Freedom
It was in Niassa: a poor province in the African City of Mozambique. Heavily, the golden sun cast its rays upon the land like a harsh glare from an elder. The air, stifling, seemed to carry perspiration from the villagers high into the cloudless azure sky. People hurried through the village carrying colossal containers of water from the stream fifteen miles away.
Some wore vividly-coloured fabrics, others wore plain earthly-coloured clothing; the children did not even wear t-shirts, only dark shorts evidently coated in mud. Down one street, in a trading market, two African men were arguing with stall keeper. It seemed that they had not received enough change in return for the bananas they had purchased. One of the men spoke in a gruff manner, leaning over the fruit to grab the trader by the neck of his gown. With his huge hand he indicated the money he should have been paid. The other man had a calming smile, speaking to his companion in a
rational tone to allow for some reasoning. “I pay you 20! You give me 8! No, no. I need 18!” he thundered demanding a recount. His friend placed a palm on his back, pleading with him to move on. The man refused, getting more irked.
Aysha stared, intrigued at this particular scene. Dressed in her rags, she did not look dissimilar to an orphaned ‘street child’. Her shorts where torn in several places and the elastic waistband had begun to unfurl, making them rather uncomfortable. The child had no shoes. Her parents could not provide such a desired luxury.
Her bare brown feet made patterns on the warm gravelled ground. Her toes tightly curled, prodded minute rocks and stones as she sat on the wooden steps of her house. The residents of Niassa lived in a close-knit community: houses, stalls, animal enclosures and crop fields all merged together to form a unique African world; isolated from the rest of Mozambique. Aysha’s own home happened to be situated beside the merchant’s stalls hence she was able to pass her time analysing the selling techniques of the people desperate to make a profit in order to feed their abundant, extended families. “Aysha!” her poorly mother called from behind the doorway.
“Aysha! You must go to the little stream in the next village and collect drinking water. Take your brothers – I need rest. Your Papa will be home after sunset.”
The child arose. In her six years of life, she had been given many responsibilities, including the daily water-fetching chore: a task which took several painful hours. Not only did her legs ache from the distance but also her bare feet burned due to the sun’s influence on the baking hot dusty tracks.
She entered her drab house, which consisted of one room. Here, her mother lay in the far left corner, with her to Aysha, on a mound of blankets and clothes. The
adjacent corner had a small, round table with two rocking chairs. A melancholy, hand-crafted clock was propped on the table with support from the crumbling wall; the family had not discarded it although both the second and minute hand had broken off. Gloom enveloped the household like a deadly cancer.
“Yes Mama, of course” Aysha replied subserviently.
She then beckoned to her two younger siblings to follow her out. Eden, 5, and Babajide, 3, responded with respect to their mother’s request and traipsed out of their house behind Aysha.
For a moment, the girl paused. She lifted her head whilst casting her mahogany eyes into the distance where the sun already making its journey from the epicentre of the sky to the horizon in the West. Aysha appeared dazed; almost lost. A panicked wail from her brother brought the child to her senses.
“Sha … Sha”, Babajide could not pronounce his sister’s full name, hence he called her by her last syllable,“Sha … me no like!”
He pointed to the ground, ten feet away, where a read coral snake lay in wait. Its gleaming narrow slits of eye’s locked with Aysha’s and they stood staring at each other as though about to duel.
“No, Babajide. Come” his sister held out her dark palm.
Eden took her other hand and together the three poverty-stricken children set off with large buckets to carry the water back to their unwell mother. The journey would take them well into the night – which was particularly dangerous as many creatures were venomous in this region of Africa. In the blistering heat, Aysha released her sweating palms from her brothers’ to wipe the dampness onto the legs of her shorts. Then, they walked and walked and walked - not stopping once. They walked directly out of the village and out into the barren lands where a plethora of crops had withered from years of drought. They walked past countless horrific sights including a young malnourished child, along and clearly in the final stages of life, and numerous corpses of cattle which had most likely starved to death due to a continuous lack of food.
