[6:45pm]

I stand at the roadside as the florist wrapping up my flowers approaches me with bunch of lilies; I knew lily one day the ground welcomed father's noise when mother tucked it on his grave.

flowers are loyal chaperones that company our ghosts in the graveyards - let my hands kiss the flowers that pal my father from becoming an examen for loneliness.

at the roadside, I fold my arms across my chest like a black man in the face of winter. a highlife journeys into my ears from the barber shop - it reminds me of those days in a slum with my high school friends.

a sudden scary scene breaks into my eyes like a massive cloud behind God's territory: an assemblage of people running after a college student of about twenty. actually, I cannot tell. I just see people looking like people.

one person. two persons. three persons. every head forms a crowd around her body in order to murder their curiosities.

"hold her tight. she must die. no one curses the prophet. get that tire & the fuel, too. let's burn her dead." a hefty man from the vulcanizing shop says.

the mother cries for pardon as she sees the apple of her eyes rolling on the floor like a tumbled fruit from the shoulder of a careless tree.

who does she beg during this dark hour? the Lord who knows this day is coming into existence but doesn't halt? the prophet?

the man with a matchbox whose eye is a fire & ready to read her dead? the people who set their cameras to post new updates on the street of twitter?

                              [7:05pm]

the muhazeen's prayer saunters into my ears as they journey the fuel into her body & set her on fire. life flies in my throat, I cannot speak.