The car jerks forward. White buses screech to a grinding halt as the convoy moves. My driver crosses the lane and gets a loud shout. He is impatient but happy that he is driving. The gold coin shines and tells the story of fuel and me. I am impatient too for there is much to see.
The palace is white with lime coated paint. The city is now dark again not white like the palace. The palace is the home of the government – that body that propels the gold coin and me. Fuel may be found in the earth. There is speculation. Who will sell it and who will pay? Will I be full always or will I still need assurance from the body for that fuel may be for some and not for me.
The radio and the television blare news about the tidal wave. Water and the sea become dark like fuel – that manna, that glorious oil that calls me. People are dead and lost to the sea. Hope is dying but there are some stories of survival and glee. Reconstruction, rehabilitation, renewal – the body redeems the pledges that were made of new life to those who have lost their loves to the sea.
Deep in the earth is the fountain of fuel – that manna that becomes one with water. Is it fuel or water that the sea throws up? Water is for them but not for me. Fuel is for the gold coin and me but there is always need for water to sit and be. Gnashes on the body made by the force of the water and blood gushes out. The sea reclaims the land that was snatched from it.
I hear the news of people power and people wars. A war has come to an end in a distant land and a leader is elected in another. There is hope for democracy but is there hope for me? I hear more news – this time a man of God is indicted and punished for the world to see. It is an example of justice, justice for you and me.
The convoy ends in a dirt road. The gold coin is now hidden in the midst of houses and horns. The road is not ridden with tar but it caresses the gold coin and me. I yearn for fuel but I see that hunger begets hunger. Children are playing on the road. Laughter is beautiful for it begets more for them and me.
I laugh a throaty gurgle and it is replicated in the music that gushes on the radio - sounds of laughter and sounds of pain. I am hungry and it is a cry for fuel – that manna that seems like water but water it could never be. The driver is angry for the road has deserted him. He can no longer drive the gold coin for all to see.
We reach the tar road again. Now we are on familiar territory. My driver smiles and caresses the gold coin. But I am nervous for hunger is whining inside me. Half full and half empty – is that all I will ever be? The city churns with fuel as do the gold coin and me. The car reaches the garage but I will never reach fullness. I am always hungry for fuel – that manna which drives the city and me.
(PS. As a blogger, I am relying on the discretion of the readers for some compliments.)