The goddess, her priest & the white Men (by holykruzz)

Aiit! Seat grabbed

I don arive

Anoda tori don arrive

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@Coolval222-2 @Tenniebenson @Khola46 @Wiseman @Ibrams @Johnysky @Pizzaro @Swtharyomi @Wyse-one @Eddy @Delight @Pweety @Mray @Jummybabe @Babe4biola @Sofia @Ritagold @Kuks @Originalannchilexdel @Fridex @Frank @Frankkay @Simzy @Pheranmmie041 @Temmyjoy @Chriswayne @Evanz @Itzshaxee @Mecuze @Skookum @Kingson1 @Donmikie @Kingsbest @T- Dak @Charlywizzy @Charliebryn @Hardeywummy @Japhola @Konphido @Emmyrexx @Adura @Tholartee @Nextangel @Blessedgirl @Ebube @Jenifa @Jclash @Taiwo @Chomyline @Lawman @Tinagabe @Christiana @Itmrabzeez @Johnoscar @Precy @Timmy @Dabcy @Ikeholuwa1 @Besty @Starlet @Okklad @Angeleniola @Ewomazeal @Mizleemah @Blessfelicity222 @Anitcham @Stephanie @Lollybabe1 @Dahcutebae @Rhennyjay @Geeadore @Tiffany1 @Tonia @Hameyeenat @Inemlove @Promzy @Mohjisolah @Jencute @Jenny @Doublewealth @John451 @Kniphemi @Vibratingwind @Emmanesth @Horpheyehmy @Valking1 @Pweety @Kpumpy @Justify @Maurice @Jummy @Thankmic @Christopher @Anita @Phinebraim @Kedike @Kemkit @Gracy @Saintkenz @December12 @Promise @Sylvia @Bsam @Portable @Steph @Aarti @Olaking3 @Harddy @Blakstudd @Prince @Invincible @Mhzzrblayse @Azeeco @Temmymofrosh @Sandra @Sandy @Kaysmart22 @Cherryserah @Sexynikky1994 @Youngestprince @Davick @Semilore @Oyindamola @Dhemilade1 @Mature @Pearl @Roes @Franklin @Kolababs @Hollar @Smilie @Borwerleh @Iksqueency @Loveth @Funmilayo1 @Okklad @Nizzy @Flames @Vict-Vames @Peace @Sirp081 @Kristen @Kingsengine @Aaron @Tony @Ruth @Romancelord @Itzshaxee @Olamy4fun @Abrahamdking @Flamerouz @Crusher @Stanny39 @John @Softtouch @Onahsunday631 @Jeddy @Sonshine @Sirgentle @Vizkid @Hoelhay @Pharm-vickymears @Teesolid @Omoyemmy @Olarach @Daxking @Krizzy @Softie @Holarbordah @Ele @Firstladyontop @Obaby @Sergentmax @Mhizdaofot @Ariketemmy @Saraya @Eminem @Laurasteve299 @Gambola @Monadisu @Dazzlingangel @Donyas @C- Roderick @Cookey @Isabella1 @Chisomsophia @Mrfabulous @Henry @Mhizzthessy @Millz @Bishops10 @Kreepyink @Olaniyiadeshina @Gracedkyenny @Hardeyhorlar9 @Holaryinkhar @Inemeka @Abevica @Individual @Olami @Beryl @Youngfellow @Humblelion @Natasha9976 @Hartuny @Emergencia @Paula4eva @GiftGodiva @Divatimmy @Finestberyl @Sapiens @Ahmad @Ele1 @Ferdinard @Festoza006 @Sharpzender @Uncleba426 @Paje @Jenny123 @Pemamezi @Detector @Pweetyfizzy @Willingyung @Napster @Greg-billz @Valentinelv @Hayanfeoluwa @Teju1 @Dgreat @Prestigiousfirstlady @Petersandra121 @Jenny1 @Bryten50 @Fallancy @Rosey @Jimmyjab @Oluwanifemi @Arosunshine @Heartbrokekid @Thosiano @Peterox @Iamsmv @Adegunle3gmail- com @Sparkling-2 @Hoyenikky @Maurice @Lizzytee @Zephyr @Mhizterdimex @Ladywen @Holarmidey @Scriptures @Lollycobra @Hardey1292 @Adeblow23 @Slimolayinkastar @Damzybabe @Adeshewa @Softel @Nifemi @Abradek @Beauty74 @Cizzle @Omolarami @Nazysophy1 @Yemitefestus @Omoniyiola @Inifek @Coolbaby @Nheemot @Deejaygrin @Hitiswell @Fynboy @Sirmike @Aminzy @Vicoch @Sunnyklin20Yahoo- com @Psam @Oshio @Shikoleen @Queencoded @Kimmy @Ifeoma1 @Nobleay @Felixharuna11 @Ibktemi99 @Hayzedefoe @Chidex14 @Classy @Omodemilade59 @Rufus @Ladygrasha @Ennylincoln @Kingz1 @Starlord1 @Noskid @Kodedreal @Petermikel @Frankymario @Olatunjitobi @Pweetylizzyqueen @Olutcoded @Sayrah @Tomtim @Missdammy @Latienco @Bimrach @Mubarak @Mubavak @Adeolaajala1234 @Olalekana69 @Dbest @Skulboy @Beautyqueen @Naomacjoyous @Onyinyessica @Drumsaint @Debbi2nice @Jamesgentility @Megatron @Okiripoto02gmail-com @Rahzycute1 @Hangellah46 @Deltavictory @Kay2ty7 @Praisee @Josephjuliet @Xtopher @Richymore @Temmy744 @Mrmorie @Abosmart @Adfaustina595gmail-com @Adetolaadejoke @Whizjay @Anthcunny @Freeday @Ninny @Abasienyene @Henryjay @Horgzy @Abosmart @Omodemilade59 @Judith @Mercykris @Superstar4real @Sanctus4real @Bolaji2308 @Damzybabe @Profeze1 @Horlarjuwhon @Illusion002 @Royzeray @Oluwatosin @Chinenye5404 @Dharmex @Inifek @Pattiejoe7gmail-com @Opinxymenumento @Bobbidi- boo @Gooddysmart3 @Elijezy @Drumsaint @Oshio @Musterfi @Khaleedwr @Addieola @Chinedueze @Praise22 @Mdsodeeq @Sirjerro @Masterbill @Emileagosu @Kabazi95 @Daintyshewa @Klaussimbo @Peoray @Samnolimit @Babswalexyttyahoo-com @Shania55 @Conspiracy @chidex14 @victoriouschild @slimolayinkastar @cassiewells @Everybody come oo

