Many Skies To Go

And the day opens up - no promise made or withheld.

This is life, they say.

I live... A kite spread on broomsticks and old 'nylon' material and strung from the length of joint strings that hold me to that poverty stricken adolescent boy, who looks up at weathered tassels and fancies himself to be me, borne by the wind, caught in flight. And as I look down from an age further advanced, I wish that I was the boy, innocent and blessed with a trusting unassumption.

This is life, they say.

Tha Qwerty Grind

The sun of the first of five days rose different, it swore by the dried salt of men, and cursed by their darker shades.

The roads impressed on their mother crust and they were all of them tilted uphill.

The procession of the industry-bound are led about their way by the taskmasters of necessity, neck threaded to neck, foot threaded to foot, their train trudges towards the daybreak.

Two slaves, master and servant; each, no better than the meals they earn, in grit and dig.

Nails of stubbed digits, shovels on withered limbs, pickaxes that outweigh the bearer, the search persists.

The Qwerty clicks of Fibre Speak. The Whippings Weary Weepings... @the first longing of the day fifth.

Another Sneak Preview

EXT. THE FOREST (PRESENT DAY) –NIGHT

A DOLLY CAM MOVES FROM ABOVE THE FOUR MEN SEATED ABOUT THE FIRE DOWN UNTIL WE CAN SEE THEIR FACES IN THE LIGHT OF THE SMALL FIRE. THE LIGHT GIVES AN ALMOST UNEARTHLY LIGHT TO THE OLD MAN’S EYES.

OLD MAN

The war was a restless sleep of over twenty years. Sometimes it woke, sometimes it slept… it was in one of these waking moments that Oba Adetoye the son of (@@@@@@), a formerly exiled prince now reigning on the throne of his fathers… it was then that he rose on the hill of Omiran to challenge Oba Oguntiade to mortal combat.

(beat)

In the wake of the events this would birth... the fate of the kingdoms of Ikaje and Afami moved from the hands of the two kings to its final delay... in the hands of their progeny.

Sneak Preview

FADE IN:

EXT. BAKED RED SOIL –DAY.

ISHOLA (VO)

My father never taught me how to use a hoe.

IMPACT! ISHOLA falls unto the ground in view. He writhes from the fall, arching his back. The lad is young and slightly pulped from the wear and tear of battle. He is dressed like a warrior, but hardly looks the part.

ISHOLA (VO)

Instead, he’d take me to the plantation and give me lessons on what it takes to be a good farmer.

Part of his assailant comes into view. We see enough of the man to see him draw his blade.

ISHOLA (VO)

And I’d say, “Father, when would these lessons ever stop?”

Ishola has recovered enough to know that this is the end of the line for him.

ISHOLA (VO)

And he’d say, “We never stop learning, my son…”

The assailant begins to advance onto him.

ISHOLA (VO)

“…Until the day we die.”

FADE TO BLACK

EXT. VILLAGE SQUARE -NIGHT.

WHAM!

Everyone and everything about the firewood lit square seem to feel the impact of IRINLE ramming into the other wrestler…

Neither falls or budges. Each man’s legs strain as they push against one another, barrel chest to barrel chest…

Suddenly, Irinle, 38, pulls a move that has him looming over his BULKY OPPONENT, almost pinning him to the ground.

BULKY is able to swerve and spin away before, Irinle can hold him down.

Both men rise to their feet, panting. The crowd is chanting Irinle’s name. Irinle’s eyes moves over the head of the crowd to see JAGUNLAYE walking by. Jagunlaye, 43, walks on by, oblivious, and enters the Balogun’s hut.

Irinle’s eyes barely snap back in time to see the BULKY’s charge!

Head-down, BULKY rams into him so hard his eyes bulge from the impact!

The watching crowd gasp in shock as Irinle rocks hard.

Irinle’s feet struggles to regain some footing as his feet shuffle through the mud.

BULKY deepens his shove. Irinle is struggling.

With a grit of his teeth, Irinle stamps his feet down, one after the other. Finding his bearings, he brings both his arms up under the wrestler’s armpits. With a mighty heave, he sends the man sprawling hard on the ground unto his back.

PAngROmISE

Do yOU sEe? tHe miLk thAT we call mOThEr?

HoW ShE wRIthEs wiTH thE pAnGs oF A pROMisE; a PromiSe fOr US aLL.

TEll YOUng, tELl olD, mALE aNd FEmalE... a pRoMISe iS uPon uS.

The Highway Blues

There was a rose in the middle of the highway

And she was the prettiest little rose you ever saw

But the luck won't hold sway forever

And that little rose will be pretty no more

Blessing Me.

There, on the other side of the great divide that was my redemption, I saw my Redeemer...

And He was away from me.

I ran the distance that was between us, I could not have run it better;

He was away, beyond my reach.

"Bless me", I cried.

It seemed He could not hear me... Or would not.

With all my might, I reached out to force His ear my way.

And so I wrestled Him... And I wrestled Him till break of day.

"Bless me", I cried.

It seemed He could not hear me... Or would not.

From the wilderness of my depression,

from the desert sands of my frustration,

from the dust clouds of my fall,

from the awful mire of my sudden descent,

I reached out and took hold of the hem of his garment.

"Bless me", I cried.

It seemed He could not hear me... Or would not.

I sought Him with trophies.

I did follow His trail to a distant land.

The mighty sword across my back, the Goliath head in my hand.

"Bless me"

"You ask for a thing long given... a token gift before it formed in your mouth... Even, before you..."

"Bless me", I cried.

It seemed He could not hear me... Or would not.

Or I would not hear him... Or could not.