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The Party

A Pedestrians Lust- Excerpt:

We​ ​got​ ​there​ ​at​ ​about​ ​9​ ​o'clock​ ​and​ ​it's​ ​was​ ​already​ ​in​ ​full​ ​swing.​ ​The​ ​first​ ​room​ ​was​ ​full​ ​of different​ ​people​ ​stood​ ​in​ ​different​ ​spots​ ​who​ ​did​ ​different​ ​things​ ​with​ ​their​ ​fingers​ ​as​ ​they tapped​ ​along​ ​to​ ​the​ ​man​ ​at​ ​the​ ​front​ ​who​ ​was​ ​performing.​ ​He​ ​was​ ​of​ ​African​ ​descent​ ​and played​ ​the​ ​room​ ​like​ ​a​ ​musical​ ​instrument​ ​(a​ ​thing​ ​he​ ​claimed​ ​to​ ​own​ ​but​ ​have​ ​forgotten, leading​ ​him​ ​to​ ​perform​ ​the​ ​entire​ ​set​ ​acapella​ ​and​ ​freeing​ ​his​ ​hands​ ​to​ ​move​ ​in​ ​time​ ​with​ ​his own​ ​words​ ​alone​ ​but​ ​in​ ​time​ ​with​ ​no​ ​music.​ ​Thus,​ ​forced​ ​to​ ​use​ ​only​ ​his​ ​words​ ​to​ ​create​ ​the rhythm​ ​that​ ​lay​ ​behind​ ​the​ ​conduction​ ​of​ ​his​ ​limbs​ ​it​ ​seemed​ ​as​ ​though​ ​his​ ​whole​ ​body​ ​and​ ​his whole​ ​throat​ ​moved​ ​in​ ​unison​ ​and​ ​played​ ​the​ ​room​ ​like​ ​some​ ​sort​ ​of​ ​stringed​ ​instrument.​

​He triggered​ ​within​ ​different​ ​people​ ​different​ ​things,​ ​​ ​it​ ​was​ ​a​ ​diverse​ ​crowd-​ ​different​ ​people watched​ ​in​ ​different​ ​ways​ ​with​ ​different​ ​types​ ​of​ ​lenses​ ​through​ ​which​ ​to​ ​see​ ​what​ ​was​ ​being presented​ ​to​ ​them.​ ​There​ ​were​ ​people​ ​of​ ​different​ ​nationalities​ ​and​ ​different​ ​faiths​ ​all​ ​of whom​ ​looked​ ​on​ ​with​ ​something​ ​between​ ​scepticism​ ​and​ ​hope.​ ​A​ ​plethora​ ​of​ ​memories​ ​lay beneath​ ​the​ ​consciousness​ ​and​ ​came​ ​back.​ ​Like​ ​an​ ​army​ ​of​ ​ants​ ​time​ ​this​ ​movement​ ​of​ ​the tongue​ ​and​ ​lips​ ​and​ ​cheeks​ ​together​ ​and​ ​ran​ ​faster​ ​than​ ​the​ ​speed​ ​of​ ​sound​ ​through neurons​ ​and​ ​electrodes​ ​until​ ​they​ ​reached,​ ​through​ ​well​ ​beaten​ ​tracks​ ​,concepts​ ​which demonstrated​ ​what​ ​he​ ​wished​ ​to​ ​say.​ ​He​ ​seemed​ ​to​ ​pack​ ​many​ ​concepts​ ​into​ ​a​ ​space​ ​in which​ ​most​ ​would​ ​only​ ​fit​ ​a​ ​few​ ​and​ ​he​ ​artfully​ ​slipped​ ​between​ ​tongues,​ ​knowing​ ​just​ ​by looking​ ​at​ ​them​ ​that​ ​at​ ​least​ ​one​ ​person​ ​in​ ​the​ ​room​ ​would​ ​understand​ ​at​ ​least​ ​part​ ​of​ ​what he​ ​was​ ​trying​ ​so​ ​desperately​ ​to​ ​say. He​ ​began​ ​​ ​pacing​ ​up​ ​and​ ​down​ ​the​ ​room​ ​intently,​ ​as​ ​though​ ​with​ ​some​ ​kind​ ​of​ ​intentionality. At​ ​each​ ​end​ ​however​ ​he​ ​would​ ​simply​ ​turn​ ​back​ ​on​ ​himself​ ​and​ ​return​ ​the​ ​other​ ​way.​ ​A strange​ ​spectacle​ ​indeed​ ​and​ ​one​ ​that​ ​seemed​ ​almost​ ​comical.​ ​