Present @Mray

Waiting

Tanx @mray...am here so bring it on

Ride on

Ep.1 In the summer of 1930, Mr. Douglas Hurst, an anthropologist studying the lives of delta people that inhabit the shores of Ozigono River, made an unusual discovery in one of the fishing creeks. Mr. Hurst was a short and fully rounded middle-aged man who wore an explorer’s metal hat that looked like a reversed aluminum cooking pot. He prowled Ozigono River bank in search of strange things, humans or sometimes plants to fill his anthropological spiral-bound notebooks. He arrived the shore of Ozigono village, which informers had told him had people who wore nothing. His canoe slowly glided to the southern bank of the river where he later pitched a tent with his assistance, Ahwinahwi. Mr. Hurst could not stop his perspiration though the river had some level of coolness. He kept taking swig after swig from his clothed water bottle. As soon as Ahwinahwi pulled the canoe close enough to the wet banks, he clambered out like a water buffalo onto the grassy savannah and plucked some greens that had not been trampled by fishermen. He held the greens close to his aquiline nose, inhaled deeply and looked up at the sky with a smirk on his large red-tanned face. He pulled out a note pad from his knapsack and scrawled in his sleepy calligraphy: Anubias nana, strange spicy smelling special specy specie. He smiled and tucked away the note pad. Since he was not looking for flowery plants but peculiar Homosapiens, he did not notice the tropical lily day blooming on his right side, begging for recognition as it was narrowly missed by his heavy rain-boots. From a distance Ozigono fishermen, returning from their late afternoon expedition, saw the stranger sniffing leaves and looking at the sky, as if searching for signs of rain. They retreated, drew their fishing spears, and watched him and his assistant to see what their intent was. Satisfied that he was not a dangerous animal, since they saw Ahwinahwi that looked like them with him, they let him be and chattered about the strangeness of their riverbank lately. Some early morning fishermen had spotted a woman with silver salamanders two days earlier, which was why they were making preparations for an elaborate sacrifice to the river. It was not good for the river goddess to surface and beseech her people for food. Mr. Hurst had seen them from the corner of his eyes, and trailed them carefully to their homestead. At sun down, he asked his assistant to move their tent closer to the villagers and they set out to eat some of their non-perishable canned meats, fruits, dry vegetable and sardines. As the evening birds sang in nearby trees and bullfrogs kept asking croaky questions, Mr. Hurst swallowed some malaria pills along with multi-vitamins. Mr. Hurst ignored a kingfisher that swooped down on an errant fish though the bleeding fish dangled in the bird’s parasitic beak. ......Tbc

