Spark – Kwamina Osam Arthur


Such loud silence.

There wasn’t a single creature in sight.

The dark rocks were rooted in a darker ground that bore cracks all over.

The withered leafless trees punctuated the endless expanse.

It seemed like a dessert; a lonely abandoned place.

There was an eeriness. It drifted through the decaying flora. Unlike a good breeze, it smelled of death and waste.

It should have been dark because the skies were. The skies were pitch black; no moon or star hovered above. Perhaps there was no sky at all. Just emptiness; infinite darkness.

But then there were was light. So many little lights. One flew by, gliding aimlessly in the air. I watched it closely. It was a pen; a broken miniature pen and around it was a soft aureate glow that gave it the semblance of a tiny sun.

There were so many of them. So many tiny suns. I watched as they floated in thousands in the stillness, bumping into one another on their way to nowhere. Each one had in its centre a tiny object; a miniature of a random thing. There was one with a knife, another with a pair of scissors, then a guitar and then a screwdriver. And they were all spoilt; broken along their frames.

I walked through the numerous suns, they had hijacked my curiosity. I wondered how they sailed in the air. I wondered where they had come from.

Then suddenly I saw it.

It was a stone well.

It sat some yards away from me.

It stole my curiosity from the hijackers and it called me to itself.

I acquiesced.

The little suns seemed to be concentrated over it. And for a brief moment, I was very sure I had seen two more pop out of the well as I drew closer.

I looked down this cryptic well. It was filled with water. But beneath the membrane of the silvern water, there was a view of a world below; the world of men.

I watched them, hurrying about their lives. Most of them were dimmed; grey and dull. Moving through a monotony they called life. Their lives were the expression of mediocre standards set by their societies. They lived without thrill. They lived without wonder. They lived without living. They lived only for a living.

A few were aglow, though; most of the young ones. But soon they start to lose their glow as they go through an education that cripples their true self. They are no longer themselves but an expectation of society. They give up on their dreams and passions. And that is when they forget who they were… that is when they forget who they ought to be…that is when a little sun bubbles up from the shiny waters. The sun leaves their hearts and ends up in this stale land; broken, unused and wandering in nothingness.

I watched as a new sun came up. Rising from the core of a young boy. His glow left him and he joined the drab grey masses. The new sun broke through the silver film and the object in its centre, a metal carving of a treble clef, snapped as the sun joined the thousands on this side. Alas, the young boy would sing no more.

There were so many greys and so few glows. But the glows that persisted brought forth some magic. They embraced their true selves and filled the world with their genius; their diverse genius.

They were athletes.

They were inventors.

They were discoverers.

They were musicians.

They were leaders.

They were scientists.

They were teachers.

They were artists.

They were alive.

“Such a pity! So many of them stop living so early.” A soft voice behind me said.

I turned in affright.

Behind me stood a young black skinned girl wrapped in robes whiter than light. She gazed at me with her deep intelligent eyes.

Perhaps it would have been saner to ask her who she was but all that came out of my stuttering lips were, “What place is this?”

“This is where spark comes after humans lose it”

That was when I awoke.