An African Sun

Christina lay, cradled in luxury, feeling the heat of the afternoon sun, as a gentle breeze from the Indian Ocean fanned her slender frame.

She sipped ice cold water then, stretching her polished legs, she turned, face down, to feel the warmth radiate down her spine. In the manner of a professional sun worshipper she carefully positioned herself to achieve the most even, unblemished, golden suntan.

Her sculpted arms hung delicately by her side and she let her hand sift the bleached, silky soft grains of powdery sand. With one perfectly manicured finger she drew a butterfly on the endless canvas beside her.

Untouched by stark realities she let her mind wander and carried along on the gentlest of waves she drifted into a peaceful sleep.

Under the same African sun lay Mutindi. The harsh, barren earth was unforgiving beneath her frail body. She felt each stone hard against her crisp, brittle skin. Flies gathered around her swollen eyes but her featherweight arms lay heavy and limp. She tilted her head away from the relentless blazing rays and a single tear slid down her caked, dusty cheek, carving a route to the ground below.

As the Great African Sun seared into her soul her mind traced a short life of cruelty. In younger years she had felt the burning anger of injustice. She felt the desolate sadness of the drought stricken dregs of humanity around her. She had felt the savage, heart-rending pain of holding her dying child. But as the sun sank lower in the glowing sky, weariness descended like a blanket of fog, clouding her vision and dulling her senses.

They found her at daybreak, a shrivelled, broken body. Her life stamped out by brutal betrayal. Alone and forgotten she was a mere fragment, lost in the vast, sickening landscape of a sunbaked land.