here we are

@mray present ma

Ep.2 . . But his eyes did not miss a bit as he closely observed the ways of the villagers. The village children also watched him as he ate from shiny metals with spoons and drank from aluminum cups. They wondered what was wrong with his fingers, why couldn’t he use his fingers instead of the weird looking utensils. Since Mr. Hurst did not speak to anybody, the villagers did not bother talking to him either. He finished eating and cleaned his plates with a napkin like a priest after the Eucharist. The anthropologist belched satisfactorily, pulled out his notebook and started writing furiously, while Ahwinahwi packed leftovers in a small plastic sachet: Weird locals natives. They eat with bare fingers from large leaves. They wear absolutely no clothes, and at a close proximity nature presents itself in all its wholeness. The children all look alike, black like polished military boots, and it is extremely difficult to tell a boy from a girl by merely looking at their faces. One has to look down, in between their legs to determine specie sex. I wonder if that is why they go about naked! By the second day, the villagers had taken Mr. Hurst and Ahwinahwi as they were; a strange white man and a black man who covered their bodies with funny things and used metal implements to eat instead of fingers. And Mr. Hurst had almost filled one of his three notebooks too, with colorful descriptions of the lifestyle of his watchers, the villagers: Nursing mothers breast-feed their infants while on the move. Interestingly they carry the babies on their backs and thread the nipple through the armpit for suckling. Although the adults wear leaves round their waists and baring their chests, the young ones go about their daily chores, stark naked. As time went by the children and young adults became more comfortable with the strangers. They were particularly interested in Mr. Hurst, as they had never seen a man with such a skin. A bold boy even touched his short thick leg and rubbed his fingers together, expecting discoloration in his hands. Mr. Hurst laughed as the boy’s fingers tickled his leg. Sensing that the villagers were now relaxed, Mr. Hurst brought out his Spartus Foldex V camera and set it on a tripod. Taking a camera for the trip was a last minute decision; his boss back in America had hoped he could get good and interesting photographs to be sold to National Geographic magazine. In no time, the villagers started peering into the sparkling lens. This pleased Mr. Hurst immensely, he believed he had something that interested the villagers. In between swatting of sand flies and akhunkhun insects he kept clicking away at the nude villagers, especially the young women that made him turgid. The assistant, Ahwinahwi, helped him shoo away some heady youths who came too close to the camera. Ahwinahwi did not mind rough handling several giddy kids. It was not until a week later, after Mr. Hurst had returned from swimming in the cool Ozigono River and made some notes on his almost exhausted notebooks that he saw a procession of the villagers. All their faces were painted in off-white and ochre hues, symmetrical lines form zebra crossing on their broad black faces. The parade progressed towards the farthest side of the riverbank; a sturdy man was beating on a large drum. The drumming was intense that it frightened afternoon birds .....tbc

