The twenty-third storey, the whole city in his feet, dreams in his eyes, spirit on the face, this was his life. This was his world and he had made it. Benetton, McDonalds, Levi all lined up… ready… He had erected the towers, the buildings, the civilizations. The whole arena looked up to him, inspired… He had transformed the ignominy of ground to pride of heights, it was his sweat that quenched the thirst of the foundations, and those were his hours buried deep down in the dark alleys of toil. He had grown with it all; it rushed through his veins giving his life substance meaning. It was all his. The growth, the world, the ideas, the results, the toil, the substance, the sweat ….. the blood.
Beliefs shattered to the ground. Splintered glass had torn his lungs apart, the last breath was about to escape. He was about to die. He longed for the light, the vision. And then, there was light … all around … it came from his abode, his three walled thatched hut at the labor camp, Cross river mall. It was burning. Flames longing for the skies, settling down as soot in his heart, giving the last light, the flicker before the end.
This was all. The labor was dead. The labor is dead.