After three lingering hours, the children had finally come to the stream of drinking water, or “Blue Goodness”as many religious villagers had named it. Both brothers ran over to the surprisingly cool water and bending over, cupped their tiny hands within the water and drank. Aysha followed behind but did not drink; there was little time to return before sunset. With a strength she never known had existed, the forlorn girl began to scoop water into the dirty containers she had brought along. Her two brothers frolicked excitedly in the stream, glad to be in direct contact with fresh water. As the bronze sun set low in the now darkening sky, birds flew overhead.
Aysha hesitated and glanced to the heavens above. It was getting late. A foreboding ambience hung over the African sky line like a sheet of cling film.
Babajide and Eden were silent. Aysha relieved to have some peace and quietly, continued to gently ease the cool water into the huge buckets her mother had provided. With her back to her siblings, she softly hummed a saddening melody, which her mother had sung to her years ago, in the hot nights of the summer months. It was soothing to have such a familiar …
“Aysha! Help! Babajide is getting away!” Eden cried in an instant, pointing to his younger brother who had been caught up in the current of the stream.
He pulled the girl’s arm roughly in frenzy of fear. Adrenaline simultaneously pumped into both the children’s veins, leaving them short of breath. The girl yelled a deafening roar as she watched her baby brother being dragged under the water by the relentless current. Panic washed over her; flooding her thoughts with a monsoon of mixed emotions. Hurried, she sprinted over to where Babajide struggled for air, and screamed at him.
“Baba … Give me your hand! Baba! Please” tears rolled down her dirt stained cheeks.
Her younger brother made terrifying noises. He thrashed and kicked and rebelled. Aysha desperately pleaded with him to give her his hand. She leaned over the
edge of the bank, careful not to put herself in danger and extended her emaciated limbs as far as humanly possible.
Eden stood behind his sister, grimacing in shock at his abominable scene. He started at his brother, knowing that he belonged to the river now. Mother Nature had ascertained this child’s fate. There was little time.
“Please! Babajide, you can do it!” Aysha called helplessly at the child.
Only his hair was visible now. Most definitely, the stream had asphyxiated him.
“NO! NO! NOOOO!”
Aysha broke down cursing at the water’s machiavellian behaviour. Her brother had gone. His body, lifeless travelled along the current and downstream out of sight.
By now, the once gleaming sun had sunk deep into the endless horizon and had transformed into a scarlet ball of light. The air was still. The only sound was that of
the rushing water at the girl’s bare feet. Aysha hung her head to the rocky ground and wept silently. Eden too her hand and disregarding the containers led her back home. Long and even more emotionally painful was the journey back. They walked noiselessly, hand in hand. Aysha knew she must tell her Mama. But she was overcome with waves of nausea. Her brain had switched down in an automatic and robotic manner.
After four and a quarter hours, Aysha and Eden walked up to the stairs of the house, filled with a sickening dread. The girl put her hand on the door, foot in the house, felt the walls for guidance in the dark, walked over to her mother, knelt down and shook her.
“Ugh? Aysha, what you doing? You know I’m poorly. My throat,” she indicated to her neck – “my throat is dry … I need water … where is my son? My baby?”
“Mama, you must understand that I…” Eden broke in with a quavering in his voice. “Mama, it was nobody’s fault. Mama, it was an accident …I swear Mama … I”
“Where is Babajide?! Eden? Answer me!” She began to sound worried.
“Mama, Babajide got taken down the river. It was an accident though Mama. We were …” Aysha’s voice trailed off as she saw her mother’s face completely crumple with misery.
The girl heaved a sigh of defeat.
“My son? My son is with God?”
Aysha paused, looking deep into her mother’s woeful eyes and nodded slightly.
“No!” Her mother cried.