Oya following closely

[b]Ep. 3 . . . ¡ to flight. Some of the young girls he had previously photographed jumped and floated in the air like butterflies. Slender black hands flailed here and there, wide waists wiggled unstoppably. Breathing furiously, Mr. Hurst toweled his face quickly, grabbed his camera bag and ran after them. Almost tripping on a broken stick, he yelled at Ahwinahwi to hurry and bring with him the camera’s tripod. A few yards from the procession, he slowed down and watched them closely with intensity. His eyes monitored every movement in their ritual dance and his ears cocked for chanting. He wiped his sweltering face with a small towel. As the villagers fanned out, he retrieved his camera and unfolded the ring-neck lens. A boy whose head was shaven to the skull with a large green iguana on his shoulder was the lead singer. His voice was high-pitched, yet scratchy like a radio adjusting to a distant reception. The boy started throwing eggs into the clean blue river and at the same time levitating off the ground to about five feet high, with legs wide apart. Each egg thrown elicited a loud and thunderous chorus from his followers, who were much older. Seven times the boy with the green iguana threw eggs into the river before he led the march back towards a well-decorated shrine. Mr. Hurst, who did not want to miss anything because this could be the highlight of his exploration, adjusted his viewfinder. While tampering with the aperture to capture the iguana boy’s face, his lens tilted and landed on the boy’s uncovered loins as he was levitating again. Initially Mr. Hurst did not believe what he saw. He nervously wiped his aging right eye and refocused. A small fear crept into his mind because he’d heard previous explorers complained that one sign of an impending malaria in the tropics is delirium. But as he concentrated some more, his views were as clear as a cloudless day, the iguana boy that led the procession to and fro the river had three testicles. Mr. Hurst breathed in fast successions and did a sign of the cross, though he had not attended mass in years. He took out his pill bottle and emptied two mustard-colored tablets into his pink tongue, and swallowed it without getting his water bottle. He gestured Ahwinahwi to come look what his camera’s viewfinder had discovered. When his assistant saw it too, which was the first time he was allowed to look into the camera, he exclaimed in a language Mr. Hurst had never heard him speak – Oghene siomen! .......Tbc [/b]

Am present n will follow till d end.

