Amara

Our people say that I speak with the voice of Mie and look like a child. They look at me and wonder how can I be and not be.

I look at them sometimes.

I look away from them sometimes, but they still speak. Their words gush out like the raging waters of a river slicing through rocks. When one woman opens her mouth and says, “That boy…,” all the other women start talking. They snap their fingers, click their tongues and scrunch up their noses. I walk like a man whose leg is being eaten off by a hyena.

They laugh when they see me.

But, I keep walking because straight ahead lies the shade that I need to cool off under. She is called Amara. She is the daughter of a famous warrior, Imara, the Lion and Tiger hunter. The one who sleeps with his eyes open and his strength in the air around him. The one who was struck by twenty warriors but still stood up with their blood on his hands and walked all the way to this kingdom.

Amara comes from strength, because her father is like a rock. He is firm and does not waver.

My love for her is like fire. It burns bright, provides heat, gorges steel but brings down even the greatest of kingdoms down to ashes.

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