Suddenly​ ​he​ ​burst​ ​into dance,​ ​twisting​ ​and​ ​turning​ ​in​ ​time.​ ​He​ ​rose​ ​his​ ​legs​ ​in​ ​unison,​ ​floating​ ​above​ ​the​ ​earth momentarily​ ​before​ ​stretching​ ​back​ ​into​ ​it,​ ​his​ ​heels​ ​hitting​ ​the​ ​floor​ ​in​ ​time,​ ​before​ ​twisting, serving​ ​as​ ​an​ ​axis​ ​for​ ​the​ ​balls​ ​of​ ​his​ ​feet,​ ​which,​ ​like​ ​propellers,​ ​rotated​ ​multiple​ ​times​ ​in​ ​a way​ ​more​ ​mechanical​ ​than​ ​animalistic.​ ​The​ ​rooms​ ​eye​ ​was​ ​fixed​ ​on​ ​him​ ​now,​ ​twitching,​ ​it's small​ ​movements​ ​mirroring​ ​his​ ​larger​ ​ones.​ ​The​ ​human​ ​eye​ ​is​ ​a​ ​thing​ ​of​ ​beauty.​ ​It​ ​is​ ​not perfect,​ ​but​ ​is​ ​close​ ​enough​ ​to​ ​perfection​ ​that​ ​the​ ​religious​ ​have​ ​used​ ​it's​ ​very​ ​existence​ ​for years​ ​as​ ​a​ ​justification​ ​for​ ​their​ ​misplaced​ ​faith.​ ​The​ ​smallest,​ ​miniscule​ ​movements​ ​can draw​ ​one​ ​from​ ​one​ ​small​ ​part​ ​of​ ​the​ ​universe​ ​to​ ​another,​ ​and​ ​the​ ​collective​ ​eye​ ​was​ ​now turned​ ​inwards.​ ​It​ ​was​ ​taking​ ​in​ ​the​ ​room,​ ​taking​ ​in​ ​this​ ​man,​ ​watching​ ​his​ ​feet​ ​patter​ ​and prod,​ ​searching​ ​the​ ​floor​ ​without​ ​a​ ​care​ ​for​ ​what​ ​they​ ​might​ ​find,​ ​only​ ​enthralled​ ​by​ ​the​ ​act​ ​of searching.

The​ ​host​ ​of​ ​the​ ​party​ ​was​ ​a​ ​Mrs​ ​Agbo,​ ​who​ ​reputedly​ ​hosted​ ​these​ ​events​ ​at​ ​regular intervals,​ ​inviting​ ​anyone​ ​and​ ​everyone​ ​and​ ​yet​ ​somehow​ ​still​ ​seeming​ ​to​ ​elude​ ​a​ ​measure of​ ​exclusivity.​ ​I​ ​got​ ​only​ ​a​ ​glimpse​ ​of​ ​her​ ​face,​ ​less​ ​than​ ​a​ ​glimpse,​ ​my​ ​eyes​ ​did​ ​not​ ​even​ ​stop as​ ​they​ ​paroused​ ​the​ ​room-​ ​they​ ​simply​ ​absorbed​ ​the​ ​image​ ​of​ ​her​ ​and​ ​did​ ​not​ ​reflect​ ​on​ ​it for​ ​moments​ ​until​ ​the​ ​juxtaposition​ ​between​ ​what​ ​I​ ​knew​ ​her​ ​to​ ​be​ ​feeling​ ​and​ ​how​ ​I​ ​saw​ ​her present​ ​herself​ ​came​ ​to​ ​me​ ​in​ ​a​ ​flurry.​ ​At​ ​this​ ​point​ ​,​ ​however,​ ​I​ ​was​ ​already​ ​engaged​ ​in conversation​ ​with​ ​someone​ ​else​ ​in​ ​the​ ​room,​ ​could​ ​not​ ​look​ ​back​ ​and​ ​saw​ ​no​ ​reason​ ​to​ ​look back​ ​anyways​.​ ​We​ ​spoke​ ​a​ ​little​ ​later​ ​that​ ​night​ ​but​ ​not​ ​at​ ​any​ ​great length​ ​or​ ​about​ ​anything​ ​memorable.​ ​Everyone​ ​who​ ​came​ ​into​ ​contact​ ​with​ ​her​ ​however seem​ ​to​ ​remark​ ​on​ ​how​ ​jovial​ ​she​ ​was​ ​and​ ​how​ ​she​ ​let​ ​off​ ​such​ ​a​ ​unique​ ​light​ ​and​ ​aura​ ​such that​ ​her​ ​spirit​ ​seemed​ ​to​ ​light​ ​the​ ​room​ ​like​ ​a​ ​candle​ ​with​ ​a​ ​wick​ ​longer​ ​than​ ​its​ ​base.​ ​Only​ ​I knew​ ​what​ ​lay​ ​beneath​ ​the​ ​wax.

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