part 4 . . . Mr. Hurst did not waste time in scribbling a telegraph the following morning. “I have seen a strange iguana boy with three testicles, who also levitates effortlessly. Any interest?” He gave the note to Arhwinahwi to go and send from Warri, the nearest port town, which was two days of canoe rowing. The message was to his boss at the American Anthropological Museum, telling him of his discovery. Throughout the four days his assistant was gone, he did not sleep. Many things ran through his head as he came out everyday to seek the boy among playing children. Three months later his boss wrote back, ordering him to do everything humanly possible to bring the boy with three testicles to America. Without any doubt in Mr. Hurst’s mind, he knew there were many obstacles to accomplishing the daunting task. He should have kept his enthusiasm to himself and just show photographs to his boss upon getting to America. He had never spoken to the villagers since he came to their harbor three and half months ago. How would he now communicate to them that he wanted to take their son to America? Not even Ahwinahwi, who was from another village, spoke the language properly. Every quarter of a mile here was another culture and another language, as the anthropologist had found out. Mr. Hurst resolved to use sign language and if that failed he would use force. He had some British friends who could send him some resident soldiers, he concluded. Taking Ahwinahwi with him, the anthropologist left his tarpaulin tent and walked towards the homes of the villagers one late afternoon. As he approached a family of five, he stopped and laughed warmly but nervously. His neck burnt in trepidation, insects mounted and dismounted his bare and hairy arms. He pointed to himself and the iguana boy, whom he had seen standing among bystanders, and made a motion towards the mouth of the river. Upon several attempts and Ahwinahwi’s broken interpretations, the villagers understood what the anthropologist was alluding to. But they could not communicate to Mr. Hurst that the boy must not leave the village, no matter the circumstance. They tried explaining to Ahwinahwi to interpret to Mr. Hurst that their son was the Ozigono River high priest, chosen by the river goddess, Olokun, through the oracles. Without the boy to perform the annual ritual of feeding the river eggs, they would starve to death. The river would refuse to give them fresh water and fish for their sustenance. The river could even revolt and overflow its banks, completely bury them alive. They would perish. But Ahwinahwi kept forcing the anthropologist’s wish and desire on them, ignoring their stories. Arhwinahwi even threatened that there could be worse and dire consequences if they refused to yield the boy to the white man. All the villagers could do was shake their heads vigorously in disagreement and refusal. After a negotiation that seemed forever and the sun started going down in a ball of orange fire, Mr. Hurst left for his tent in frustration, swearing under his breath at the early lazy missionaries that did not get to this side of the delta to break these natives before his arrival. If only they had some form of Christianity he could persuade them that there was no nonsense river goddess, he thought. He walked slowly to his tent with his porter behind him. This was his own discovery and he cannot let things slip through his fingers. But first he must make notes in his notebook. He looked for one that still had good clean pages and noted: My latest discovery is a boy priest, I would say about 12 years of age – it’s hard to tell. I will call him Iguana Boy because he carries with him a large iridescence iguana that looks like a giant chameleon. Like magician, he can levitate effortlessly, up to five feet high as if is about to fly. Though a youth, he seem important to this people, maybe some form of high heathen priest. Also, the iguana probably means something else, since nobody else carries pets around. No dogs. This afternoon he led a ritual performance, though not as barbaric as I had expected things to be, yet it is strange. I may not have discovered Siamese twins, but I am certainly the first to have seen a boy with three triple-testicles, who can also fly without wings. As he covered the notes because he could not write any further, a certain anger overwhelmed him again. How many times in my life time will I find a levitating boy with extra…, his thoughts trailed off. Thinking himself a failure, Mr. Hurst got up abruptly and walked straight to where he believed was the boy’s hut. ••••••••Tbc

[b]part 5 ▪▪▪▪▪ ° ° ° ° ° ° The mud walls of the hut were decorated with chalk markings, animal drawings, symbols and motifs. That some natives refused his request would not be a good enough excuse for his boss back home, he thought as he got to the threshold. When he entered the hut, a stocky man and his wife and the iguana boy were eating burnt fish and what looked like mashed potatoes to him. The iguana was sleeping in a far corner. Without wasting time, he went through the same motion of communication like he did with the other villagers. Mr. Hurst, through the decimated interpretation of Ahwinahwi, offered to give them some form of exchange for their son. He brought a tiny mirror and asked the woman to look in it. The woman looked and squeezed her face in fear and handed him the mirror quickly. He probably thinks she is seeing a ghost, thought Mr. Hurst. Again he dipped his hand in his inner pocket and brought out red beads. The woman did not touch them. The man looked at his wife with inquisitive eyes, and the woman’s scowl told him all he needed to know. The two villagers shook their heads vigorously in refusal. The boy was not just their child but belonged to Ozigono village, they kept explaining to Arhwinahwi. When the man and his wife retreated to the inner room, Mr. Hurst left the house with intense anger, followed by his assistant. The anthropologist turned brownish red as he returned crestfallen to his tent. Throughout that evening the villagers did not see him come out of his tent nor did they see Ahwinahwi warming their canned meals. When night came and the villagers withdrew to the interiors of their huts while some young girls were singing to the full moon close by, Mr. Hurst came out to watch them in full nakedness. Hoping to find something strange in the girls, he got drawn to their moon dance and songs and got aroused to their moon dance. Something that surprised him. He made a mental note of the lead singer again. Ahwinahwi saw the hungry look on Mr. Hurst’s face and smiled to himself. When the girls dispersed he told Ahwinahwi to collapse the tent, fold and pack everything in readiness to leave Ozigono. Mr Hurst went to the anchored canoe, rocking back and forth in the gentle river wave, he observed the dark river and the tiny lights like fireflies of fishermen with disdained aloofness. He lost interest in smelling grasses or leaves. He battled with the thought of asking Ahwinahwi to go coax one of the village girls to sleep. Sleeping with the natives can be dangerous, he remembered been told back home. Mr. Hurst and Arhwinahwi watched the starless night in silence. Except for the seasonal bullfrogs’ mating calls, the night was eerily silent. A purple darkness wrapped Ozigono village, the moon that the girls danced and sang for had gone to sleep too, behind a thick cloud. A caterpillar became a butterfly. A chic hatched itself from a broken egg. Mr. Hurst blinked and looked towards the clustered huts of the village, the dark silhouettes reminded him of nothing. In that instance he knew what to do, and he unfolded his plan to Arhwinahwi. They carefully exited the canoe and walked on some water to dry land. The two men, both black shadows in the dark, tiptoed to the boy’s house. Ahwinahwi eased open the bamboo door and found the boy lying on a straw mat with the large iguana’s eyes rolling back and forth. His parents had gone for night fishing. There was no light except the faint illumination of the moon that had re-merged from behind the cloud as if the witness their act. Ahwinahwi with his strong muscular arms scooped the boy and scampered out with Mr. Hurst stumping behind. °°°○○○○○○○○○○TBC[/b]