She stood up in her sequenced gown and paced the room impatiently. Quite clearly distraught, the girl attempted to console her mother and went over to her.
“Mama, I could …”
“No. Get out Aysha! I say get out! You lack of responsibility. How dare you allow Babajide to die?! How dare you! Get out! Now!”
Aysha, shocked, showed no sign of emotions. She left the house with a sombre face and staggered down the wooden stairs.
Where would she go? The sun had completely disappeared; night had fallen with various bird calls in the trees nearby. She had been banished. Banished by her own mother – her own flesh and blood. Traumatised, the frightened six year old retraced her steps to the stream, going into the unexplored African wilderness.
Twit-whooo!
Owls hooted in the dark void like unknown creatures found in nightmares. Aysha stumbled on nonchalantly.
She came to the field she had previously walked past with Eden and Babajide and stopped. The malnourished child in the abandoned crop field lay there still; after all these hours. Carefully, Aysha made her way over to the child – a little boy no older than her youngest brother. He lay on his back clutching his bloated stomach in desperation. Obviously he had not eaten in days. A tide of pity rose in her stomach. She sat down beside him, staring at his fragile body and wept. Aysha lowered herself into the dry, yellow grass beside the ‘street child’ and ever so gently placed an arm around him. The body did not even stir. Poignantly, Aysha started to hum the calming tune of the nursery rhyme again – this time with a deep sadness. She closed her eyes and fell asleep under the African stars, which twinkled like diamonds in the blackness. Somewhere in heaven, Babajide looked down on his sister and smiled lovingly.
New York
It is summer again in the city. Office windows gleam and men in suits lie back in lonely parks and think of money. Bottle-green is the colour of the grass, which has a sharp yet sweetly fragranced scent. Butterflies hover in the midst of a clump of geraniums and playfully circle the soft pink petals. The wind whispers through the willow trees as if Mother Nature was breathing a sparkle of energy into her creation. Although lonely, the park is also a sanctuary for businessmen as it leaves them feeling rejuvenated when they go back to work. Sunlight seeps through the clouds like water oozing from a sponge. Businessmen bathe in the sun’s glory during their hard-earned lunch break and reminisce about their beloved law firms’ profits. The park, which is rightly named “Heavenly Gardens”, is so serene and beautiful that it could easily be mistaken for the Garden of Eden. Fully blossomed cherry trees stand proudly at the four corners of the park, soaking up the sun while swaying calmly in the gentle summer breeze. Honeysuckles creep over the park benches, entwining themselves around rose bushes - creating what looks like a new species of plant. Everywhere is tranquil as the park’s lazy atmosphere is maintained by the heat from the sun.
However, in the razzmatazz that is the heart of the city, the ambience could not be anymore different. Mammoth skyscrapers tower over the banks and businesses as if they felt themselves to be superior. A vast army of men – all attired in smart black suits – strode down the streets showing no emotion on their faces. They all carried a dark briefcase which lacked in design. These men were extreme conformists with their crisp shirts; expensive yet plain ties; freshly laundered suit jackets and trousers pressed to perfection. Basic, boring, grey tarmac covered the busy streets. Minimalism was a must in the city – shops had no signs up on their doors; their windows immaculate. Every business had glass doors that revolved every so often and even the bins in the street were empty. Men appeared to makeup the majority of the population but scattered sparsely amongst them were some women. They too were pragmatic and emotionless creatures yet they all had a hint of individuality unlike the men. Some wore vibrant eye-catching dresses while other wore black suits with red shoes; some wore a pearl necklace while other just wore an elegant pendant; some wore chiffon scarves while other had silk ones but despite their differences they all had
one thing in common: they were chic and sophisticated. These highly ‘upper-class’ optimists only shopped in the most expensive and cleanest of stores. Not like the summer market in the alleyways of the bustling streets.
