...a deathly serenade...

certain topics. Whilst I had no way of truly
discerning every aspect of what was said until
Mustapha would describe it to me, the sense of
community was clear to me. The passion also: a
man wearing a yellow sweater, who I later learnt
was a painter called Rafiq, was perhaps the main
culprit in his passion. He, after Bon introduced
topics, then started talking in French I could
understand, of the need for liberty with many
anti-Islamic undertones to his conversation. It was
quite enthralling, I kept musing. But this was
interrupted, as Rafiq spoke, when we heard loud
voices— It was Lucia screaming at Ahmed, who
then stormed out of the dining area through the
living room. I got up and walked into the kitchen
and saw her amongst the flamingos; she was
hysterically running around amongst the
flamingos screaming unintelligible words in a
chaotic manner that aroused a sensation in a
crowd that quickly grew. Like a spectacle in a
circus people just watched her chasing these
flamingos with her tits naked: bare, fleshy. I had
failed to reach her before she pulled down her
trousers, to then squat and defecate on the grass
next to the flamingos. I could hear Bon coaxing
his guests into the living room and telling them to
go on in embarrassment. From a certain angle the
flamingos were surrounding her as if to submerge
her into some sort of primal confliction, but from
another angel it looked like a performance Art
piece seen through a grainy VHS video—all
mayhem in slowed down motion...
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