I am still experimenting with blending prose and poetry into one whole. I am not there yet I think. There is something missing but tell me what you think.
The body stained the wet pavement like overripe tomatoes. The skull sat, cracked open like a coconut shell, brain matter spilled, on the asphalt. The man’s legs were bent in an impossible angle and his mouth was frozen mid-scream.I raised my head from the sight and looked at the twelve floors of concrete that stood like a sentinel before us. I raised my left hand over my eyes to prevent the drizzle from blurring my sight.
“you think it’s suicide?” a voice muttered beside me. I turned to find Sergeant Martha standing beside me, her eyes on the body.The rain had plastered her hair to her head and her suit hung like a limp rag around her slight, bustless frame.“I have considered that possibility.” I replied, searching my pocket for my pack of cigarettes.
Sergeant Martha was to a policeman what salt was to a worm. She was the Economic and Financial Crimes Commission (EFCC) agent attached to my command. She disturbed everyone’s peace of mind anytime she left the comforts of her plush office to come to the field. Herself and the NDLEA agent; that’s the National Drug Law Enforcement to you, attached to my command were not in good terms and that suited everyone just fine.
She turned to the body and peered at it as if the killer left a complimentary card somewhere on it. As far as I was concerned it was a clear cut case.The drizzle was slowly turning into a downpour. I looked at the soggy cigarette in my hand and turned to the shed that the entrance to the uncompleted structure offered. Footsteps tapped along mine and I turned to see Sergeant Martha beside me; I sighed.“A birdie told me you were seen around this area in the afternoon.
What were you doing here?” She asked, turning her gaze on me, as soon as we got out of the rain.The boys got a trash bag and placed it over the body before rushing out of the rain. The new policy of staking a crime scene and taking evidence made me want to laugh; the police force was not prepared for it but the new Inspector General had big dreams and luckily for him, those had the top seemed to like his face and his British accent.
I busied myself with making a slightly soggy cigarette catch flame. After sucking in some badly needed nicotine, I looked at Martha;“Your birdie has a severe case of myopia. I was at home watching the Chelsea game. Why will I be here? There is no betting house here, neither do they sell cigarettes or alcohol here.” I said, holding the cigarette with a steady hand.“you are a shifty one, Detective Pere. I see through your snide remarks and oily words. I have my eyes on you and I know one day, you are going to slip up.
You are a betting man, right? So know this, I will be there when you fail; want to bet?” She asked.I nodded and turned away, dragging the much needed smoke into my lungs. We die one day at a time.Martha stared at me for some seconds then when she saw that I had lost interest in her flat chested intensity, she turned and walked away.The prisoner sat in his filth, his head bowed. A rat squeaked, it’s whiskers flickering in the darkness.
It dashed across the cracked floor with speed but the prisoner was faster. His hand speared the rat and he raised it up to the moon light filtering through the window. the rat’s whiskers twitched and the prisoner said;We are lords in castles;Jungle cats in sleek skin, purring feetSeeking meat and prey in snake densAnd fetid streams reeking of dying things.We are priests and celestial stars leading prayersWith arms enraptured within the bosom of the world;We are a dying breed; not men, no we are not men.We are queens and priestesses of stolen gods;Blood hunger blinding eyes to the setting sun.We are not men but something close; something akinSomething far deadlier; something men can be, if they but try.