This was where the real living began. Rows upon rows of stalls and tables overflowing with useless junk: a broken action man doll, two pairs of nauseatingly yellow
socks, chipped floral teacups and a shabby cluster of brown velvet curtains that had been popular in the ‘40s. Passersby glanced at such items with a look of
disinterest while trying to ignore the desperate pleas of the stall owners. The sun beat down on the weary con-artists making their job rather tiring. Strong smells of lentil soup floated through the hazy air, mixing together in smog of pollution. Many of the food stalls in the market held a curiosity about them as people tried to guess what was cooking on particular days. Another was a BBQ stall that cooked anything from BBQ chicken to BBQ potatoes, the smell of which lingered in the air until dusk. Elegance and appearance were not priorities in these parts of the city. It was almost as if two different civilizations existed together in harmony.
Back in the ‘Heavenly Gardens’ all was still, serene and silent. So silent in fact that the fluttering of a butterfly’s wing could almost be heard. The mysteriously sombre businessmen stretched out in the fluffy delicate grass and smiled as it tickled their moustaches. Some were strolling in a cool passing zephyr and nodding in acknowledgment in a genteel manner. The park was almost twinkling with ecstasy, producing a magical atmosphere that reflected in the trees and flowerbeds. Little bluebirds chirruped melodiously in the safety of the Willow trees, singing tunes sweeter than a young child’s laugh. As the sun becomes weaker, and the sky begins to darken, the businessmen stand upright, abruptly shaking off any traces of fresh grass then become stony faced and rejoin the crowd once more.
However, in the razzmatazz that is the heart of the city, the ambience could not be anymore different. Mammoth skyscrapers tower over the banks and businesses as if they felt themselves to be superior. A vast army of men – all attired in smart black suits – strode down the streets showing no emotion on their faces. They all carried a dark briefcase which lacked in design. These men were extreme conformists with their crisp shirts; expensive yet plain ties; freshly laundered suit jackets and trousers pressed to perfection. Basic, boring, grey tarmac covered the busy streets. Minimalism was a must in the city – shops had no signs up on their doors; their windows immaculate. Every business had glass doors that revolved every so often and even the bins in the street were empty. Men appeared to makeup the majority of the population but scattered sparsely amongst them were some women. They too were pragmatic and emotionless creatures yet they all had a hint of individuality unlike the men. Some wore vibrant eye-catching dresses while other wore black suits with red shoes; some wore a pearl necklace while other just wore an elegant pendant; some wore chiffon scarves while other had silk ones but despite their differences they all had
one thing in common: they were chic and sophisticated. These highly ‘upper-class’ optimists only shopped in the most expensive and cleanest of stores. Not like the summer market in the alleyways of the bustling streets.
This was where the real living began. Rows upon rows of stalls and tables overflowing with useless junk: a broken action man doll, two pairs of nauseatingly yellow
socks, chipped floral teacups and a shabby cluster of brown velvet curtains that had been popular in the ‘40s. Passersby glanced at such items with a look of
disinterest while trying to ignore the desperate pleas of the stall owners. The sun beat down on the weary con-artists making their job rather tiring. Strong smells of lentil soup floated through the hazy air, mixing together in smog of pollution. Many of the food stalls in the market held a curiosity about them as people tried to guess what was cooking on particular days. Another was a BBQ stall that cooked anything from BBQ chicken to BBQ potatoes, the smell of which lingered in the air until dusk. Elegance and appearance were not priorities in these parts of the city. It was almost as if two different civilizations existed together in harmony.
Back in the ‘Heavenly Gardens’ all was still, serene and silent. So silent in fact that the fluttering of a butterfly’s wing could almost be heard. The mysteriously sombre businessmen stretched out in the fluffy delicate grass and smiled as it tickled their moustaches. Some were strolling in a cool passing zephyr and nodding in acknowledgment in a genteel manner. The park was almost twinkling with ecstasy, producing a magical atmosphere that reflected in the trees and flowerbeds. Little bluebirds chirruped melodiously in the safety of the Willow trees, singing tunes sweeter than a young child’s laugh. As the sun becomes weaker, and the sky begins to darken, the businessmen stand upright, abruptly shaking off any traces of fresh grass then become stony faced and rejoin the crowd once more.
