Tinashe chikomo
Bio
Stories (2/0)
Birth of Konu
Omens The smell of rotting flesh makes me feel intensely homesick. Indeed, it is peculiar to feel that way, but to those from Lusvingo (like myself), the tart scent of carrion evokes memories of climbing up giant baobab trees; toes and nostrils, firmly clenched to peek beyond the walls that contained us. It is a long time back, but I remember those days like yesterday. I am pained to say that I am far removed from them. It is only because of the relentless and constant badgering of ‘at home’ forces that I feel beckoned to give my account. I was the very first arrival. Half burnt logs, and melted candles lay scattered as remnants of the night before. If it weren’t for the long hollow hoot of buff spotted flufftails in the distance, your ears would meet the Wizz and huff of an ailing city. A raging town, consumed by a hazy terror. On this day, there had been a rising fog which most had begun to assume was an omen. On any other day, it wouldn’t have meant anything, but the solemn howls of hyenas at early dawn told a darker motive was afoot. The people of Lusvingo were not inordinately superstitious- centuries of technological advancement had led to slack on spiritual matters- but some omens we were never meant to ignore. It had not rained for months. The sky had been an unblighted river of ever blue -crisp and clear- and yet, mid-afternoon, a fog had risen over the great city of Lusvingo. Its presence fleeting, the mist only lasted for a moment. Less than an hour had passed before the bituminous brume had begun to wither, turning to steam before completely vanishing. Even so, the fog’s brief existence had sparked great commotion nowhere as much as it had within the concave walls of the Great Enclosure. It would be hard to argue that there was a place where the fuss mattered more. To Ndadairashoko Moyo, as it was for all monarchs, omens had grave consequences. The decision to gather his most esteemed spiritual leaders at the Great Enclosure was an easy one.
By Tinashe chikomo3 years ago in Wander
Chores are the worst.
The mornings always started early for Portia. It was imperative that she was the first one up, which meant waking up earlier than Mr. Gamu. She didn’t think it was a stretch to suspect that he had some debt with the devil in his dreams because of his tumultuous relationship with sleep. The man consistently went to bed at midnight, and by three in the morning, he would be up scouring his vast domain - a six-bedroom pantheon of a house- searching for whatever he had lost in his dreams. Mr. Gamu’s early mornings meant Portia had to be up and ready at least fifteen minutes before, with a bucket full of water, slightly warmer than room temperature- as he liked it. Mr. Gamu had always insisted on bathing as soon as he woke up. It was essential, and Mr. Gamu promised it worked better than coffee (which, of course, was still a daily requirement right after the bath). He didn’t bother Portia much once he had received his coffee and his bed was done.
By Tinashe chikomo3 years ago in Criminal