part 6 , . . . The iguana walked out the door too, not following the two kidnappers, it slowly moved towards the mouth of the river. Mr. Hurst and Ahwinahwi got in the canoe, panting. Furiously they rowed away towards the port city of Warri where Mr. Hurst would board the first available ship. With the first ray of dawn light, Mr. Hurst fed the boy canned sardine and dry raisins. Ahwinahwi kept paddling away urgently, never tiring and never complaining, but sweating profusely. Mr. Hurst’s odd food made the boy’s stomach rumble and he retched allover the canoe. The iguana boy was not used to the white man’s canned or raw food in his life. Had Mr. Hurst thought about this he would have made a note of it in his anthropological notepad, under the title Strange Behavioral Feeding of My Discovery. As the day yielded more light to the canoe, Mr. Hurst thought of checking what made the iguana boy unique, but decided against it. I have all the time in the world to examine him once I get to Washington, he told himself. He covered the boy with a brown blanket, as the river got colder with the early morning wind. The anthropologist wondered what could be going on in the mind of the boy’s mind. All along he had stayed mute and fixed a gaze on his receding village, which had become a pool of liquid darkness. The canoe wobbled up and down the river, and Mr. Hurst fell into a gentle sleep. When they got to the port city two days later, where they would board a big ship, Mr. Hurst released a loud satisfied yawn. He rubbed his two-day-old stubbles and stretched out his cramped back and legs. The iguana boy showed no sign of distress or interest in the things around him. The colorful clothes people wore, the fish traders chattering away with customers, little children his age running up and down the shoreline or the some men and women that had Mr. Hurst’s skin color. Mr. Hurst couldn’t really tell if the iguana boy was sad or not, as his eyes were riveted on far away invisible objects without any betraying emotions. He thought the boy was like a wax version of the boy he had seen singing, levitating and leading the procession. As they were about to board the bigger ship to America, Mr Hurst hugged Ahwinahwi, gave him his metal hat and paid him handsomely with beads and mirror for all his assistance, especially his role in securing the iguana boy to the ship. Ahwinahwi cherished all Mr. Hurst bequeathed him with a large smile, especially the metal hat that made him look like a colonial explorer. The thick black man considered the metal helmet a symbol of authority; he would soon be the new petty jefe. He’d wear it and write things on a notebook like he saw Mr. Hurst did. And speak some of the high sounding English he had learnt from the anthropologist’s books to bamboozle his fellow villagers, he thought. The whole idea got his chest swollen with pride, and Arhwinahwi whose face was perpetually stern exploded in a guttural laughter. The ship blasted its last departing horn, and he waved Mr. Hurst a generous goodbye, avoiding the staring eyes of the iguana boy. While the ship releases its anchor to sail away, Arhwinahwi untied his canoe that would take him back to his village. He thought he saw an iguana on top of a woman’s head in the water, but the water was calm. So he set out to paddle. Ahwinahwi as his paddle touched the water never made it beyond a kilometer, with his gift of metal hat, beads or the mirror, to his village before a giant iguana, the size of a whale, torpedoed his canoe, splitting it into two pieces of coffin.

