Drying up the Congo River:


Every slab of brick was withering into a coppery-red powder. I brushed my fingers up against the cool brick only to leave its residue staining my fingers, my clothes, and my face. But I didn’t care. Indifferent to this unusual filth, I was numb to the sweltering heat that struck the very hairs on my head, scorching my scalp. I gazed at my surroundings, ever so nonchalantly.

There was little to say about this tragedy. The town seemed uninhabited, but it was this painful cry of silence that permeated the hot air on behalf of its people, calling one to have mercy on their souls. I was a soul, but a lost one. I looked up to see the men ogling at the dry nothingness that laid in the distance, crouching on their rooftops as if to protect their property, their family, and their life. It was fake, though. It was hopeless for them to be heroes. And the women. They were hidden in the dark corners of these brick huts, tending to their parched children, waiting patiently for their demise.

Once unbearable to see, I was now unruffled with eyes stone-cold. What could I do for these people? How could I liberate the men bound to restrictions of their repressors? How could I unmurder the children and unrape the women? How could I undo the misery of these aging brick walls and save the victims trapped within? How could I do such a thing, when I was only one of them?