Dead Donkey

These wild young human kittens represented the joy of life, he was the outsider, the lonely alien, watching something in which he could not join, a happiness in which he had no part or lot….and… his unutterable loneliness he bowed his head on his arms, that he might not see this joyous scrambling frolic on yonder hillside.


There’s a dead baby donkey outside my hut. It was alive, barely, when I left for school this morning. I returned to find it nestled in the sunny dirt path, it’s mother standing nearby looking no more mournful than donkeys generally look. The baby donkey stranded in the sunshine, the mother cowering in the shade.

The children of my compound are at least giving the fresh corpse a wide berth, the smell a natural deterrent to their feline curiosity. I went and told the donkeys owner of its passing and he looked slightly puzzled, but quickly came to terms with the minor tragedy and continued sitting at the bantaba. Action won’t happen quite yet. Let the dead donkey fester in the sunshine some more before we think about moving it away from where we live. Let it bloat.

I punch my mud wall. I want to feel urgency. I want to grieve urgently for the morbidity of what I ahve just witnessed. I want to be sad. I want to be angry, but I’m not. The children chitter chatter by my hut enjoying scraping the slide bolt of my corrugate door back and forth. The laughter penetrates. I also have a banana. I enjoy the nourishment and head back to the school.

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