it and let it guide your imagination.”
You had met him several times in his library, meditating or observing books. He has taught you all the secrets and you have grown to detest the government and their agendas.
Some ignorant graduate of Psychology wrote the book you are holding. You will pretend to be observing it when your lover comes. You have been teaching him the things you learnt from the Professor, but today, you’re feeling too horny to study.
It’s going to be like one of the time I’d spent at the Professor’s place, you said to yourself, perhaps we will use the styles the Professor and I do use – you seal your conclusion with a smile that resembles that of your old man. You walk around your tiny room nervously and finally have a chance to appreciate the new painting on your room’s wall. You love it and feels the poetry in its colours:
Red is love,
Blue is pure,
White is sure.
You cook the wording in your head without the intention of awaking the Shakespeare in you. And, it happens that you start to feel uneasy. You check your Aba-made Gucci wristwatch and see the small hand of the watch landing on eight. You panic – your lover is an hour and a half late!
Someone knocks your mahogany door, someone impatient. You rush to the door with the hope of seeing the one person you’ve been dying to see all day, you allow the word ‘alhamdulilah’ to crawl out of your mouth, like it’s a pest in a tidy room. Matt’s eyes meet yours with fear. Behind him are two figures in black uniform, a masculine voice sounds like the Cherubic trumpet; it must belong to either of the two strangers. “Young man, you are under arrest for practising homosexuality. Anything you say now may be use against you in the court of law.”
You shiver, slapping your hands on your broad dark face, and seeing your neighbours behind the officers all the same.

Isaac alesh Melchizedek is an aspiring writer of poetry and short story. Some of his works are online on Brittle Paper, Tuck Magazine, Ink Fifteen, Sevhage Reviews, among others. He tweets using the handle @IM_alesh


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