Those were the last days of May. Little ragamuffins kicked the skull around. They were playing football. Children who had survived the very worst, children who would be the victims of the very worst. They kicked the skull around. They laughed. Some did. Blood on the asphalt. Blood on the sand. The soles of their feet either wet with blood or hard with dried blood. There were other skulls around but they chose this one.
The body it belonged to was contorted on the hard hot macadam like the best twister player or an award-winning contortionist. That body, one amongst thousands on the ground. No individuality anymore. Just a disgusting collective of human waste. The children kicked the skull and chased it. Stood. Looked around. Tired of the game. They left it. The skull with its hollow eyes watched all around it.
The skull got new brothers. More slaughter took place. More slaughter on the way. In the end. Eight hundred thousand. Some say eight hundred and fifty thousand. Some say a million. But whatever the true number, the skull was not to be counted among them.
A year later. Those bloody streets are cleaner. No skulls on the roads. No more bodies. But this skull is still watching. It has somehow found its way into a rich man’s private collection. Mr. Moneybag is mistaken: he thinks he has a worthy skull. The skull is restless. It leaves the shelf and finds itself in the year 2000. It is surprised by what it is seeing. If it had a voice it would scream. A survivor and a perpetrator reconciled? Now friends?
Year 2024. Thirtieth anniversary. The skull watches proceedings from a rooftop. Sad. It was all for nothing, thought the skull of the génocidaire.
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Read – Ward B – A Flash Fiction by Ndawedwa Hanghuwo – Namibia
