Wednesday, 29 July 2009
Field of Dreams - Prisoner's Confederations Cup
To veiw go to: http://multimedia.timeslive.co.za/photos/2009/06/field-of-dreams/
Field of Dreams: Prisoner's Confederations Cup
The echo comes, reverberating from deep inside. It crashes against thick walls and cold bars as it tries to find its way outside. Deep masculine voices sound as one. Feet stamp down the tune in rhythmic cadence, move as one. Into the earth their message goes, a warning to those they are to face in battle.
“We live together, we die together, a dead man is a dead man. We live together, we die together, a dead man is a dead man.”
They move out of the dark, into the light, away from the solid brick and mortar, past rows of jagged wire, electrified barbs, watching guards, into a tunnel of mesh confinement. The makeshift Egyptian flag held up for the other teams to see.
The drone of a big bus engine is not enough to put them off as it swallows them up. Hands and feet strike roof and floor. The singing continues as they are ferried off, off to the field of dreams.
They move out of the dark, into the light, away from the solid brick and mortar, past rows of jagged wire, electrified barbs, watching guards, into a tunnel of mesh confinement. The makeshift Egyptian flag held up for the other teams to see.
The drone of a big bus engine is not enough to put them off as it swallows them up. Hands and feet strike roof and floor. The singing continues as they are ferried off, off to the field of dreams.
Thursday, 2 July 2009
The Having And The Taking
The street, alive with activity, is particularly busy outside of the supermarket. Small, blackened feet pace back and forward. Faces caked with dried snot bombard the potentially charitable with puffed up, pathetic pleas.
A dirty body in dirty clothes.
“Please sir, check money for bread?”
“I don’t have anything,” comes the stony reply.
Laden arms weigh down on feet attempting to negotiate the onslaught. Get to the car, to safety. Bulging bags of designer food and overpriced beauty products, luxuries, are deposited and then quickly shuttled away. Nothing is lost to those outstretched, expectant arms.
…
It is late and the suburban streets are dark, still. Shadows move with intent. Silence is broken, shattering glass. A car alarm wails. Its owner wakes, brings him to the window. Four little bodies, with loaded arms, scatter into the night. One stops, turns and looks up to the familiar face inside and, for a second, they share in another of life’s little ironies; prisoners of circumstance.
A dirty body in dirty clothes.
“Please sir, check money for bread?”
“I don’t have anything,” comes the stony reply.
Laden arms weigh down on feet attempting to negotiate the onslaught. Get to the car, to safety. Bulging bags of designer food and overpriced beauty products, luxuries, are deposited and then quickly shuttled away. Nothing is lost to those outstretched, expectant arms.
…
It is late and the suburban streets are dark, still. Shadows move with intent. Silence is broken, shattering glass. A car alarm wails. Its owner wakes, brings him to the window. Four little bodies, with loaded arms, scatter into the night. One stops, turns and looks up to the familiar face inside and, for a second, they share in another of life’s little ironies; prisoners of circumstance.
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