ep. 7 . . Mr. Hurst was seasick throughout the journey to America, many times he had fainting spell. Whenever he slept he dreamt about Ozigono, about the procession. Once he dreamt of making love to tall beautiful native girl, during orgasmic screams the girl became a black mamba, he woke up screaming “Ahwinahwi! Ahwinahwi!” Other times he found himself at the bottom of the Ozigono River making love to a faceless, slippery woman with head full of silvery salamanders, these woke him up soaked with embarrassment. The journey that took almost three months was like a day for the iguana boy, he had become one with the sea. Not until they entered the big vessel, he did not realize that the river goddess Olokun was traveling with him. So he had companion, whom he chatted with all through. The chatting and chanting that sounded like disconcerted mumbling to Mr. Hurst, were as disturbing as his long silences. Though the journey was tumultuous for the anthropologist, each time he thought of the iguana boy’s three testicles, he would nod his head in satisfaction, as if saying every gain comes with pain. Sometimes he’d fall into deep thoughts of earlier anthropologists who had found ancient masks in other parts of Africa. He would scratch his brow and considered himself lucky; he found a “living mask” not a dead wooden or leather one. He was never interested in any inanimate object from Africa, which was while he concentrated mainly on humans. Humans were more interesting, dynamic and adaptable to ones desired need. A mask is a mask, a pot is a pot, and he’d laugh. Whenever he went to drink with other travelers, he would lock his cabin fearing the boy might run away or levitate to another distant part of the vessel, though there was no where to run in the big ship called Queen Victoria. During drinking binges, Mr. Hurst would tell all kinds of tale while he was traveling with the boy, carefully avoiding the real reason. Other explorers told tales of their adventure in Africa. One distraught widow was taking the dead body of her husband back home. She told Mr. Hurst of how her husband who was a good swimmer wanted to get close to a hut built in the middle of a river to photograph it, only to disappear in the water and resurfaced bloated two days later. Mr. Hurst thought that was why the vessel’s odor was become unbearable these last days of the journey. He drank more whisky to suppress the thought that came to his mind. From Baltimore Harbor, Mr. Hurst took a taxi to Washington, D.C. in the night. The warm August air devoid of humidity was a fresh breath for him. The anthropologist could not wait to show off his “find” or “discovery” as they called it in the anthropological circle. This would kick the discovery of the Great Pyramid of Giza to the back pages of anthropological books and journals. His new discovery will put him, Mr. Douglas Hurst, in the forefront with great explorers like Mongo Park and Christopher Columbus of this world, he thought. The continent some explorers thought had been exhausted of alien “finds” still had many things to be discovered. Seasoned anthropologists, archeologists, curators and journalists were invited to view the latest discovery from the continent of Africa as soon as Mr. Hurst reported to the office a week after he arrived. Mr. Hurst’s boss had already calculated how much the museum would realize from the exhibition, not counting the funding he

