The Celebration

The sky is a fervent amber with slashes of sienna and gushes of coral and rose.
I see our warriors, switfully striding pat us. They are sweatng from the sun and the burdens on their backs. Their fierce faces pierce through the wind, as sharp and striking as their silver spears that gleam in their rough hands. Scars stroke their skin, red glashes of glory. Smeared in blood and bravery.
I spot the dead lions on their backs. Sprawled in surrender. Each carcass; a confirmation of courage. The kings of the jungle have been slain by their servants. Their mouths hang open, their limbs are limp. Once ferocious and fearful, now they have bedraggled into rotting, fetid, flesh, Their fur once a vicious gold is now mangled and dry. What was left of them smelt like quagmire. Ironically, the scraggly sight of it all bewildered me. It was strange to see these brutal blood-thirstly beasts now vapid and vulnerable.
Surrounding the hunters are a crowd of children and women. The young women are adorned with beautiful beads; as red as blood's vigour, as blue as the serene sky and as green as God's greatest gift; thr grass. Their ebony skin is finely draped in colourful cotton displays our African motifs. with devotion. They are akin to wandering princesses of the African plains. In simple symphony, I hear them sing in celebration, the songs of reunion and rejoice.
Big bonfires hiss and crackle as if whispering secrets to spirits. The flames slither over each other like Rock Pythons fighting over prey. Children clap and cheer as they skip around the playful flames. Naked in clothing yet fully clad in glee. Their bright ivory smiles, effervescent and heartfelt.
I hear the pounding of percussions. A dance starts. Suddenly, hunters are hurling themselves into a circle of chanting. They begin to thrust their chests and frenziedly strike the ground with their feet. The drums are drained by the voices of victory. Rising in volume, beat after beat. They remind me of pouncing panthers, powerful and persistent. The men are now leaping off the ground. Five feet off the earth! Their bodies are taught, their sinews strained yet I've never seen them look so carefree, teasing the land and air. In one straight line they soar towards the scorching sky.
Without care of the sweltering heat and the cracked and thirstly ground, we wallow in our merriment like buffaloes in mud. Suddenly I feel a drop of water splashing across my face. It begins to pour. We are now drenched in blessing.