West End of Glasgow - Description
On top of the tallest slope in the West End of Glasgow lies an elaborate building. It is nestled in the midst of a cluster of Cherry Blossom trees which sway calmly in the gentle summer wind. Clouds float lazily in the blue sky, without a care in
the world, while finches tweet overhead. The building is at the end of a crescent-shaped street but it does not draw attention to itself because it is only one of the many architecturally identical structures. They are all beautiful and exquisite white-washed buildings which just ooze luxury and elegance.
It is not just these that are sophisticated; the passersby look as if they belong in a Vogue magazine. The women are smartly attired in crisp shirts, freshly laundered pencil skirts, black patent heels and chic leather bags. Every time one of them passes, a delicate aroma of lemon or pomegranate hovers in the air for the next passerby to admire. As for the men, well, they wear pressed grey suits with a matching un-patterned tie and take vast strides as they point their noses slightly up to the sky.
Everything on this civilized crescent appears to be of the finest quality; from the poise parking meters to the artificial poppies hanging in wicker baskets at the top of the buildings’ doorway. At the heart of the crescent is an enchanting park (hence the name Park Circus) which is surrounded by an army of maple and fir trees. In the summer this magical garden could bring a tear to a glass eye with its beauty but in the winter, Park Circus looks even more stunning as the fresh white snow glistens on the branches of the trees creating Glasgow’s very own Lapland.
The building looks over the glorious green garden as if it is a king surveying his kingdom. It has two chalk white pillars, supporting the ledge above the glossy
black door, almost indistinguishable to the pillars that once held up Greek temples. This establishment was once a house built in the Edwardian period but it has now been transformed into a library. Nevertheless, it is not just any old library: it is a half-French, half-German library that offers language courses to the wealthy. This spectacular place is known as Das Goethe-Institut.
As soon as the mammoth door - complete with a brass knocker in the shape of a lion’s head – swings open a strong smell of coffee beans greets the visitor. The first sight they will se is a peculiar one. It is a merge of an extremely posh lady’s abode and a classy 1920s style office. A reception desk lies to the left of the foyer while an antiquated coat stand with legs is opposite. Gleaming brightly behind the coat stand is an awe-inspiring mirror with a lavishly decorated gold frame. Directly ahead is a proud staircase which is so wide that four people standing shoulder-to-shoulder could comfortably ascend.
The interior of this magnificent building is exactly as one would imagine it to be from the outside. Another set of stairs is present in the foyer but instead of
leading to the second floor it actually leads to the basement, which is the library itself; it is down here where the German and French culture comes alive. Newly furbished, the Goethe-Institut’s library has a thoroughly modern vibe. Thick, plush cushioned sofas are sprawled in one corner of the library to accommodate the avid readers who stay for at least three cups of coffee. Rows upon rows of colourful books are stacked high in shelves at the far end of the basement; starting with books for the first-time learners and ending at the thick heavy bound novels for competent readers. A whole bookcase is dedicated to German dictionaries, from ‘My First Dictionary’ (Mein erste Worterbuch) to the reference only dictionaries (Nachschlagewerk.)
The people who arrive here are most unlike the sophisticated passersby outside: the woman have cropped hair whilst the men grow theirs to shoulder length. Sometimes a middle-aged woman will be browsing the shelves while wearing multi-coloured trousers, a mustard yellow jumper and a ridiculous neon blue beret. Young children stay close to their mothers, gibbering away in Polish or German, as they greedily eye the colourful children’s books which are too high to reach. Teenage
boys carry sullen looks as they wander down the isles with their earphones blasting German heavy metals bands such as ‘Die Toten Hosen’ – which actually translates into ‘The Dead Trousers.’