ep. 8 . . would receive from the government. He had thought of putting the boy in a specially constructed big box full of formaldehyde, but Mr. Hurst, who still had some strands of humanity left in him, rejected the morbid proposal. Afterall the people of Ozigono did him no harm. Although Mr. Hurst had his own grand plans and screaming headlines running riot in his bald head, he kept them from his boss. He would definitely publish embellished papers written in his spiral-bound notebooks in the American Anthropological Review. He dreamt of National Geographic magazine accepting the photographs he took of the shrine and the procession, so he could retire early. He may even go back to Africa and try his hands on coffee farming like Mr. Wilberforce, his British friend in Kenya. When everybody was settled in the brightly lit conference room of the museum, which seated about fifty people, Mr. Hurst mounted the iguana boy on a rotating wooden pedestal. Covering him around the waist with nothing but the small towel, which he had used for wiping sweat in Africa during extremely hot days. Mr. Hurst started his windy narrative, of how he was the first to discover the iguana boy’s village of “naked natives” and how his keen anthropological eyes found the “strange things an ordinary eye couldn’t see.” He did not credit his camera’s viewfinder for his most important discovery nor did he mention the name of Ahwinahwi without whose help, he would not have been able to bring his discovery to America. “These ancient eyes have seen many wonders in my journey through the coastlines of that continent. Trees, animals with three eyes, plant that can kill instantly – you name it, carnivorous carnivals of cannibals,” he boasted on and on. Mr. Hurst ignored the impatient giggles and murmurs from the audience. The iguana boy was absorbed on the pointer the mendacious anthropologist used in demonstrating his speech. The crowd started getting restless as the introduction was getting too long; let’s get to the heart of the matter they seemed to be saying. At last it was time to unveil the purpose of the gathering. Mr. Hurst used the short end of his pointer to remove the towel from the boy’s waist, to reveal the three testicles. As the towel dropped soundlessly to the wooden base of the pedestal, and all eyes converged on boy’s loins. A single spot. A collective gasp from the audience reverberated round the room like a tunnel cough. The place where Mr. Hurst had seen the iguana boy’s three testicles with his camera’s viewfinder was as smooth as glass surface. The zone shone as frozen ice losing its pre-melting frost. For the first time since he arrived America, the iguana boy muttered words. Unfamiliar argot unknown to neither Mr. Hurst nor his bemused audience filled the room. Sounds of large dirge drums descended from the ceiling, as if it had hidden loudspeakers. Who steals from a god? Only a mad man steals from a god, the iguana boy was singing in his language. He started gyrating as if caught in a whirlwind on the wooden pedestal. “Who eats a fish without removing the bones, only a foolish man eats fish with the bones.” He levitated, higher than Mr. Hurst had imagined. “You can use water to rinse your mouth but can you use fire to scratch your itching crotches?”

ep. 9. ...... . . . ......... ......... ...... . mmmmm . . ....... . ...... . . . ........ ......... ...... Mr. Hurst opened his mouth like a post office box left ajar, as he listened to the suddenly matured voice of the iguana boy and the English that was pouring out of his mouth. He watched as the boy’s eyes became piecing blinding lights. The anthropologist’s senses started departing his mind. Did he ever see three testicles or was it an apparition? He wiped a trailing sweat from his folded brows, as he started to back away from the chanting discovery. He had heard what happened to colleagues thought to have lost it; they were bundled in straight jackets and sent to St. Elizabeth Asylum in South East. In blurry view, he watched as his audience filed out from the conference room. Some concluded that Mr. Hurst had probably gone crazy, due to the merciless tropical Africa sun. Another one gone down the hill, his boss muttered as he started walking towards the inner part of the museum, apologizing to top dignitaries, “It is a well known proven fact, those that did not die of malaria came back psychotic,” Mr. Hurst’s boss was saying as he stumbled and fell through a door, down the flight of steps. As everybody left in a hurry, dispirited, Mr. Hurst observed the iguana boy melting into a puddle of water. Within seconds the entire room became Ozigono River. Mr. Hurst saw the salamander-haired woman who came to his dream in the ship. She was laughing in the middle of the puddle. Mr. Hurst heard voices that he couldn’t distinguish. Many of the voices sounded like those of the iguana boy’s parents, the villagers of Ozigono, Ahwinahwi, his boss or the invited observers. The great anthropologist with a new discovery from the distant continent of Africa fell headlong on the hard concrete floor of the museum.□■□ ☆★□■●○■○□ □●■●■\★□☆■♡□ ▪¤\<|}●《●THE ●◆●}\[}《◇¡●♡■☆END**** ○《●★♡●■THANKS

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Nice write up #Yawnin

Wow wow wow

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Nobody steals 4rm d qodz and qo scotfree..... Mr. Hurst.,.. U make a mistake stealinq the iquana boy.

Wow,he should av kill dem all.