by Okota Ching’oma
The echoes of the noise grates my ears
Echoes of bells clanging, clanging,
warm taut drums pulsating
Pulsating
Do I choose the bells? Or the drums?
Echoes of a trumpet now,
Is there any rest here?
Years after I’m gone,
They’ll have a slogan: party after party after party
But for now, I sure could use some rest
They don’t call it beauty sleep for nothing ,
But wait, now these are no longer echoes;
The noise draws closer, drums, bells, trumpet
And the sound of feet coming to the door of my sanctuary
My sanctuary, mine, my sanctuary
With the most beautiful, peaceful colours you could think of
Colours that hate the noise of party after party
I rise up, move towards the door, towards the intruder.
His voice, like the bells, the drums, the trumpets, grates my ears:
“I have been sent, by the king, his excellence, his most magnificent,
To summon you to his quarters, so that everyone may gaze upon your beauty
As they sip their wine.”
I glare at him, and suddenly my voice is louder than the bells, the drums, the trumpet:
‘Tell him:
Queen Vashti says NO!’