Despite the grand infrastructure, the Goethe-Institut is actually just an average establishment where its visitors can settle down with an interesting book and a
cappuccino and be themselves; free from the danger of the prejudicial comments that the twenty-first century carelessly hands out.
the world, while finches tweet overhead. The building is at the end of a crescent-shaped street but it does not draw attention to itself because it is only one of the many architecturally identical structures. They are all beautiful and exquisite white-washed buildings which just ooze luxury and elegance.
It is not just these that are sophisticated; the passersby look as if they belong in a Vogue magazine. The women are smartly attired in crisp shirts, freshly laundered pencil skirts, black patent heels and chic leather bags. Every time one of them passes, a delicate aroma of lemon or pomegranate hovers in the air for the next passerby to admire. As for the men, well, they wear pressed grey suits with a matching un-patterned tie and take vast strides as they point their noses slightly up to the sky.
Everything on this civilized crescent appears to be of the finest quality; from the poise parking meters to the artificial poppies hanging in wicker baskets at the top of the buildings’ doorway. At the heart of the crescent is an enchanting park (hence the name Park Circus) which is surrounded by an army of maple and fir trees. In the summer this magical garden could bring a tear to a glass eye with its beauty but in the winter, Park Circus looks even more stunning as the fresh white snow glistens on the branches of the trees creating Glasgow’s very own Lapland.
The building looks over the glorious green garden as if it is a king surveying his kingdom. It has two chalk white pillars, supporting the ledge above the glossy
black door, almost indistinguishable to the pillars that once held up Greek temples. This establishment was once a house built in the Edwardian period but it has now been transformed into a library. Nevertheless, it is not just any old library: it is a half-French, half-German library that offers language courses to the wealthy. This spectacular place is known as Das Goethe-Institut.
As soon as the mammoth door - complete with a brass knocker in the shape of a lion’s head – swings open a strong smell of coffee beans greets the visitor. The first sight they will se is a peculiar one. It is a merge of an extremely posh lady’s abode and a classy 1920s style office. A reception desk lies to the left of the foyer while an antiquated coat stand with legs is opposite. Gleaming brightly behind the coat stand is an awe-inspiring mirror with a lavishly decorated gold frame. Directly ahead is a proud staircase which is so wide that four people standing shoulder-to-shoulder could comfortably ascend.
The interior of this magnificent building is exactly as one would imagine it to be from the outside. Another set of stairs is present in the foyer but instead of
leading to the second floor it actually leads to the basement, which is the library itself; it is down here where the German and French culture comes alive. Newly furbished, the Goethe-Institut’s library has a thoroughly modern vibe. Thick, plush cushioned sofas are sprawled in one corner of the library to accommodate the avid readers who stay for at least three cups of coffee. Rows upon rows of colourful books are stacked high in shelves at the far end of the basement; starting with books for the first-time learners and ending at the thick heavy bound novels for competent readers. A whole bookcase is dedicated to German dictionaries, from ‘My First Dictionary’ (Mein erste Worterbuch) to the reference only dictionaries (Nachschlagewerk.)
The people who arrive here are most unlike the sophisticated passersby outside: the woman have cropped hair whilst the men grow theirs to shoulder length. Sometimes a middle-aged woman will be browsing the shelves while wearing multi-coloured trousers, a mustard yellow jumper and a ridiculous neon blue beret. Young children stay close to their mothers, gibbering away in Polish or German, as they greedily eye the colourful children’s books which are too high to reach. Teenage
boys carry sullen looks as they wander down the isles with their earphones blasting German heavy metals bands such as ‘Die Toten Hosen’ – which actually translates into ‘The Dead Trousers.’
Despite the grand infrastructure, the Goethe-Institut is actually just an average establishment where its visitors can settle down with an interesting book and a
cappuccino and be themselves; free from the danger of the prejudicial comments that the twenty-first century carelessly hands out.